stories by Mrs, Georgie Sheldon, Annie Ashmore, Bertha M. 6!

 

Vol. 44,

Office

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No. 17,

 

  

 

 

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Denman Thompson’s

Old Homestead.

Written from the Celebrated Play,

“The Old Homestead,”

By Special

CHAPTER I.
A RUSTIC WOOING.

It was late in the afternoon of a warm July
day, but the glowing sun, still at a white
heat, was sufficiently high in the heavens
to make the shaded side of the dusty
New Hampshire road very grateful to the
traveler by foot; even though that traveler,
as in, the present instance, carried her
own protection against the sun’s rays in
the guise of ahat with brim so broad that
it drooped with languid curves about the
sweet, rosy face of its owner.

The hat was not set back jauntily on the
head with an eye to effect, but was de-
murely settled on the top of the head, as
if to discourage any of the longings of
vanity; but, bless her heart ! no innocent
device of that sort could hide the fact
that she was pretty, and winsome, and a
delight to look upon. Nor could the
plain gown of light-colored calico dis-
guise the fact that she was lissom and
free, with the grace of youth and robust
good health.

The hands—one of which carried a
bunch of recently plucked wild-flowers,
and the other swung freely at her side—
were a trifle red, as hands will be that
honestly wash dishes and make butter,
but were dimpled and shapely; and the
feet, which could be seen below the de-
cently short skirt, were shod in stout
walking shoes.

But the people who looked upon pretty
Ruth Stratton for the first time, were
very likely to lose sight of details in the
general effect, and the general effect was
—a pure delight,

It was quite possible to look upon her

Arrangement.

| and make a grave mistake.

|that she was of a frivolous mind; but no

the blue eyes, and, for a few seconds, |
hope and fear alternated in animating |
the face in which the eyes were set. Only '
for a few seconds, however, for then the:
calm of satisfied hope settled on all the,
features, and, with a soft, lingering ejacu-
lation of “‘ Ruth Stratton,” as if there
was a pleasure in the saying as well as in
the thinking, the man, to whom the eyes,
hand, and various other features belonged,
strode with a long, plow-learned step to a
big, black-cherry tree and waited under its
shade, with ar_ns resting on a railthat ran
above the stone wall, and head inclined
so that he could easily watch the approach
of the young girl.

He was on the opposite side of the road |
from her, and in a hay field, which fact,
together with his being im the shade, may
account for her not seeing him; but her'|
| preoccupation was more at fault than any

circumstance connected with him, a fact
iwhich he seemed to realize, for as she!
drew nearer, and failed to see him, an/|
amused smile parted his lips, disclosing
itwo rows of strong, white teeth. He
abharcak Ghaustrs: Bie was olor any |waited until she had passed him, and
'humor, however, and there was ever “ek ee ee eer
|smile lurking in the glance of her eye, or | Ses Pen en SEE eee Sees:
|dancing on the curve of her red lip, and Se Ser ern Sen ies oe oe
ithat is why those who knew her better, eons pe Auer: ; 9»

would suspect her of light-mindedness, | rent oe ede Bee NS ee
when in fact it was only light-heartedness | och uahbalal eoate aegis adie waar ee ie
she was guilty of. Meee eh Laged tne ied oacels a

; : aa actin diva eget ;

She was not walking rapidly this after- | she said: . ean
noon, nor did she loiter, precisely. She; «Oh, Ben! I didn’t see you.
walked along slowly in a preoccupied way, | start you gave me!” :
for the most part keeping her eyes on the} <<Didn’t mean to do that. Knew ye)
ground and occasionally raising her head | qidn’t see me. Been a-watchin’ ye all|
and glancing with furtive shyness along | along as ye kem down the road,” and he|
the road in front of her, as if expecting to | laughed pleasantly.
see some one, and yet not willing to seem | She cast another of those shy glances |
to be looking. his unwillingness was for | along the road, flushed adnactonalt=7}
her own sake, however, for she was not | thereby giving Ben new cause to look
aware of any witnesses. admiringly at her—and then said, con-

A pair of keen eyes had, nevertheless, | fusedly:
been watching her for more than five} ‘Oh! Got the hay all in?”
minutes. When she was far up the road, | ‘‘Ya-as; last load just gone in. I was|
and all that could be seen of her was an} just a-goin’ down to th’ pastur’ to drive |
indistinct outline of white, these bright! up th’ caows. Ill go up th’ road a piece
blue eyes had been turned indifferently | with ye;” and despite a shade of chagrin |
that way. They had seen the white out- | which flashed over her face, for he did |
line, scrutinized it curiously, turned away | not see it, he slowly climbed over the}

 

 

There was ¢
| coquettishness about the chestnut curls
‘that would escape bondage and fringe
i her broad, low forehead, and archness in
‘the very demureness of her brown eyes
ithat might incline any one to the opinion

|

|greater injustice could be done her, for |
she was a very child in simplicity of
thought and directness of expression, and

 

 

What a

 

this time with a joyous eagerness. hay all in?” and

 

to ask, ‘‘Squire’s

‘walked

‘south and west horizon

housed, and then, taking the ditch in a
long stride, crossed over to her.

He took his place by her side, and they
forward together.
where the foot-path was wide enough, he
walked close beside her, sometimes he
balanced himself on the slope of the bank
that raised the path above the road, and

' sometimes he walked in the road.

For a while neither spoke. She went

along with face hidden from him by the |

brim of her hat, glancing oftener than

before along the road and betraying some |

anxiety on her pretty face; while he, with
beaming eyes and serene countenance,

| .
'seemed to be perfectly happy, simply at

being where he was. Evidenily the silence

| was less irksome to him than to her, for
|she was the first to break it.

“Tt looks like rain,” she said.

He cast his eyes critically along the
and nodded his
head, though to the inexperienced eye
the sky was faultlessly clear.

‘“Ya-as, itll rain “fore dark. Glad th’
hay’s allin. Never see brighter hay, nor
more on it fer this section. Nigh onto
two full loads to th’ acre. They do say
Uncle Josh ’ll beat that. Seen Rube
lately ?”

‘‘He’s in Keene, you know,” and al-
most in spite of herself her eyes wandered
up the road..

‘“Ya-as, in th’ bank. Doin’ well, too,
they do say. Where ye goin’, if it’s any
o’ my business?”

‘‘For—for a walk up the road,” she an-
swered, hesitatingly.

He smiled pleasantly, as if he had no
fault to find with that, until an uncom-
fortable thought obtruded itself, and the
smile changed into a frown; and he, too,
unwittingly copying her action, glanced
along the road. She did ,not see that,
but she remarked a peculiarity in his sud-
den silence, and, after a few moments,
looked up at his face.
down at her with an expression that made
her turn hastily away and utter the first
commonplace that came to her.

‘We need rain to lay the dust, don’t
we?”

“‘Ya-as, we need rain,” he answered,
mechanically. ‘Ruth, will ye go to

carelessly, and then suddenly back again, | wall, resting on the top long enough, meetin’ with me to-morrow?”

She glanced up at him with a faintly

A strong, sun-browned hand shaded 'to receive her answer that it was safely ' scared look, and answered, hesitatingly:

Sometimes, |

It was looking |

| «JT have promised some one else.”

| ‘Rube Whitcomb,” he rather asserted
than asked.

“Yes,” she answered, with a rising
‘color, and just a touch of defiance. ,
py rent with him last Sunday.”
ou went with him last y.

fp - WeH??

| ‘Will you go with me.a week from to-
| morrow?”

| **That’s a good ways ahead.”

| You didn’t mind promising Rube a
/ week ahead.”

“You have no right to say such a
'thing, Ben.”

| ‘Seems to me what’s fair fer one’s fair
fer nother. If you kin promise him a
week ahead 5

‘*T didn’t promise him a week ahead.
I—I—don’t be unkind, Ben. I suppose
I may do as I please, anyhow.”

©] don’t want to be unkind—not to
you—and you know it.” He was grow-
ing very fervent in his tone, and Ruth
squeezed the tender flowers in her hand,
and looked beseechingly at him, but he
did not see her. He was.looking up the
road, as if he knew his danger came from
there. ‘‘ But I don’t see why Rube Whit-
comb—unless you’re bound to him "

«You have no right to say that. It’s
it’s ungentlemanly.”

“‘Ongentlem’nly!” he repeated, with a
sort of scorn of the word. ‘* You mean
I don’t wear store clothes, like Rube,
every day. Look here, Ruth, why can’t
ye——” He caught an anxious glance
as she flashed it up the road, and, with
jealous intuition, interrupted himself to
exclaim: ‘‘You’re not out to meet him
now!”

The warm blood flooded her face, and
she was about to answer him indignantly,
when he interrupted her with pleading
humility:

‘‘T didn’t mean to say that. t’s
none o’ my business. But, Ruth, you
know how it stands with me—now please
let me say it. I’m ’fraid I’m too late,
but I must say it, Ruth. Ive growed up
with ye, an’ learned to love ye, an’-—I
s’pose I’ve been slow—an’ I hoped mebbe
ye might come to love me——”

<¢ Please don’t, Ben. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry!” he repeated, with a short
laugh; but his voice vibrated in a way
that made Ruth’s tender heart ache for
him, and caused the sympathetic eyes

 

 

 

 

 

ay, and Horatio Alger, Now in the New York Weekl

 

 

 

 

iE

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

spueaie

aixa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Ee

VOL. 44—No, 17,

 

 

 

that were turned up to him fo fill with moisture
“Don’t cry fer me,” he said, hastily. ‘But is it
sure, Ruth? Ain’t there no hope fer me at all? No?”
as she shook her head pityingly. ‘Well, ’taint your
fault, Ruth. I wa’n’t half good ’nough for ye; but
I’ve had th’ comfort o’ lovin’ ye. That’s somethin’.
Ye’ll ferget th’ things I’ve said as wa’n’t nice, won't
ye? Of course ye will—trust ye fer that. Well, it’s
somethin’ to love ye, even if I didn’t get anythin’
back. I must get them caows hum’. Ill turn here.
Good luck t’ ye an’ t’ him too, whoever he is.”

He waved his hand, triea to smile at her, and was
away before she could say a word. She stood and
watched him; and presently he turned, saw her still
standing there, and waved both hands as if in bene-
diction of her, Then he turned abruptly, and kept
on his way.

Ruth looked after him for a while longer, and then,
with a half sigh, turned and resumed her way. She
did not go far, however. Her steps faltered first,
then stopped, and then she turned half round. It was
as if she was regretting her dismissal of Ben, but
that was not, in fact, what troubled her.

She felt very sorry for him—more sorry than she
had ever felt for anybody; but it was not that which
made her anxious now. The truth was, his words
had opened her eyes to the possibilities of her meet-
ing with Reuben Whitcomb; for he had asked her to
meet him, and she had gone, with a consciousness of
his feeling for her and of hers for him, but with no
such defined idea of the probable end of their rela-
tions to each other, as Ben had so bluntly suggested.

It was a matter of course that a girl so pretty of
face, so gentle of nature, and so joyous of tempera-
ment, should count her admirers by the score, but
she was still young, and, until now, no one had made
her realize that in her was vested the happiness of
men. The knowledge was forced upon her by Ben’s
declarations; and although she was sure that he was
not the choice of her heart, she was not ready to be
sure that Reuben Whitcomb was. :

In any case, the thought of meeting him now, with
her new-born consciousness fresh within her, filled
her with positive alarm; and, but for seeming to fol-
low Ben, she would, despite her promise to meet
Reuben, have turned incontinently about and gone
back home.

She was standing in this hesitating mood, when up
over the brow of the hill, up which the road climbed,
there appeared first the head and then the body of a
man, who, disregardless of the hot weather, was
walking briskly. He caught sight of Ruth as quickly
as she did of him, and, in a twinkling, he had
snatched his hat off and was waving it with a gay
welcome,

He saw her wave her hand in response, but he was
too far away to see how suddenly the red color surged
to her face and retreated again, leaving her with a
fluttering heart, while she tremulously murmured:

“Oh, here heis now! What shall I do?’

Of course there was but one thing to do, and she
did it. She walked demurely to meet him, exercising
all the natural self-control of her sex as she went, so
that when they met he saw only that she was a trifle
more shy, even, than usual, and his warm greeting
was received with what seemed remarkably like
coo'ness.

“How kind of you, Ruth, to come to meet me,” he
gratefully exclaimed.

“Did you walk over from Keene ?” she asked.

There was a rebuif inthe tone, and he looked at
her with a quick, frank surprise; for if she had been
unaware of the state of her heart, it was not so with
him, and he had even gone so far as to hope that he
was as much to her as she to him.

“No,” he answered, gravely, “I got out of the
buggy at the foot of the hill and walked up. Walter
Porter drove me over, and I told him to turn back
there. Are you tired?”

“Oh, no.”

“Ts anything the matter?’

“No. Why?’

He looked at her wonderingly. She was not at all
like herself. In truth, she was surprised at herself
for her coolness to him. She had not intended to
hurt his feelings, but she was so afraid of what he
might say that she had tried to hold him in check by
the only method she could think of—reserve.

“You do not seem quite uatural, somehow,” he
said, in answer to her query. :

“Oh,” and she relapsed into silence.

He, being at a loss how to contend with this unex-
pected phase of her character, also maintained si-
lence, and the two walked forward together. The
situation was so like the one which preceded Sam's
unexpected declaration, that Ruth began to grow
nervous. She sought about for something to say,
and it seemed to her there had never been such a
dearth of suitable subjects. But she must say some-
thing, or he would.

“T just met Ben Eastman,” she said.

She knew the moment she had said it that nothing
could have been worse, for with the new conscious-
ness came new intuitions, and she felt that Reuben
would see a rival in Ben, just as Ben had seen one in
him. And she could see now that of all her admir-
ers these two had been the most persistent. These
two were the lovers. She flushed at the thought, and
Reuben saw the flush and put his own construction
on it.

“Perhaps you wonld have liked to walk with Ben
Eastman?” he said.

She wondered if it always made a man say un-
pleasant things to be in love; but somehow it did not
disturb her as much to have Reuben angry as it hud
to have Ben seem so.

“He did walk with me for a little way.”

“Perhaps my coming interfered with a longer
walk.”

“Perhaps it did.”

This was true enough, but sherepented as soon as
she had said it, for she could see by his face, which,
by the way, she was not looking at, that she had
given his heart a severe wrench. He turned pale,
and answered very humbly:

“Tam sorry I came, then.”

“Why, Rube,’ she cried, melting at once, “show
foolish you are! If I had not wanted to come I
wouldn’t have come, would I?’

“T don’t know.”

“Why, Rube, youdoknow. I wouldn’t take thetrouble
to walk away out here to meet you,if I had rather
walk with Ben.”

“You met Ben on the way.”

“T may meet Ben, mayn’t I, if I wish to?’

“Yes, of course’’ answered Reuben, gloomily.

“Now, Rube,” said Ruth, with a gentle deprecation
that quite disarmed him, ‘“‘how can you be so unrea-
sonable? I met Ben by pure accident.”

“Did you?’ and his face lighted up instantly, only
to fallagain. “But something has happened. You
are not like yourself.”

“Who am I like?’

He looked up quickly, and as his eye met hers, the
troubled, anxious expression left his face and gave
way to asmile; for on her face, by some miraculous
means, there had come the old merry frankness
which there was no resisting.

“Now you are like yourself and nobody else!” he
exclaimed. ‘And, Ruth, nothing has happened, has
there ?”

“Father’s got his hay in, and Ben Eastman said
they had nearly two loads to the acre.”’

“You know I don’t mean that, Ruth.” His hand
stole down to her side and gently caught hers. She
glanced quickly up, and as quickly down again, and
both blushed. “1 was afraid, Ruth,” he went on,
lowering his voice, and speaking rather unsteadily,
“that maybe somebody else had—had—” she looked
up in dismay—‘‘had asked you what—what I have
been—— Ruth, dear, Ilove you. Can you love me?
Oh, please,” he cried, in a frightened tone, “don‘t
take your hand away. Mayn’tI hold it? Oh, thank
you. And you do love me, don't you, Ruth ?”’

The sweetest face in Swanzey was turned blush-
ingly up to him for one shy, blissful moment, and
then was turned away again. Ruth Stratton was
quite sure of her heart now.

CHAPTER II.
A VISIT FROM THE SHERIFE.

The clouds which had lain undeveloped on the
horizon, imperceptible to any but a farmer’s eye, had
lifted rapidly, and were now threatening, but they
were in the west, and the faces of the lovers were
turned eastward, so that there were no clouds in
existence for them, and both were surprised, on
reaching the Whitcomb farm, to see the hurry about
the place.

The usually placid oxen had been goaded into a
brisk walk, and were hauling a great load of hay up
the slope to the barn; the men, for once, had quick-
ened their regulation pace, and the master was giy-
ing his peren:ptory orders in the voice of a man who
was kind so often that he could venture to bes arp
occasionally.

“Naow, boys, git up inter that maow--gee, haw!
Them critters lose their heads th’ minit you drive
?em up. Ther’s another load t’ git in yet, an’ a shower
a-comin’. Gee, ter! gee! durn yer skin! Haw!
haw!” and, with a final tug, the great beasts drew
the heavy load into the barn, the wheels grinding on
the hollew floor with a noise like distant thunder.

Ruth and Reuben stood, unobserved spectators of
the scene, until the load disappeared through the
doors; then the old man turned and saw them, anu a
bright, genial smile broke over his hearty, sun-
browned face.

“Rube, boy, how be ye? Ruth Stratton. glad t’ see
ye. Jest in th’ nick o’ time, Rube; a shower a-comin’,
and’ me short-handed. Be ye too tired 2?”

Reuben looked ruefully at Ruth, but answered,
manfully :

“Oh, no. I'll just get my coat off first. Want me
in the mow, or in the field? I won’t be a minute.
You’ll stay to supper, Ruth ?” he whispered.

Ruth nodded and the old man responded:

“7 ain’t tetched thet piece o’ medder yet with a
rake. Best I got an’ only a small patch on it, too.
Nigh onto a full load t’ thet piece. Eb Ganzey’s out
ther and plenty o’ rakes. I want t’ gititin t'night,
Be rig it out myself. You goinan’ see Aunt Tildy,
Ruth. Squire’s hay all in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wa-al, you go on in. Like’s not she’s in th’
kitchen. You kin find her anyhow. Allright down
t? Keene, Rube?” and without waiting to hear
Reuben’s answer, the old man bustled into the barn.

 

 

i Reuben exchanged what may be called an ecstatic

glance of disappointment with Ruth, and together
they went into the house, he to go upstairs to pullon
a pair of overalls, andshe to seek Aunt Matilda in
the kitchen. The good lady was there. and Ruth
made her presence known by standing in the door-
way, and asking:

“Can’t [help you, Aunt Tilda?”

“Sakes!” exclaimed the startled spinster, turning
from the bowl in which she was stirring a dark-
brown mixture, ‘‘oh, Ruth Stratton, is thet yeou ?
Real glad to see yeou! Set right deown an’ mek
| yourself to hum. How’s th’ squire ?”’

*“He’s well, but I am going to stay for supper and I
want to dosomething, Going to fry those potatoes ?”’

“Ye-es, but you got yeour good gown on.”

“Lend me an apron, then.”

“Wa-al, ef yeou will do’t, take thet there one
hangin’ behind the door. Ama leetle mite short o’
help, fer Joshua can’t spare any o’ th’ men fer the
milkin’ an’—take thet spider there, an’ some o’ the
fat out o- the fried pork.”

“Do you slice ’em, or cut ’em in quarters, Aunt
Tilda?

“Don’t make no difference. Plenty an’ well
browned, an’ nobody’ll say a word. Didn’t I hear
Ruben come in?’

“Yes, he went up stairs to take off his coat. He’s
going out to the field to rake up the meadow piece.”

“Sakes alive! What fer?’

“Uncle Josh wanted him to.’”

“Joshua oughtn’t a done thet. The boy must be
tired; but e’d work his hands off fer his father.”’

“Uncle Josh would do anything for him.”

“So he would. Thinks the world o’ Rube. Good
right to, too. Ain’t a better boy in Cheshire County.
You kem with him, did ye ?”’

Ruth cut the potatoes very assiduously and an-
swered, faintly: ;

“Yes, wa’am.”

“Kem ’round by your place, did he?”

“No-o; T met him.”

“Sho! did ye? Where?”

Ruth blushed up to ber very eyes, bat could think
of no way of evading the question, so answered it as
boldiy as she could: :

“On the Keene road, by Eames’.”

Aunt Tilda turned her head slowly and glanced
over her spectacles at Ruth, who never was so intent
on anything as she was then on the cutting of those
potatoes. The keen old eyes needed no spectacles to
tell them that Ruth was rather more crimson than
even the best of health demanded, and after a mo-
ment of silent inspection, Aunt Tilda turned to her
cake-batter again and stirred in a vigorous **Umph.”

Ruth looked over at the old lady for a moment in a
hesitating way, and then, with a new flood of blushes,
said, softly:

“Aunt Tilda!”

“Wa-al ?”

“T’d like to tell you something if you won’t tell any-
body else.”

“Sho! Would ye? Wa-al, I reckon I can keep it.
What is it?” and the gray eyes looked over the glis-
tening glasses with keen curiosity and pleased ex-
pectation.

“Why—er—Reuben has proposed to me!”

“T want ? know! Wa-al, ['m real glad, that I be.
Spoke to-day, did he? Wa-al, I don’t know as I beso
very much s'’rprised. Counted on it, I might say,”
and the elderly spinster, with the warmth of earnest
approval, went over to Ruth and gave her a con-
gratulatory kiss.

Reuben, in the meantime, had lost no time getting
out to the hay-field. He knew the importance of get-
ting the hay in, and worked blithely to the tune of
his own happy thoughts.

The clouds swung around to the south, and grew
blacker and blacker at every moment, but he knew
there was still some time before the storm would
reach them, and urging the slow Ganzey boy to in-
creased exertions, he had the satisfaction of keeping
a= ahead of the wagon when it came out again to

oad up.

All hands worked hard, and with the result of see-
ing the last forkful tossed on the heavily laden
wagon, and the wagon Well on its way to the barn,
before the first warning drops fell.

“Leave it right in th’ barn, boys,” called out the
old man. ‘We'll onload Monday mornin’. Now,
then, Rube, boy, how be ye?’ and he drew near to
his son with a look of affection which a stranger,
witnessing his first hasty greeting, would have been
surprised at. <

But Reuben was the old man’s only son and the
very apple of his eye, and all his thoughts of the
future, all his actions in the present, were with a
direct bearing on the boy’s welfare. And it was
pleasant for the old man to reflect that Reuben had
always been a good boy. Mischievous, of course, as
any healthy boy should be, but never anything un-
manly. He was very proud of his boy, and it was no
little gratification to him that Reuben had been
found worthy of a place of trust in the Cheshire
Bank of Keene.

“Gettin t look quite cityfied, ain’t ye Rube—eh ?”’
‘ iwele you see, I have to, father, being in the

ank.” .

“Ya-as, ya-as, to be sure; only jest spoke on it,
Rube, t’ notice it.”

“Er—father, I met Ruth on the road as I was com-.
ing along——”

“*Ya-as, I see she was with ye. Nice gal. All them
Stratton gals is nice.”

“T knew you thought so, father, and that——”

“Eh?” and the old man whirled around suddenly
and looked at Reuben with a twinkle in his kindly
blue eyes. :

Reuben turned red and pulled out his handker-
chief, and did various other things to show his free-
dom from embarrassment, with the usual result of
making it more apparent. Meanwhile the twinkle
in the old man’s eye developed and affected the
whole of his face, so that presently he was all of a
broad, hilarious smile, and he thrust his thumb into
Reuben’s side and cried out:

“Ye’ve been an’ done it, hev ye, ye rescal? Hi,
gun! I knowed ye would. See it a-comin’ an’
knowed th’ symptoms! I’m glad—I’m real glad,
Rube. Ain’t a better gal’n Ruth Stratton in—hi, guu!
I don’t b’leeve ther’s better anywhere! What’s the
squire say?”

“Tonly just spoke to her. I’m going over after
supper to tell him.”

“That's right, that’s right,”

“You won’t speak of it till I have told him, will
you, father ?”’

“Not a word. He’s a leetle mite tetchy, an’ mightn’t
like it. I won’t say a word ’cept to Aunt Tildy.”

Assoon as they reached the house, the old nan made
his way into the kitchen, followed by Reuben, and
called out:

“Heard the news, Tildy ?”"

“Ya-as. Why, Joshua, how you act!” for the old
man had taken Ruth in his arms, and bestowed a
kiss upon her blushing face.

“Wa-al, I cale’late she kin spare one,” said the de-
lighted Joshua.

Certainly no one could blame the old man for kiss-
ing Ruth, for she was a most teinpting object as she
stood in the middle of the kitchen, her sleeves rolled
up and showing her round, white arms, a house-
wifely gingham apron over her gown, and a face,
above all, dimpled with happiness and confusion.
Reuben would have been glad to have had the cour-
age to follow the example of his father, as the old
man hilariously suggested.

It was well that the farm hands were too hungry to
think of anything but their food, for if they had not
been they would surely have suspected the secret, for
Unele Josh was too happy to contain himself, and
gave veut to his feelings in joking allusions which he
considered delicately calculated to deceive any but
the interested persons; but which kept them in
constant apprehension.

Fortunately the old gentleman’s thoughts were
somewhat diverted by the appearence of a visitorin
the person of Cyrus Prime, who was always interest-
ing by reason of his two peculiarities—one of which
was his inability to tell the exacttruth, and the other
was his pretensions to the hand of Aunt Tilda. He
had been a suitor for that spinster’s affections ever
since he had been of ‘‘courtin’ age,” but never yet
had mustered up the courage to reveal his feelings
to her who was most concerned.

“Cyrus, how be ye?’ was her quiet salutation.

“Sit down, Cy—tak a cheer,’ said Uncle Josh,
“been a hot day.” ;

“Hot! How be yeou, Reuben! How be yeou, Ruth
Stratton! I see ye got yeour last load in, Joshua.
Just met Ben Eastman on his way to Keene——”
Ruth and Reuben exchanged conscious, but very
loving glances. “Got all o’ their’n in, an’ he says
there ain’t been such a yield for ten year. Nigh onto
two load to th’ acre. But I remember, ’bout twenty
year ago, timothy grew so all-fired rank and big that
Seth Perkins’—Seth was Cy’s most formidable rival
—‘got lost in his own two-acre lot, he, he, he! He’d
deny it ef he was here, but ef old Bill Jones was
alive I could prove it.”

What other stories Cyrus would have been led to
tell may not be known, for at this moment another
and far more important visitor arrived. This was
Sam Foster, a hearty, bluff, red faced man, with an
air of authority that sat well on his good-natured
face, as if saying I am obliged to do my duty, but I
will doit with as little harshness as possible.

Sam Foster was the most popular man in Cheshire
County, and that is why he was elected sheriff, no
doubt. He was hailed at once by Joshua as soon as
he was discovered through the open window.

“Come right in, sheriff. Had supper? We ain’t
mor’n jest through. Tilly'll get ye sutnin’ warm.
Set down. Kindo’ outen yer way, eh? Don’t want
me fer house breakin’ do ye?’ and the old man
laughed in his jolly way. ;

The sheriff, however, seemed to find it difticult to
respond to the jovial greeting in kind, and looked
very much disturbed indeed.

“Don’t want any-supper, Uncle Josh,” he said,
casting a singularly uneasy glance around the room,
and finally resting his eyes on Reuben, who was
quietly whispering to Ruth.

“Sho, nonsense!” ejaculated Joshua. ‘Get him
suthin’, Tildy; an’, Reuben, go out with Eb Ganzey,
an’ take th’ sheriff's horse out an’ feed him.”

Reuben started forward with polite alacrity, but
the sheriff barred his way, with a peculiar gesture,
and said:

“No, Uncle Josh; I haven’t the time. Fact is, I’ve

 

 

a mighty disagreeable piece of business on hand, and
I'd give ail I’m worth if I didn’t have it to do.”

There was a general look of consternation ex-
changed by those in the room, and Uncle Josh, with
a pained expression, said:

“Wa-al, sheriff, ef any o’ my men’s been a-doin’
anythin’ wrong, they must’a been mighty sly about
it. Howsomever, duty’s duty, an’ ef it’s disagree-
able, ’tain’t your fault. What's up?’

“Why, Uncle Josh, sooner than——”

“Out with it, Sam. Quickest work’s kindest work.”

The sheriff turned away from the good old man
and spoke rapidly, as if he would have it over as
‘speedily as wight be.

“Well, it’s got to be done. I’m after Rube!”

Every startled eye turned on tie young man. He
—— but looked as much surprised as any of
them.

“Rube! My Rube!’ repeated the old man, asif he
eould not believe his ears. “I—I s’pose it’s a joke,
Sam; but ’tain’t the kind o’ joke I like.”

“T wish it was a joke, Uncle Josh,” and there was
something in his manner that convinced everybody
that something very serious was the matter. ‘“‘Come,
Rube, you'll have to go with me.’’ ;

“Whattor? What have I done?’

“Come, Rube, it ain’t right by the old man,” said
the sheriff, in a low tone, intended for the young
man’s ears alone.

“Don’t you fret fer th’ oli man, Sam Foster,” broke
in Uncle Josh, with a certain nobility of gesture
which was natural to him in his serious moments,
“What's my boy done? I don't b’leeve he’s done any-
thin’ I’d hev t be ’shamed t’ hear.”

“He’s charged with robbing the Cheshire Bank of
ten thousand dollars, and I hold a warrant for his
arrest !”

And the sheriff, with determination and grief at
once written on his face, stepped forward and placed
his hand on Reuben’s shoulder.

There was something so suggestive of criminality
in the gesture that the old man cringed, as if the
very fact of being so touched contaminated even the
innocent. He staggered and clutched ata chair to
support him. :

Reuben, too, shrank away, and cast a wild look
from his father to Ruth, as if trying to guess what
they must think of him, but he said nothing.

Cy Prime had listened with open mouth to the
accusation, and, for a moment, seemed bereft of the
power to move; but he wasa man of imagination,
and in the emergency hadaplan. He stole around
to Reuben’s side and whispered into his ear:

“Pll trip him up, Rube; then you run!”

And no doubt he would have tried, at least, to put
his plan into execution, had not Joshua suddenly
straightened up and exclaimed, huskily:

“I don’t b’leeve a word on’t, Rube, but I want ye
t’ say yer innocent.”

“As innocent as you, father!” :

“Thar, I knowed it! Sheriff, take yer hand off’n
thet boy. I won’t stan’ it! Goldarn ye! ‘I’ come
here an’ put yer hand on him like thet! Let go on
him, I tell ye; let go!” —

And the irate old man caught up a chair, as if he
would break it over the head of the man who had
dared to insult his son.

The sheriff, instead of getting angry, only lifted his
hand in sorrowful deprecation and said, gently:

“You can’t fight against the law, Unele Josh. I’m
awful sorry, but there ain’t no help forit. The law’s
too strong, and the warrant’s regular.”

“My God! he’s right!”’ wailed the old wan, and he
dropped, white and sobbing, into a chair.

“Come, Rube,” whispered the sheriff, with a glance
of pity at the broken old man. ‘For his sake, come
quick.”

Reuben turned with a look of shame and agony at
Ruth, and with bowed head left the house by the
side of the sheriff.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a a es

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

+. ea See

Crime of a Countess:

Ameian Date and the Russian Nis

By NICK CARTER,
THE GREAT NEW YORK DETECTIVE.

{THE CRIME OF A COUNTESS” was commenced in No. 10,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXVI. |
FROM QUARRY TO PRISON.

AT urged his horse to the very
limit of its speed, and as they
were now out of the settled
parts of the city there was no
danger in doing so.

Sofia followed with afurious
determination, which kept her
nearer to him than Wat liked.

Still he could see that he
was gaining on her, and be-
fore they came in sight of the

fortress he was out of the reach of her eye.

As soon as he was aware of this, he swept around
toward the quarry and, alighting, gave the horsea
sharp slap, which sent it on past the fortress.

A quick glance around showed him that he was not
observed, and he at onceslipped down into the quarry
excavation.

This took him out of the range of Sofia’s vision
when she should come nearer to the fortress.

The tree spoken of by Gresser was unmistakable,
and Wat made for it without a momeut of delay.

Indeed, Sofia was so near to him that it was now
doubtfulif he would be able to reach the room in
which Vera was confined before she did.

However, he leaped up into the tree to the limb in-
dicated by Gresser, and crawling out upon it, sought
the groove mentioned.

He found it without difficulty, and pulled on it.

The rock rolled back as had been described, and he
leaped in and closed it again behind him.

He took time to light his tiny detective.lantern,
although he knew every moment was valuable, But
he knew he would waste more time without a light
than with one.

He now hurried rapidly along, and reached the end
of the passage without any difficulty.

The ring was plainly in sight, and without hesita-
ting or. waiting to hear, if possible, what was going
on in the room above, he caught it and pulled.

The corner of the room swung aside, leaving a hole
large enough fora big man to pass through.

Wat knew there was nota second to lose, so he
sprang up through the opening, and glanced about
the room.

The movement of the stone had been so silent that
Vera had not been disturbed by it, and it was only as
Wat spranginto the room that she raised her head
from a book she was reading.

Atthe same moment Wat’s quick ear caught the
sound of feet in the corridor outside.

Vera started for a moment, and then was about to
scream for help.

“Hush! Nota word!
you!”

vers looked at him wildly, but neither spoke nor
moved.

The steps were now close to the door. There was
not a moment to lose if he hoped to get Vera away.

There was no time to explain or get Vera’s co-
operation in the flight.

He must take her away by force.

He jumped to her side at the very moment that the
key was turning in the lock.

Taking herin his arms, he put his hand over her
mouth to stifle her attempt to cry out, and carried
her ~ the opening, and not any too gently thrust her
into it.

Then he sprang down himself, and closed the open-
ing just in time to eut off the cry of terror made by
Vera when she found herself cast into what seemed
to her a dark dungeon.

A faint noise in the room just left told Wat that he
had not been a second too soon.

No doubt there was great confusion in the room,
but only a little of it penetrated to where they stood.

“Come!” said Wat.
vate are you? What do you want?’ demanded

era.

“fam the American detective, Denton. Have you
forgotten me so soon ?”’

“Oh,” she cried, joyfully, ‘‘now I know your voice,
but I did not recognize your face, and you came upon
me so suddenly that I was frightened. How do you
ae here in such a mysterious way? Is Ivan
well?”

“Yes, Ivan is. well; but we must get away from
here to the opening of this passage. But, stop!
How long is it since you were visited by any of the
prison officials ?”’ .

“About an hour ago, when one of the men came to
take the dinner dishes away.”

“Then they will know you cannot be far away.
Hark! They are sounding the walls now.”

Wat listened for some time until he was satisfied
that the way into the passage had not been discov-
ered, and then he led Vera to the farther end. of the
passage.

He knew well enough that it would not be safe to
venture out until night, and not even then without
taking every‘precaution against capture.

Sofia would be sure to connect him with the escape
and would have every avenue guarded. :

The escape of Vera meant the loss of Ivan, and

I come from Ivan, to save

 

Fr .
her woman’s wits would be sharpened to avert the

catastrophe.

When they reached the entrance tothe passage.
Wat opened the rock a very little and then they could
hear the booming of the gun which proclaimed the
escape of a prisoner.

Descriptions of them both would be scattered
broadcast over the country and liberal rewards of-
fered for their peep ee

Movement abroad would therefore be fraught with
the utmost danger.

They might have staid where they were but for
one thing. .

If it had not already suggested itself it soon would
that the very character of Vera’s escape made some
secret exit from the room necessary.

Consequently there would undoubtedly be a search
made for such an exit, and the walls of the room
would probably be torn away.

Discovery in that case would be inevitable; and
then, if they were in the passage, they would certainly
be discovered. eats

Still, there was no choice butto wait for night to
come; and preparing himself for a struggle if the
need were, Wat sat down and passed the time re-
counting to Vera the events of the time she had been
in prison.

or did he now conceal from her her own danger
in being captured.

She had been kept in ignorance of the fate in store
for her, and though she felt sick at the thought of
what she had escaped, she was only imbued with the
more courage to resist capture.

Wat had not overestimated her brave spirit, and he
was not at all surprised to hear her ask for some
weapon to at once defend herself or, if need were,
kill herself rather than again fall into the cruel
hands of the government.

He gave her his dagger.

Ah,” she sighed, “if I were only safein America,
with Ivan by my side!” :

“You shall be. Donot doubtit. Tamsure we shall
evade them and get safely out of this accursed
country. Upon my word I do not wonder that there
are nihilists in aland where lifeand death, sorrow,
suffering, and shame, are mere playthings in the hands
of one weak-ininded man.

“How shall we ever pay you for what you have
already done, not to speak of what you propose to

“Tvan’s father will settle my bill,” answered Wat,
laughingly.

“Ah, but money does not pay for such service.”

“Well, let us wait until Ivan’s bride asks me to
name my own reward. If she remembers it then, I
shall have it ready to name.”

“Do you think I shall forget how you have risked
your life so nobly to save mine ?’

“Spare my blushes, countess.”

“You are laughing at me, and I am in earnest.”

Wat was laughing, though he was in anything but
a laughing mood.

He was desperately anxious, indeed, for the result
of the adventure, but he did not wish Vera to lose
hope, and so he made a pretense of lightness of heart
he did not in reality feel.

CHAPTER XXVII.
NIHILIST OR SOLDIER.

At different times during the afternoon they saw
through their air-hole an armed guard pass on the
upper side of the quarry, showing that all the en-
virons of the fortress were being guarded.

This was an evidence that a secret passage was
suspected, otherwise there would have been no sense
in placing guards in such out-of-the-way places.

Several times during the few hours before dark
Wat had run back to the end of the passage to learn
if any attempt was yet being made to discover a
secret way out of the room.

If any attempt was being made it was where Wat
ceuld not hear it, forit was not until darkness had
fairly come that he heard the unmistakable sound
of = pick in the room. :

The moment the sound reached his ear he ran back
and exclaimed :

“We must take our chances now and go, for they
are at the floor of your room.”

“Tam ready. And have no fears for my courage.
I am only a weak little woman, but I can be brave.”

“TI do not doubt it.”

He first stole out to reconnoiter.

Climbing the face of the quarry on the side where
he had seen the guard pass so often, he waited for
him to come around.

The soldier came at his regular methodical pace,
thinking no doubt of everything else but the man
lurking along the edge of the quarry.

A sudden plan entered Wat’s head.

The soldier came nearer and nearer, and Wat drew
himself up into a heap that resembled anything but
a human being when seen through the gloom. ;

The man was not three yards off. mu
3 Now he was by the very side of the motionless

eap.

If he saw it at all he paid no attention to it.

He had passed Wat.

And now, like a tiger-cat, the detective leaped on
him and brought him strangling to the ground.

To bind him, gag him, and then carry him around
to where he could descend with him into the quarry,
was not a long task. :

He left him under the walnut tree, and then went
up for Vera.

Her he left at the farther side of the quarry, first
telling her what he was going to do in order that she
might not be alarmed when she saw a soldier ap-
proaching her.

For it was his intention to play soldier for a while.

He ro¥bed the man of his coat, hat, and rifle, and,
returning to Vera, started out with her.

By led the way, while she followed close behind
im.

His present plan was to get as far away from the
fortress as possible.

He knew that every avenue of escape out of the
city would be well guarded, but near the fortress all
the exits wonld be particularly well cared for.

They proceeded in this way for some distance, and
Wath begun to think that he would reach the
thickly settled part of the city without detection,
when he suddenly found himself confronted by a
sentinel, who demanded:

“Who goes there?”

Wat’s only answer was a blow with the butt of his
rifle, sie laid the soldier at full length on the
ground.

It was the only thing to do, but a dangerous thin
nevertheless, for here the streets had an occasiona
passer and one of them might take it into his head to
inquire into the cause of the fracas.

Without waiting for such a thing, however, Wat
hurried on, with Vera holding by his arm.

Presently they could hear a shot from a rifle, and
they knew that somebody had found the soldier in
the street.

Taking Vera under his arm, Wat almost ran until
he saw some people ahead of him, when he changed
to a walk, though not yet giving up her arm.

Now they could hear an alarm sounded by the
local watch, and they knew that in a few moments
the street would be alive with soldiers.

And worse yet, the rifle of some guard was now
fired five times in rapid succession, conveying too
evidently some sort of inteliigence to every soldier
within hearing of the sound.

The outlook was a desperate one, but it was not un-
expected by either of the fugitives.

“If it comes to the worst,” said Vera, as they hur-
ried along, ‘‘do you save yourself. There is no need
for both of us being caught.”

“Tt has not come to the worst yet. I never see the
end until Ireach it. As for leaving you, that is out
of the question. While I live I remain with you,
for capture now means a horrible death.”

“TI shall not be captured. I have your dagger.
What is that?”

“Three soldiers. Let them look to their lives now.
T have avoided killing, but if it bea choice of their
lives or mine, I will try to make it theirs.”

‘Who goes there?” cried one of the soldiers at sight
of the couple.

“Only a comrade on a spree. Let me pass or I’ll be
In a scrape.”

They were in the lighted streets now, and people
were plenty in the windows and doors, but none in
the streei.

At the first sound of the alarm they had all been
ordered indoors.

“Let us see this comrade,” said one of the men, ad-
vancing close to Wat.

“Allof youlook at me. One of you may know me.”

He advanced quickly toward them all, for he did
not want them to separate or to have him at other
than close quarters.

They peered suspiciously at him as he came up to
them, but he gave them no time to act.

As soon as he was near enough he suddenly raised
his rifle, and with a forward thrust crushed the man’s
nose and stunned him.

Then, before either of the others could do anything,
he swung his gun about and Jet it fall with stunning
effect on the head of the nearest. ;

As quickly as this was done, however, the third
soldier had had time to recover his wits.

He raised his gun and, taking quick aim, fired at

The ball passed through Wat’s clothing, and carried
away a piece of flesh. .

He felt the smart, and not knowing how badly he
was hurt, arrene at the man, who had retreated a
step, and felled him with a crushing blow.

By this time other soldiers had been attracted by
the noise, and their steps could be heard rapidly ap-
proaching. ;

The end of their flight seemed close at hand, and
the brave little countess, true to her determination,
had drawn her dagger, to die rather than be captured
for the cruel fate reserved for her, when Wat, with a
last desperate attempt, dashed into one of the houses,
oe the men standing there, dragging Vera after

lim.

As soon as he was in the hall he turned and caught
ey soca in his arms, and fled with her up the
stairs.

He heard a step behind him, and when he reached
the first landing, turned qnickly to strike the man

down.
“Hold!” whispered the man. “What's your crime?”

‘

fence as he ran.

| some disease, Catarr

“Nothing. We are escaping from prison.”

“What charge?’

“Nihilism.”

“Are you guilty ?”’

“No, but we will be if ever we get our freedom.
Curses on such a tyrannous government!”

“You are not a soldier?”

“No; I stole the coat and hat when I escaped.”

oe you risk your life on the truth of what you
Bay ?”’ a

“T will.’

“And the woman’s ?”

“T speak for myself,” said Vera, boldly. “I do not
know who you are nor what you can do for us, but E
swear to you that I will henceforth do my utmost
against the infamous government that, without a bit
of proof and without a ghost of atrial, would con-
demn me to the knout to gratify the malice of a vile
woman.” f

“You are Vera Radolinski ?”’

“Tam.”

“T will detain you no longer,” said the man, with a
sudden coldness.” —

“Stop!” said Wat. ‘You are about to make a fatal
mistake. You can save us. Doso, and I will explain
to you what will save your society annihilation.”

“Who are you?”

“Tam the man who informed the Chief of Police
that the Czar was to be killed.”

“A traitor?’

“No; as much of a patriot as you. There! Do
you hear? The guard is at the door. Will you save
us and your country, or will you let us be taken ?”

“Come! If you have deceived me, your life will
be Worth less than it is at this moment.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
ONCE MORE WITH THE NIHILISTS.

The man ran ahead of them up the remaining flight
of stairs, and into a room.

He opened a closet in the room, and going into it,
beckoned them to follow him.

They did so, and he shut the door.

The noise of the soldiers on the stairs was plainly
to be heard.

“Come with me.”

The man took hold of Wat’s sleeve, and Wat caught
Vera by the arm.

They passed through a sort of door, and then they
heard a faint click behind them.

Their conductor now opened another door, which
led into a room in which was gathered a family
group.

“Ogareff!” said the man, sententiously, and the
company bowed, without a word.

Into another closet, and into another room, by a
secret door, they were led.

And this was repeated for several houses, at eaca
house thus entered the man using the word “Oga-
reff’ as his passport.

At last he asked of one man whose house had been
so invaded:

“Where are the soldiers ?””

“Six doors from here, hunting for the fugitives.”

The man turned to Wat and Vera.

“You still may take your chances with the soldiers
or with us. Which shallitbe? We arees merciless
to traitors as the Czar is to the nihilists.”

“We are not traitors. We will go with you. Ifyou
Save US, We Can nO less save you. Lead the way.”

The man opened the door of the room, and led the
way down stairs.

He opened the back door, and, first

: ering cau-
tiously around, ran across the yard,

ugging the

Wat and Vera followed his example, and were
alongside of him in a second.

A tumble-down shanty stood in the rear of the
yard, and it was into this that the man led them.

aero he stopped again, and addressed them sol-
emnly:

“You have insisted on coming here, and I have no
more to say on that score, but I warn you that you
are taking your lives in your own hands.” _

‘‘We are aware of that, and do not falter.”

Removing a board from the back end of the shanty,
the man passed through to the other side, and when
they had followed him, repiaced the board.

They found themselves in a stable, or rather the
or end of a stable, where all the refuse was
piled up.

Picking his wey. through the dirt, the man took
them to a ladder leading to the cellar.

Dark as it was down there, he had no difficulty in
making his way, and again he took Wat by the sleeve,
while Wat led Vera. :

Wat could indistinctly make out that they were
opproeching the opposite wall, but that was all.

“When they reached there, the man felt about until
he had found what he wanted, and that he pressed
with his finger, making Wat surmise that it was an
electric bell.

He was the more sure of it when he saw him,a
— la-er, press it with the varying regularity of
a signal.

Presently a part of the wallseemed to melt away,
and they were led into an apartment beyond.

Here they were challenged by a muffled voice, and
their guide answered:

“Ogareff. Two strangers pursued by the soldiers
and claiming the protection of our society. A man
anda woman. Man a stranger, but claims to have
given information against those who lately tried to
serve their country. Woman Vera Radolinski.”

“Let them wait here.” =

There was an absolute silence for a few minutes,
save for the slight noise made by the three persons
breathing.

Suddenly there was a stream of light shot across
the apartment, which fell so on the two fugitives
a anybody properly situated could study their

aces. : :

It was evidently for such a purpose that the light
had been set upon them, for in a few minutes a
voice said:

“Conduct them.”

“Come,” said their leader.

And they followed him through the darkness once
more, and through another door.

They heard a clicking behind them, and then of a
sudden a flood of light illumined the room where
they were.

They found themselves in a large room almost
filled with men and women in masks.

It was a weird and uncomfortable sight to feel
themselves being stared at by so many pairs of eyes
without being able to see a single face.

Vera clung to Wat as if she felt that now every-
thing depended on him.

ae she fully realized that there was to be a war
of wits.

Several minutes passed in a silent scrutiny by the
assemblage. At last one of them said:

“The woman is Vera Radolinski, accused of the
murder of her brother and of being a nihilist. The
a chase is untrue, for she is the enemy of the
nil ilist.”

Vera at this withdrew from Wat, and said, with a
noble air:

“The former charge is untrue, and, until this night,
I acknowledge [ have been the enemy of the nihilist.
Now I aim his friend.” :

“Why ?”’

“Because, being a victim of the government, I can
see the better the justice of your cause.”

*‘Who is the man ?”

Wat stepped forward, dropped the rifle he had held
in his hand, threw off the soldier’s coat and hat

which he had worn, and appeared in the disguise

lent l:im by Gresser.
-“Who am I? I am the man who prevented the
death of the Czar.”

“At least, you have courage to come here with such
an assertion.”

“It is my title to your consideration.”

“Explain.” ,

rans Let me retire with the members of your
eouncil.”

“We have no secrets... Any council we may have is
only for convenie.ze, not for secrecy.”

“Such a statement as I have to make were better
made toafew. Surely the few can afterward reveal
all I have said.” :

“True, but it seems unnecessary.”

“Tt is not unnecessary, however. What I have to
say is of vital importance.”

“We should be the best judges of that.”

“For your own good I must refuse to speak except
to a selected few.” : :

Impatient at Wat’s obstinacy, the man turned to
his comrades and said:

“What is your will, my friends?

“Do as he asks,” was the almost unanimous
answer.

‘The man at this conferred with the others in a low
voice, and, as a result, ten of the persons there
separated from the rest and led the way to a door at
the farther end of the room.

“Come,” said Wat, turning to Vera. e

“Leave her behind,” said a voice from among
the ten.

“She must go with me”

“By Heaven, she shall not!” cried several members
of the body, springing forward as if by a concerted
movement.

Wat at once sprang back to her side, and in a firm
voice exclaimed :

“We go together.”

Those who had sprung forward immediately as-
sumed a threatening attitude, and to Wat it seemed
as if a premeditated attempt was going to be made
to part him from Vera.

Knowing as he did the share Sofia had in the
nihilistic movement, he was on his guard against
treachery. :

He caught up the rifle he had dropped, and stood
on the defensive.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
O44

CATARRH CURED.
A clergyman, after Rage of suffering from that loath-
, and vainly trying every known
remedy, at last found a recipe which completely cured
and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dread-
ful disease sending a self-ad

 

ed envelope to-
Prof, J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren St., New York City, will
receive the recipe free of charge. oo ;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
    
   
     
    
    
     
     
       
       
      

  

      
 
         
     
       
    
      
      
        
        
      
      
    
   
     

 

 

 
 
   
   
   
   
 
 
 
 

 
 
   
   
 
    
    
   
 

 
 
 
 

 
   

   

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VOL. 44—No. 17,

=e :

THE OLD FARMER'S TALE.

 

 

BY J. E. G.

 

That moss-grown house beside the mill,
Those acres that my plowshares till,
Were held, or ere they mine became,
By yeomen of an honored name,

: A long time ago!

Now threescore years and ten are mine,
And, like the day, I slow decline,
While thinking on the times gone by—
The busy days that seemed to fly,

A long time ago!

When thrifty wives and lasses neat
Spared neither hands nor tripping feet,
And rustic ditties they could sing
Around the hearth at evening,

A long time ago!

Our autumn feast, how gay it went!
A merry laugh of heart's content
The young, the old, they gave to me—
I then was paramount, you see,

A long time ago!

Ah! know you sir?—and you may smile—
Remember, I am old the while—
The ruddy harvest-moon did seem
For me to wear a brighter gleam,
A long time ago!

I saw its light in Mary’s eyes
What time she talk’d about the skies—
That sweet eve we sat together,
Ere the clouds began to gather,
A long time ago!

Belike, sir, you yourself have known

A sweet bird from the dovecot flown,

And of the rest ta’en little count,

When far away you saw her mount—
A long time ago!

Avweary now, my steps are weak,
Yet through yon rude gate oft they seek,
*Neath shadow of the drooping yew,
A lettered stone—that tomb was new
A long time ago!

My mother sleeps beside the thorn—

But one who died in life’s pure morn

Awaits me where my heirs shall say,

“Her lover true joined her one day—
A leng time ago!”

(THIS STORY WILI NOT BE ?UBLISHED IN BOOK: FORM.)

Faithlul Forever;

TRUE LOVE'S REWARD.

By ANNIE ASHMORE,

 

Author of “ Jennie Vail’s Mission,” “* Waiting for

Him,” ‘‘ The Bride Elect,” “‘ Half a Secret,”
‘*The Diamond Collar,” etc.

(“FAITHFUL FOREVER,” was_ commenced in No. 9.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

 

CHAPTER XI.—(CONTINUED.)

“Here is your betrothed, come all the way from

Germany to witness the infidelity of his bride.”

These words fell upon the heart of Mariamne

Blumenthal, each word like a separate electric shot.

Her betrothed—come from Germany—to witness

her infidelity!
Oh, ruin, ruin!
And Chandos, what was to become of him?
Discovered alive, and with her!

where he found him, but by her father whose hands
were already red with his attempted murder.
Oh, ruin, ruin!

The greater horror swallowed up the lesser ; noth-
ing was so important as her lover's life. Her own—

who thought of that now?
She snatched herself from her father’s grasp, and

like one possessed. flew to George Chandos and
curled about his neck, and shielded him with her own
sweet, dainty body, as a mother would a child from

a pack of howling wolves.

“Father,” said she, looking round at her astonished

relative, “do you see this man? Look in his face.”

For the first time Mr. Blumenthal did so, and recog-
nizing Mr. Chandos in a moment, uttered a great ex-
clamation, then closed his mouth as if he would never

open it more, and stood shivering and shaking.

“T say nothing of the service he did me,” continued
in a flash her father’s consterna-

Mariamne, markin
tion, and, woman-like, making the best of it while he

was at her mercy, “nor of the return which you
IT only <9 | that it was not his fault that

him, ha!f-drowned, out of the
water by the sea cave, and hid him there for a month
while we secretly nursed him back to life, fearing a
He has promised to marry
a woman in England, and I have promised to marry
that man beside you; so you see there never was any
fear of our running off with each other. Now, father,
romise that you will not harm a hair of

made him.
Asenath and I drew

second attack upon him.

until you
his head, I solemnly declare that I will not stir from
this, er loosen my hold of him.”

Abner Blumenthal started from the stupor into
which the sight of Chandos seemed to have thrown
him, and drawing a long breath, and shrugging his

shoulders as if to getrid of some mental nightmare
answered with unexpected energy:

“Mr. Chandos is safe, quite safe. By the Almighty |

I swear it!”

“And now, you too, Azor Matthan,” Mariamne said,
turning with frantic earnestness to him; ‘“‘you must
promise, too, that you will never harm this man, or
cause him to be harmed in vengeance of his having

stolen the heart of your bride before you saw her.

It is punishment enough that I have stolen his heart
from his bride. Ah, no one can make us more un-
As for you, it
makes little difference whether yeu do or do not win
my heart. You don’t care for me—how can you?
Very likely you arein love with some one else—why
not? People cannot control the impulses of the
‘ You will
have your rich wife, though she may not trouble you

happy, more despairing than we are.

heart. Oh, you can afford to forgive us!

long.”

To this wild appeal, young Azorreplied by a strange
quivering smile, which left his face more transparent
and sadder than before, but his great eyes glowed

with an inner light.

“Pshaw !” Hever heed her, Azor,” interrupted Mr.
Binmenthal, in a low voice.
a woman's freak.

”

u.
“Promise me what I asked,” cried Mariamne, ur-

gently.

“TI promise what you ask, Mariamne,” said Azor,

low and gently.

All this time George Chandos had not spoken a
word, but as his sweet protectress now loosened her

sp and was about to slip away from him, he de

tained herby one hand and leading her forward to
her father put that little hand in his saying,

solemnly :

«You have no cause to feel displeasure at this noble
as never forgotten that she is a

She h
You have nothing to blame her for, bu

woman.
Jewess.
rather you should feel proud of her—the
derest, most womanly woman on the
earth.”

There was a deep silence; the.old Jew stood clasp-

ing his daughter’s hand, his eyes glued tothe groun
the lovers gazed mournfully upon each other.

Then Azor spoke very softly and sweetly.

“Sir, I, for one, thank you for the tull justice tha

cite feel ey magrt ac Se orth Rineor or, oe dying. He had heard the fiat of the doctors. The

ove you have stolen.

Discovered not
only by Azor Matthan, whose right it was to slay him

“It’s just as you said—
A month ago she was raving about

urest, ten-
ace of the

 

“= onenti

to go near him. ‘This is the last, the very last, good-

by, isn’t it ?”’
“The very last,” echoed he, impulsively approach-
ing her and holding out both his hands. “But, oh!
surely there is acoming Somewhere and a coming
Sometime when we shall meet, and know, and love
each other yet.” °
With a bursting sob she took her hands from Azor’s
and gave them to his.
“God knows,” said she, half choked.
why He brought us together at all?”
“I think you would have married me,” whispered
Chandos, brokenly, “if it had not been for Ethel-
Wyn.’
She lifted her heavy eyes and gave him a long,
unwavering, passionate look.
“T think [ would,” she at last whispered back.
With that last stab in his heart, he crushed her
two yielding hands against his breast, and, with a
smothered groan, said:

God bless you!

“Good-by, my darling!
know He will!”

With that he turned and unsteadily walked away.

And Mariamne heard a stifled sigh behind her, and
a gentle arm stole round her, while a voice as tender
and as sweet as the sweet-toned Israefil’s, murmured
in her ear:
‘Don't be afraid of me, Mariamne; cry your fill; I
could almost weep myself.”
She looked up. It was Azor Matthan, and two big
tears stood diamond bright in his beautiful eyes.

The old Jew was gone!

CHAPTER XII.
A CONFESSION.—THE REVELATION OF TRUE LOVE.

It was the evening of the day after poor Crosby’s
attempted murder.

Ethelwyn. had been hovering round the door at in-
tervals during the whole of the day. She now laid
her hand on the lock, and turningit softly she opened
the door sufficiently to show that Mrs. Gouge, the
nurse, was alone with the patient. She expected
this; had been waiting and watching for it all day.
She entered, treading so lightly on the soft carpet
that she was half across the room before the nurse
observed her entrance. The countess’ finger was
placed upon her lips in token of silence, and giving
one glance at the mattress where the patient lay, she
went straight up to Mrs. Gouge, and, stooping down,
whispered in her ear:

“Let me speak to Ellesmere; just only a few words.
I promise you faithfully he shall not speak one
word in return.”

“He must not move from the pillow,” whispered
the good-natured woman, with a_ half-frightened
look. Glancing at her patient, whose eyes were
shut, she added: “If he is asleep you must not
wake him; it might imperil his life.”

‘Don’t fear,” was the reply of the countess; “I
will just sit down beside him, and wait till he
awakes.”

The nurse smiled graciously, and Ethelwyn, going
to the mattress where her lover lay, sat down on the
floor by his side, her eyes fixed on the thin face from
which every trace of color had vanished. Once or
twice his brow contracted as if with a slight feeling
of pain; again his lips.were compressed as if in
strong determination, and then the heavy lids with
their dark fringe rose slowly and wearily, the quiet
blue eyes below seeking the direction of the window,
slowly traveled back again, and now lighting on the
fair face so eagerly bent over his, and so close to
him, they lit up with a joy which his lips would have
expressed, h not Ethelwyn taken the precaution
to eae her hand upon his mouth.

“You must not speak, George—not one word,” said
she, in low, earnest tones. “It was only with the
promise that you should not do so I ob‘ained per-
mission to sit beside you until youawoke. I want to
speak to you, dearest, and you must answer nie,
but not in words. I shall tell you how.”

He had the little hand which had been placed on
his mouth now between his own and was covering
it with kisses; the fingers, the palm, every bit of the
little white hand was kissed over and over again.
Ethelwyn looked in the direction where Mrs.
Gouge sat. The considerate woman had already
carefully shut the door which Ethelwyn in entering
had left open, and was now outside on the window
baleony employed assiduously picking the dead
blossoms from the oleanders with her capacious
back turned toward the room. .

Ethelwyn tried to release her hand, but the patient
kept it fast in his.

“Let go my hand George, darling,” said she. “I
want to speak to you earnestly, and say something
you must not mind my saying, and [ want my hands
to myself while lam speaking, and I want you to
listen to me attentively.”

While the girl spoke the rich blood mounted into
her face, her forehead and neck; all were suftused
with adeep, warm glow. The very hand he held
became pink and hot under his touch.

She rose from her sitting position, and kneeling
close by his head, bent over his face, hiding her eyes
against his cheek, and, taking one of his hands in her
own, said:

“George, dearest, my beloved bridegroom, they
will not let me come near you, and I cannot bear this
terrible restraint. I want to be beside you all the time,
and Aunt Cheswick and Doctor Crawford say it is
impossible, and so—and so—there is only one way it
ean be done. The Rey. Edward Gilpin is here now,
and will marry us to-night; then I can remain with
you all the time. Will it not be so, my darling? Clasp
ny hand to teil me thatitis your wish as well as my
own.

There was a moment’s pause, the devoted girl was
waiting for the clasp which was to tell her that her
lover’s desire to have her near him was as strong as
herown. His hand was drawn slowly away from

“T wonder

Ay, and I

hers.

Ethelwyn raised her head and looked into his eyes.
His arm was round her neck in a moment, the beauti-
ful head drawn down close to his, and her lips and
cheek were covered with passionate kisses.

Ethelwyn again raised her head, and looking in his
eyes, said, in a tremulous, agitated voice, so different
from what she had used before, that the tones went
like a sharp arrow to the heart of her hearer :
“George, darling, is it possible that you do not love
me—that you do not wish me to be your wife now?
If it is so, put up your hand and push my face away
just a little.”

His arm was again round her neck in the instant,
his warm lips kissing hers, oh, so fervently!

“J must have mistaken. Kiss me again, George
darling, if you wish to marry me to-night. Aunt
Cheswick will consent to anything I desire.”

Alas, poor Ethelwyn! no kiss responded to her re-
quest.

“George, I cannot understand you,” burst passion-
ately from the girl's lips, while big tears coursed
each other down her cheeks. ‘You profess to love
me, yet while Iam dying tobe with you, you will
not consent to the only thing in this world that can
make our passing an hour together be possible.”

He raised both his arms, and holding out the left
hand, wrote on its palm with the forefinger of his
right.

“Ah, I see!” replied she.
you wish to say.”

She took her ivory tablets from her pocket, and
pulling out the pencil, spread the tablets and put
both into his hands.
He sighed deeply, with an expression of mental
agony on his face, as he took the pencil and prepared
to write.
Ethelwyn was a little shy of him—just a little,
because he had refused a request it had taken her
many long hours of self-persuasion to induce her to
ask; yet the hopeless look of misery expressed on
his face as his great, dark eyes rested for a moment
on hers while taking the pencil from her hand, made
her stoop and kiss his cheek and brow, uttering softly
and tenderly the word:
“Darling !”*
It was a great effort for him to write- not a great
bodily effort, but a mental one; and yet the man
1ew it must be done. Since he had lain on that
mattress he had been thinking of it all the time—how
he would tell them all he was was an impostor—how
he would send a telegram to his mother and sisters
and his little brother to tell them he was dying under
a false name in the house of an English countess—
how, because he assumed this false name, he had
been foully murdered. His love for Ethelwyn was
none the leas than it had been when they sat in the
_ | parterre of roses, when he felt sbejhad his life, hap-
iness, almost his soul’s weal, in her keeping. No;
his love was no less than it had been. It never could
be less, and it would have been dear happiness for
him to have died folding her in his arms with a right
to say, ‘““My blessed wife!” But he knew this could
t | not be. There was a great guif between them which
could never be passed now. Had he lived long
enough, he would have trusted Ethelwyn with his
secret. If her love was strong enough he could do
that, and then he would have sought his native
land, and with hard work by day and thought by
night, he would have made one of the colossal for-
tunes S80 many men make there, and by right of his
t | gold come back to claiin his English bride. ‘
This was all gone and past now; he was dying—

’

“You will write what

love for her, that you glory in the purity of hers for Latin tongue was to him as English, and from that

‘ou. While it isa disappointment for me to find the
heat of my affianced wife already filled by another—

a great disappointment”—here his voice grew lowe
and more strangely sweet—I cannot blame eithe
of you.

that makes you worthy of a good woman's love.”

There was another deep silence, but now the lovers
were gazing with one accord upon the strangely il-

luminated face of the young Jew.

“Still, since they’ra both forsworn,” interposed Mr,
Blumenthal, uneasily, ‘since they’re both forsworn,

of course they must part.”
“Yes, they must part,” said Azor, lower yet, “for
claim my bride.”

And he took the cold hand of Mariamne from her

:

father’s, and, with a sudden, close, warm clasp, drew

it through his arm.

A smile of gratification passed over Mr. Blumen-
thal’s face, butachill as of death ran through his
daugbter’s heart, while Chandos bent his head with | American merchant. M

an expression of utter desolation.
“«Good-by, George,” faltered Mariamne, not darin

 
 

Who that knew her could refrain from lovy-
ing her? While you—I believe you have that in you

moment he cast in his mind the best way to tell his
tale, so that his body might not fill an impostor’s
| grave in the vault of the aristocratic Ellesmeres, but
r| be carried home to his own free land, to lie with his
fathers under the clear, bright sunshine of America,
with American flowers growing on his grave, the
giant trees of America waving their long, green arms
above his head.

He wrote for a few seconds on the tablets, and then
returned them, as he did so again drawing the beau-
tiful head down to bis own face and passionately
kissing the ripe full lips.

J | quaking heart read :

“Darling Ethelwyn, I love you more than my life,
but I cannot marry you.”

beating. She read on:

“IT am not the Duke of Ellesmere. I ama plain

 

 

 

was mistaken for the

The girl raised her head, and with staring eyes and

She gave a great gasp, asif for more breath, and
with one wild throb her heart almost stopped its

name is George Crosby. I

tion. I found your picture among his traps and fell
madly in love with it; for ten days thought and
dreamed of italone. That is all past now; but my
love for you will never pass—not in life—not with
the death which will come in a few days.
‘Yours through a long eternity,

“GEORGE CROSBY.”

She read the first words slowly, as-if she could not
comprehend their meaning: as she went on the
truth all flashed upon her, her quick intellect at once
understood how a republican would relish the joke
ot being mistaken for an English aristocrat and de-
light in fooling the English on board the ship by
waking them do homage to an American citizen
under the assumed name of a British duke. This at
once accounted for her aunt’s description of the dil-
ticulty there was in getting him to come on board
the yacht—for his absolute refusal to do so, she being
obliged to use finesse in getting him to leave the
Bellerophon.

Like a flash of lightning, so many expressions of
his—wondered at while the words were passing his
lips—eame back now with the force of truth. His
description of Ainerica and its people had made her
love them and wishso earnestly to wander in its
romantic woods by the shores of its great lakes, and
climb its mountains of eternal suow. And his en-
thusiasm on this theme had made her desire so much
to know the talented, refined, and kindly people
whom, until he came to tell her the truth, she had
heard laughed at as parvenues.

This which has taken so long, dear reader, for you
to read and me to write, passed, as I have said, like
a flash of lightning through Ethelwyn’s heart and
soul. She threw the tablets to the foot of the bed,
and taking her lover’s hand in her own, she laid ber
cheek lovingly close by his.

“Darling,” said she, tenderly, “the Duke of Elles-
mere is naught to me—can never be aught. You are
the first one I have ever loved; I shall never love
another. George Crosby, the American gentleman,
will be my husband; orif not—if he will not marry
the poor broken-hearted English girl—she will go
down to her grave with her maiden name, sorrowing
for his sake.”

He lifted her face with his hands so that he could
look into hereyes. She bore the scrutiny well.

“IT know why you do this.” said she; ‘“‘you wish to
discover whether it is passion or reason that speaks.
Itis reason; 1 know my own heart, I know that no
one ever touched it but you. My imagination and
vanity have been excited and flattered; but George
Crosby, the American gentleman, is the only one of
all my suitors whom I respected enough to love. It
may be I love you too well—too well for my own
peace. I would rather be a slave in tears and bon-
dage by your side, than share in all the noble state
to which the Duke of Ellesmere was born.”

Crosby believed that he could have told her then that
the Duke of Ellesmere was lying shrouded with the
sea-weed under the waves of the wild Atlantic; but
this he had determined not to do. If such happiness
was in store for him as that of being the husband of
Ethelwyn, even for the few days they told him he
had to live, she must come to him with the belief that
the Duke of Ellesmere’s hand was still stretched out
to receive heras his bride, and she must come to
him, also, with the full consent of her relative, Lady
Cheswick. When he closed his eyes in death, it must
be with the full conviction that whatever of selfish-
ness seemed to be around him, it was forced on his
path by circumstances he could not control. He
would have nothing, not even a coolness, between
his beloved and the lady who had cared for her as a
motner all her life-long.

He signed for Ethelwyn to give him the tablets
again. He wrote afew lines, and returned them to
her to read.

She looked, with quickly flashing and joyous eyes.
“Tt will be the happiest moment of my existence
when I can marry you. I will do so when you please,
if Lacy Cheswick gives her consent.”

This time she kept the tablets firmly in her hand,
as she bent down and kissed his lips, cheek, and
brow with -passionate fervur, and then, laying her
hand upon his mouth lest he should speak one word
in reply, she said:

“T will go and tell auntie; IT will be back again, with
her and the Reverend Edward Gilpin, in a few min-
utes. In an hour—in an hour I will be your wife.”

A second afterward, Mrs. Gouge turned to look into
the room, where the deepening twilight was casting
long shadows. Her patient was alone; his visitor
had left the door a little open as she went out.
Ethelwyn knew she would find Lady Cheswick in
Se at this hour, and opening the door, she
said:

“Auntie, dear, may Icomein? I wish to speak to
you about something very serious.”

“Certainly ; come here, my child,” said Lady Ches-
wick, in rather an alarmed tone of voice. What has
happened? Ellesmere is no worse, I hope ?”’
“Nothing has happened, dear aunt,” said the young
lady, as she came toward her relative; ‘‘only I want
to speak to you, and tell you something I know now
that I did not know before.” She was now close to
her aunt, holding the lady’s hamd in hers. “Pray
keep your seat, aunt,’’she said, “and let me sit here.”

As she rT she placed a low fauteuil exactly in
front of where her aunt sat, and sitting down, she
took both Lady Cheswick’s hands in her own, and
looking up into her face, said :

“Auntie. dear, I want to tell you something that
will startle you; but before I tell you, I wish you to
know that it is all exactly as I would have it. I
would not change one particular of what [am going
to say, not for all the wealth and lands of Arling-
ford—not for my rank as an English countess. You
know that these things have always appeared less
than nothing to me, and you also know that the one
thing I desire more earnestly than aught else is the
love of a true heart, strong in its own manhood.”

“Yes, darling, I know, I know,” said Lady Ches-
wick, her heart almost fainting within her, as she
thought of all the girl had found so lately, and she
feared would be so soon called upon to part with.

“Dear auntie, you think I have loved George well,
asl ought todo my aftianced husband, but you do
not know the half of it; youdo not know how _ pas-
sionately I love him, that the day he dies I will lie
down to die also, that I will never speak another
word until I meet him in the blessed land.”

Lady Cheswick, heaved a deep sigh, but otherwise
answered not.

“Now, auntie, don’t start. My darling George, who
is lying wounded up stairs, perhaps dying for my
sake, is not the Duke of Ellesmere! He is an Ameri-
can citizen. He was mistaken forthe duke on board
the Bellerophon. It is not surprising that Chandos
was not there at the time of sailing; itis not the
first of many times that he has intended to come
home, and has been stopped by some trifle light as
air. Mr. Crosby—that is the name of my future hus-
band if I ever marry—humored the mistake as a
joke, took Ellesmere’s cabin, and fell inlove with my
picture, which was among his traps. You know all
the rest, auntie, as well as I can tellit. All except
that [ love George Crosby better than my life; that I
want the Rey. Edward Gilpin to marry us this night,
so that I ean wait upon him as his wife should do. I
have asked him ‘to marry me.”

The girl saw there were hard lines gathering
around her relative’s mouth and brow; her eyes
were glittering with a cold, steely look, telling but too
plainly the non-success which was likely to attend
her suit. Sinking on her knees before her aunt, and
lifting up the hand she held in her own, and pressing
it to her bosom, she said: :

“You know how you have always told me that a
noble manhood, a strong Christianity, a pure and
true soul, were what constituted God’s noblemen ;
that the titles ef this earth were as transit in com-
parison with such inestimable qualities. An hourago
you told me George Crosby, whom you then fancied
George Ellesmere, possessed all those in such a de-
gree that not an Ellesmere of them all came up to the
height from which he looks down. My own heart
tells me that he is the noblest man I have ever met;
the only one whom I have ever heard raise his voice
against all present in upholding the right above the
wrong. The only one whom [ have ever known who
would not touch the cursed fire-water that is filling
the graves of our land with the strong young men,
the beautiful young women, of England. Dear
auntie, I feel faint and weak, [ can say little more.”

The girl’s face was getting pale and livid as she
spoke, under the strong opposition she saw de icted
in her relative’s eyes. Shefelt as if all hope in the
world for her was over; her reeling heart grew sick,
the room moved in long sweeps OPP aan her swimm-
ing eyes, but by a strong effort she gathered power
sufficient to say :

“Dear auntie, this world is*very valueless to me
now. Timeis nearly at anend inany case. When
George dies, I will surely lie down beside him and
die also. I amsure my Heavenly Father will forgive
me for the strong desire He has planted in my heart
to depart from earth when the only one whom I have
ever loved goes away ; that. will probably only be a
few days hence. Even if you consent to my mar-
riage tuking place to-night, [ cannot deceive you by
pretending that I will try to live after George leaves
we; butif you will not consent to my marriage, I
will go now to my own room and dress myself in the
robe that was prepared for my bridal. My work on
earth is all done; the only thing left for me to do is
to wait on my beloved until the call comes which is
to take him away. If you will not let me do this,
I will lie down on my bed, dressed as a brite, and I
shall never open my lips more, neither shall food nor

water ever enter them.”

Lady Cheswick started with horror as Ethelwyn
finished speaking. There was an earnestness and
truth in the girl’s words and manner which there
was no mistaking. The spirit of opposition was
fairly roused in her nature; ber aunt knew but too
shrols she would do just as she had said.

There was a pause of a few seconds, during which
they sat looking At each other; the old lady in fear
and trembling, the young girl with a heart beating
almost audibly, while a moisture like the chill of
death lay on her brow and lips; her whole face
almost as white and cold as the marble forins which
we rear above our beloved dead.

As they sat thus, Sir John Crawford entered. He
had been visiting his patient, and_had learned from
Mrs. Gouge of Ethelwyn’s visit. He knew there was
something wrong; the very position in which the

 

uke in going on board the
g' Bellerophon. In wantonness Laccepted the situa-

ladies were placed told him that something most un-

 

axa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

of the family; one who joyed in their joys and sor-
rowed in their sorrows; and hence, instead of retiring
on the instant, as another would have done, he made
the inquiry :

“Shall I come in?’

Sir John listened attentively to Lady Cheswick’s
words as she told him that his patient was not the
Duke of Ellesmere, and, worse still, that Lady Ethel-
wyn was determined to marry him or die; Ethelwyn
meanwhile sitting pale and motionless as an alabas-
ter statue.

Sir John was a cosmopolitan; he had himself
risen from the people. There were few words
spoken on either side; bnt in half an hour from the
time Ethelwyn left thesick-chamber of her lover she
was kneeling by the mattress on which he lay,
dressed in pure white, her golden hair falling in
waves on_her neck and shoulders, her hand clasped
in that of Mr. Crosby, while the Rey. Edward Gilpin,
inthe white surplice of a priest, holding the Holy
Book open before him, lifted one hand solemnly to
heaven, and said:

“They whom God hath joined let no man put
asunder.”

 

CHAPTER XIII.
AN AMERICAN COLONEL.—WATCHING AND WAITING.

It is time now that we told the readers something
about the movements of Lord Francis Kaglethorn,
in whom they are no doubt interested. After. his
interview with Lady Ethelwyn in the rose parterre,
he was but ill at ease, and retired to his own cham-
met. there to concoct a plan for the destruction of the

uke.

Having laid his plans to his entire satisfaction, he
sought his hostess, the Countess Cheswick, after the
early six o’clock dinner which they always took
when dining en famille at her villa home in Bays-
water.

“My lady,’ said he, lying with the utmost coolness,
“Tam obliged most unwillingly to leave you to-night.
I have just received a telegram from Laudoville
Castie that my affairs there need my immediate
presence; hence I will require to start by the train
at ten o’clock. Were it not for the pressing nature
of the business which calls me to my home, I would
have liked to remain with you at least a week or
two ‘o help you enterta n the duke, and also to make
his acquaintance myself. After so long an absence
as his has been, we cannot boast of knowing much of
each other.”

“I am sorry you are going, Francis,” said her lady-
ship. kindly, “for my own sake as well as for both
the reasons you have mentioned. It would have
taken a great dealof care off my hands had there
been a gentleman in the house who was willing to
devote a part of his time to Ellesmere, although,”
added she, smiling, “it is very evident he has found
a diverter he likes better than either of us.”

Her ladyship stopped for a moment, and Lord
Francis, without seeming to interrupt her, said :

“Yes, it is but too evident to every one that the
duke is most assiduous to Lady Ethelwyn. TIT wish it
were less apparent. We caustic Englishmen think
such conspicuous attentions do not reach much fur-
ther than the surface; and Lady Arlingford’s estates
and enormous fortune, so much larger than even the
duke’s own, make such attentions—so sudden a fall-
ing in love—appear in rather a suspicious light.”

“You astonish me, Francis,” said her ladyship. ‘It
did not occur to me that the duke made any display
whatever of his fondness for Ethelwyn. On the con-
trary, were it not that I know the circumstances of
the case, and that I watch where his eyes travel so
often, I would have had no suspicion of their being
lovers. She is evidently struck with him, and I am
certainly pleased to see that; she has been of such a
cold, unimpulsive nature hitherto, that lam delighted
with the change.”

Sir Francis had not madeon her ladyship the im-
Steers he wished, but he had ascheme which he
1oped would serve his purpose in every way, and in-
stall him in more than his old place in her ladyship’s
esteem.

“I have several important letters to write,” said
he, “and will be obliged to coufine myself to my
room for that purpose until the time the train
starts. You know my old way; I hate formal leave-
taking; it makes me always feel as if I left part of
myself behind. I will therefore say good-by now,
and ask yeu to give my adieus to the duke and Lady
Ethelwyn.”

“Goodby, Francis; a pleasant journey,” replied
Lady Cheswick, giving him her hand, which he re-
spectfully raised to his lips.

“Au revoir,” said he, as he left the room.

Nothing was further from Lord Francis’ calcula-
tions than either sitting down to write letters, leav-
ing the castle in time for the train to Laudoville
Castle, or going even for one day to his home in the
Welsh mountains. He had important business on
hand, and the reader has, no doubt, already found
out Lord Francis’ white skin under the blackened
face of him who would fain have been the mur-
derer of the duke.

Lord Francis had laid all his plans well, and on
reaching the balcony,having, as he supposed, left the
duke dead or dying, he carefully swung himself to the
ground by seizing hold of the lower end of the bal-
cony balustrade, and then dropping easily on the
ground. He was skillful at such exercises, and it
was not the first time that this ability had stood him
in good stead. On reaching the ground he made a
bolt for the nearest thicket in the grounds. He knew
the household were astir; he knew, also, how import-
ant it was that at that moment it should be believed
he was rolling along in the railway cars toward
Laudoville. Once safely in the thicket, it was an
easy matter for him to vault over the low fence that
encircled the grounds, and throwing himself into the
nearest cab, he was quickly conveyed to a low den in
the East End,in one of the narrow streets of Hol-
born; the landlady of which being well paid for the
oceasional use of her room, of which he possessed
the key, asked no questions as to who Mr. Bumpus
was or what his occupation.

Arrived there, he denuded his face of its black dis
guise, threw himself ona bed, the cleanliness of which
seemed very doubtful, and slept soundly until far on
in the morning, as if he had been the most innocent
man in London city.

His toilet was rather a curious one. From a vial
in the bureau, of which he kept the key, he took a
bottle of walnut juice, and with this he quickly dyed
his skin to a color which seemed more to belong to a
Spaniard than an Englishman. A black, thick beard,
whiskers aznd mustache to match, were then carefully
and firmly affixed to a face naturally guiltless of
either, and which well accorded with the color of
his own eyes and hair. He next dressed himself in
a suit of élothes exactly resembling those worn by
Americans, which he had conveyed to the bureau on
the afternoon of the previous day.

This done, he surveyed himself with great com-
posure in the foot-and-a-half mirror which graced
his dressing-table.

“Gad!” said he, with a pleased air; “it would be
difficult for Lady Cheswick herself to recognize her
old friend in this dress, and sustaining the character
and apvellation of Colonel Franklin, a free-born citi-
zen of New York.”

Saying this, he left the chamber, which he care-
fully locked, putting the key in his pocket, and at
onee proceeded to clothe his inner man with a sub-
stantial breakfast, in one of the restaurants in Oxtord
street. This over, now came the real time for action.
He was naturally anxious to ascertain the success of
his little play in dagger practice of last night.
Taking a cab, he at once drove to the nearest
house to Lady Cheswick’s villa, where he knew he
could obtain private board, in the dress he had as-
sumed, as an American colonel. He at once arranged
with the landlady for her best apartments, submit-
ting with a quiet grace, and even with a smile of
pleasure, to being charged double the price he would
have given as Lord Francis Eaglethorn.

“T have come here,” said he, in a confidential tone,
to his landlady, after all the preliminaries had been
arranged, “tospend a few weeks in London, and I
am anxious to see all that is to be seen.”

“That'll be no hard matter,” replied the landlady.
“A gentleman as pays well always can.”

“T suppose so,” replied he. “But, yousee, we hear
in America that the English people shut themselves
up in a most seclusive and unaccountable way, and I
want, of all things, to see the grounds and conserva-
tories, if I cannot get inside the houses of your
grandees.”

“Well, that is easy done, too,” said the landlady.
“There is always certain days every month that
strangers can go to Hampton Court and Buckingham
Palace, and all them tine places.”

“Yes, I know all that,” replied he; “but I want, if

ossible, to find out how your aristocracy live. For
instance, in conling here, the man who drove me

pointed out Lady Cheswick’s villa. I have a strong
desire to go through that place; it seems so pretty
and home-like. I suppose she is one of your gran-
dees ?”

‘Indeed, she’s that,” replied the landlady. “The
Cheswick family are one of the first in England, and
she’s aunt to the Countess of Arlingford, a great
beauty, who possesses one of the largest fortunes in
Middlesex. She’s going to be married to the Duke of
Ellesinere, who is a distant relation of her own, He
came home not long since, and they had a great time
in honor of his return.”

“Do you think it could he managed to get the
gardener toshow we the grounds and conservatory
to-day ?” inquired Lord Francis.

“I'm sure you'd have no more ado than go to the
porter’s lodge, and tell him you stay here—he knows
me well, and that I’d only take the first quality into
my house—and you Americans is so liberal with your
money that I aim sure he would get the gardener to
let you see the place at once.”

“Thank you; I will act on your suggestion.”

Sir Francis took his leave, and quietly sought a
news-room, so that he might there find out whether
the consummation he so devoutly wished for, the
duke’s murder, had been accomplithed.

It was yet early, but the Standard had ar-
rived, and purchasing a copy, he was soon
eaverly scanning an article headed, “Attempted
murder and burglary at Lady Cheswick’s villa
at Bayswater.” He read an account as far from

 

 

the truth as it could well be of his own en-

usual must have oceurred. He was the tried friend

 

—_
trance into the duke’s chamber, and of the latter be-
ing left wounded on the floor of the room, with a
Vanna sticking in his side.. He bit his lips as he
read.

“Curse my folly!” said he, inwardly, “could it be
possible that I was guilty of such an egregious blun-
der? But for that he would have bled to death.”

He was still communing thus with himself as his
eyes met the welcome words: “There is but little
hope of the duke’s recovery.” This was all the infor-
mation he could hope for from the public prints. He
knew now he must watch and wait.

In the course of the forenoon Sir Francis, in the
character of the American colonel. had made ac-
quaintance with the wife of the lodge-keeper at Lady
Cheswick’s villa, by a timely and liberal distribution
of silver coin to her children. He so far ingratiated
himself into the woman’s good graces as to learn
from her the full particulars, according to her own
version, of the murder, as it was suspected to be, of
the duke. To his entire satisfaction he found that
the universal oe was that the murder had been
committed by the foremost of aset of burglars who
had expected to possess themselves of the valuable
diamonds supposed to be in possession of the duke.
Mrs. Jones herself went with Colonel Franklin to the
gardener, informing him in a whisper of the quantity
of money the American colonel had given to her
children. It was as a word tothe wise. The gar-
dener was most obsequious in his attentions. Money
was not spared in this case either. The consequence
was that the gardener not only showed the hot-
houses and the greenhouses, in the most polite and
attentive manner, but acceded most graciously to
the colonel’s request that he should be allowed, dur-
ing the few weeks he remained in the neighborhood,
to take his book to a thicket in the shrubbery, and
there pass an hour or two eavh evening.

The gardener knew he was safe in allowing this to
be done. Lady Cheswick never objected to her
grounds being shown to strangers, and the thicket in
question was a place seldom visited by the family,
as from the thick growth of trees overhead the walk
through it was gloomy even at middey.

Here then Colonel Franklin betook himself to
watch and wait. From several parts of the thicket,
by displacing the thickly interlaced forest boughs, he
could command aview of the whole front of the
house, see Who went in and who came out, and ob-
serve what windows were opened and what faces
presented themselves at those windows; hence, with
the help of alittle gossip with the gardener and the
lodge-keeper’s wife, he could easily keep himself
posted as to the family doings.

He had to exercise patience, but he was prepared
for this. The grove was full of hyacinths growing
under the friendly shade of the great trees. These
flowers were especial favorites with the young coun-
tess. Sir Francis laid his plans well, he would bide
his time; he knew that by and hy she would come at
eveutide as usual to gather the hyacinths. We shall
see how his patience and perseverance were re-
warded.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

oo

THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC.

BY KATE LUBY.

 

 

In all ages of the world, from the most savage
state of barbarism to the highest degree of retine-
ment, music has exercised great power over man-
kind. The peasant and the king, the gloomy and the
gay, are equally ruled by its magic influence.

Music is almost coeval with creation itself, for did
not the first musical tones come from the cadences
observed in the oft repeated blows of the hammer
on the anvil?

Macrobius and others ascribe the glory of its in-
vention to Pythagoras, who laid down rules for the
art of melody. This philosopher was a most ardent
admirer of music; he gave it a very prominent place
in his educational system, and entertained the sub-
lime idea that the heavenly bodies themselves were
arranged at distances corresponding to the diatonic
scale, and he believed them to pursue their glorious
March to notes created by their own harmonious
movements, called ‘‘The Music of the Spheres.”

Music is the queen of the fine arts, carrying its
divine influence beyond the grave, where, we are told,
that angels are proud to employ its sweet ministry
in singing the praises of the Most High.

To woman music is an indispensable attraction, in-

vesting her with new and everlasting power. With
its aid she can cheer the declining days of her
parents, by recalling, with that wonderful power of
association which music alone possesses, the scenes
of childhood and the forms of loved ones long since
passed away. (
_ As asister, she can stimulate a brother’s patriot-
ism; fur, be he a German, bis native songs will
awaken his love for Fatherland and his glorious
Rhine, every wave of which he worships.

As a wife, with the soothing influence of music she
can pour consolation into the care-worn recesses of
her husband’s heart; and be he a Frenchman, the
soul-stirring songs of Beranger shall remind him of
his peerless land. ’

It is believed that the melodies of Moore, the Irish
poet, have done more injury to England than a thou-
sand armies could have done. :

The Chinese (who call us Barbarians) have devoted
much attention to music, and if they have not at-
tained to an equality in excellence with the Italians
and other nations, it is owing to their national
pride. Whatever is deficient in harmony, they make
up in noise.

Carlyle declares that the “ballet has gone stark
mad,” and nearly the same may be said of the
modern opera, where too much is sacrificed to em-
bellishinent, and the sweet simplicity of ancient
melodies is abandoned for heroics that may often be
termed “a grand musical row.” No wonder that the
brave and bonny Scot cries:

“There needs nae be sae great a phrase,
W? dringing dull, Italian lays ;
I wad na gie our own Strathspeys
For haut a dozen score o’ em.”

—-——_—_ > @-~<
A SHOOTING STAR EXPLAINS.

 

If yourub a button on a board it will become warm.
If you rub two pieces of wood together you can

warm them, and you could even produce fire if you —

possessed the cunning skill of some people whom
you are accustomed to speak of as savages. Nor need
you be surprised to find that I was warmed by
merely rubbing against air. If you visit a rifle range
and pick up afragment of a builet which has just
struck the target, you will find it warm; you will
even findit so hot that you will generally drop it.
Now, whence came this heat? The bullet was cer-
tainly cold ere the trigger was pulled. No doubt
there is some heat developed by the combustion of
the gunpowder, but the bullet cannot be much
warmed thereby; itis, indeed, protected from the
immediate effect of the heat of the powder by the
wad. The bullet is partly warmed by the friction of
rubbing against the barrel of the rifle, but doubtless
it also receives some heat by the friction of the air,
and some from the consequence of its percussion
against the target.

You need not, then, wonder how it is that when I
—a shooting star—am checked by your atmosphere I
too, am heated. Remember that I move’a hundred
times as swiftly as your rifle bullet, and that the heat
developed in the checking of the motion of a body
increases enormously when the velocity of the body
increases. Your mathematicians can calculate how
much.: They tell you that the heat produced will, as
they say, vary as the square of the velocity. To give
an illustration of what this means, suppose that two
rifles were fired at a target, and the sizes of the bul-
lets and the ranges were the same, but that the
charge in one of the rifles was such that its bullet
had twice the initial velocity of the other. Then the
mathematician will say that the heat developed dur-
ing the flight of the rapid bullet might be not alone
twice, but even four times, as great as that developed
in the slower bullet. If we could fire two bullets one
of which had three times the speed of the other, then,
under similar circumstances, the heat generated ere
the two bullets were brought to rest, would be nine
times greater for the more rapidly flying bullet than
for the other one. Now, you can readily compre-
hend the immense quantity of heat that will have
been produced ere friction could deprive a shooting
star of a speed of twenty miles a second.

Ir we would preserve our mentai efficiency amid
the changing pressure of circumstances, we must by
oceasional recreation withdraw the mind from too
continuous application,

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«ai THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. §9% °° un

=

 

 

 

OD errr wr vy.

NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 23, 1889.

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FREE.)

 

 

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

ST, VALENTINE’S DAY.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

Probably there is no day in the year to which the
young men and maidens look forward more anxiously
than to the fourteenth of February.. The young girls
will all tell you that they do not expect any valen-
tines—that there is nobody who would take notice
enough of them to send them any valentines; but
just you happen round to the post-office when the
mail comes in, and you will see them all there watch-
ing, they will tell you, for letters from Aunt Sally,
and Cousin Mary, and Uncle Jim.

They are not looking for any valentines. Oh, no!

The young girl who receives a valentine is the envy
of all her companions. And though they will pre-
tend to admire the tender missive, with its gilt hearts,
and its pink roses, and its impassioned poetry, when
she shows it to them, they will pick the poor thing
all to pieces the minute she is gone, and they will
each and ail declare that if that red-headed Tom
Smith had sent any of his silly valentines to them,
these same missives might have gone to the dead-
letter office, for all of them! : ‘

There are several kinds of valentines in use at the
present day. There are the love-making creations,
with fringed and lace edges, done up in costly boxes,
and painted and lettered in the best of the manufac-
turer's art. Some of them cost a small fortune, and
are the cause of a great deal of profanity among the
post-office clerks. Z :

There is the matter-of-fact valentine, which the
elderly bachelor sends to the staid widow, with a
few long meter verses attached, expressive of his re-
gaid for her. :

There is the comic valentine, sold for the munifi-
cent sum of one cent, with the highly-colored print
supposed to “hit off” some peculiarity of the person
to whom it is sent, and there is no doubt but that the
valentine of this description is capable of generating
more ill-temper to the square inch than almost any-
thing else. :

Sensible people, men and women, who will bear a
great deal without allowing their angry passions to
rise, will get ‘‘mad as March hares” when they re-
ceive comic valentines. ; :

Now, we say tosuch, possess your souls in patience.
Anybody whe will make himself uncomfortable over
anything of that kind, must be foolish in the ex-
treme.

It is never worth one’s while to get angry over a
long-nosed, s uint-eyed picture of a miser, or a mean
man, or an old maid, ora glutton, which some evil-
minded, foolish, envious individual has taken pains
to send you. ; :

Itshows asmall nature to notice things of that
sort. Be thankful that you have got so much to add
to your store of kindlings, and that the post-office de-
partment is in two cents by the operation.

A GRACIOUS LADY,

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

 

“She has that inimitable grace that comes from a
kind, good heart. She makes every one happier who
converses with her.’

This was the description which a gentleman gave
of ayoung lady, not amere girl to be sure, buta
woman who had not been three seasonsin society,
and one of those years the wife of my young neigh-
bor. She was not handsome, as she now entered the
parlors, yet she certainly created the impression
that she was till you critically measured her irregu-
lar features, which, by the way, you felt ashamed of
your eyes for attempting. It was her engaging ways,
her uniform kindness of manner, that charmed you.
She spoke pleasingly to each person who met her in
a large reception. I watched her for a long while,
and saw stranger after stranger introduced to her.
On each countenance in turn there stole that self-
pleased expression that showed that she had made

each new-comer feel at ease with himself. Of course
I do not know what she said to each one, but she said
nothing disagreeable to any, you may be sure of that.
She had some gracious word, some show of genuine
interest in each person, some real heartiness that
simply won them. She isthe talk of all our neigh-
borhood. What there is about this delightful person
that has disarmed all the critics and made “every-
body like her,” I cannot tell. I wish I could. Ever
since she came into our set I have been trying to de-
scribe her sweet grace to myself in words, so that I
could write of it to my readers. Butit eludes me. I
can only say that she is a most gracious lady.

I have an idea that such a person, to begin with,
is. in fact, really good at heart. I mean not simply a
true moral character, so that she would not steal
nor lie; [ mean @ heart that wishes everybody's
good. She must be tender-hearted, pitiful, merciful,
amiable, and all that sort of thing. You cannot per-
fume a wax rose so that it will smell like the real
rose whose nature itis to exhale fragrance. This
woman has perpetual sunshine of good-will in her
own breast. I don’t believe she hates anybody, nor
envies anybody. ‘Her life has probably been so
guarded and kept,” you respond, “that she cannot be
soured on the world.” I grantit; and yetit by no
means follows that garden flowers are the sweetest.
Some of the loveliest dispositions in the world are
the suffering invalids like the little imaginary musi-
cian of Mugby Junction. And you and [ know such
people. Somehow, by God’s grace, they are sweet
inside. On the other hand, how many handsome

veople we know, who have been favored darlings of
ortune, yet are as ugly as sin toward the rest of us?

Be the cause as it may,I find in this charming
young lady that nameless thing called grace, or

raciousness. She looks on the bright side of life.

hat a beauty this is of itself in a female mind! We
men see enough of the dark side. Let us have women
who see sunshine. This lady has a quick perception
of the things not to say ; she detects your soul’s sore
spot, and never touches it; she asks no disagreeable
questions, she avoids disputable topics of conver-
sation, she declines to debate and argue with you.
She preaches of all things _pure by her very pres-
ence, but she does not lecture you.

A woman may properly lecture her husband and
son and brother, I doubt not, for she has the rights
of love over them; but a gracious lady will never
lecture and whip her preachments over the shoulders
of strangers, to whom she has been just introduced.
This lady condemns evil, but she does it as the sun-
light frowns on night—that is, by being brighter and
better; does it by many little unconscious repellings
of her very nature, rather than by boisterous argu-
mentation or censoriousness and scolding.

Watching this lady, I see that she is winning to
children, pays attention to age, gives her eye and
earsto insignificant persons, whom the proud comn-
pany shove into the corner. ‘Wall flowers” bloom
under her eye. All these things make for a woman
hosts of friends. Everybody has a tongue. A young
girl can do herself no greater service than to get the
aged on her side. Elderly ladies talk up her graces

 

% «
if she is considerate of them; and remember, miss,

that many elderly ladies have little else to do but talk
people up or down over their knitting work and tea.

The old gentlemen have got beyond dancing with
you; but they have not got beyond admiring your
pretty ways to them; and the old fellows are great
gossips also. You could not do yourself a better turn
with their sons and younger partners than to in-
gratiate yourself into the admiring favor of the gray
mustaches. Not that these should be your motives.
Elderly people are, indeed, quick to read motives.
You must be as good as you seem, you must genu-
inely seek the happiness of old age. God knows age
deserves it. Life isa hard battle with pulse throbbing
full. What must it be when the heart begins to fee
the frost of winter? And the children? Why, young
woman, they are the busiest, prattling advertisers of
beauty and loving kindness on the face of the earth,
and the quickest readers of it, too.

I like elegant dress and all that ener can buy of
beautiful adornment. I like even French politeness
—that is, the pretty, tiny courtesies that many
Americans call fussy. I like a quiet voice and grace-
ful step, and the manners that become silks and
diamonds; for there are manners that very ill be-
come these artificial splendors, making the wearer
often ridiculous by coutrast. Yet there is a love-
liness that transcends all these. Itis woman's own
adorning. It is the good woman’s gift from her
Creator. Many times have I sought to catch it on
my pen; I have always failed, for it can no more be
described than can a sunrise. All that I may hope
to do in this case is to set my readers to watching
for it anew; foritis seen. It walks forth in an oc-
casional village maiden whom everybody loves. It
appears in every school, one girl among the group
whom everybody loves. It occasionally dawns upon
every society set, a gracious lady—let me repeat the
ken that describes her best—whom everybody
oves. I believe, before God, that there is no sphere
of life so humble, in the collier’s village or the
queen’s palace, where women are, in which there is
not occasionally seen this gift of Heaven—the charm-
ing woman. Not necessarily the regular featured,
the finely formed, the gifted in intellect, though with
these added elements she becomes wonderfully fas-
cinating. Butitis the shining of a pure, a kind, and
a loving soul, whose purpose is to be happy and to
make happy; whose happiness is every one’s happi-
ness, and to whom every one wishes happiness.

a)
j

LIZZIE’ LOVER.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

 

 

The April sunset was showering down his rain of
filmy gold upon the fresh, velvety green of the War-
wich meadows, the violets that carpeted the woody
hollows with blue were sending up their faint spicy
perfume, and Farmer Watrous had just taken in the
black-bird’s cage from under the cottage eaves for
the night.

“T don’t see what keeps our Lizzie out so late,” he
said, uneasily, looking upand down the long expanse
of peaceful country road.

“Never mind, father, she’ll be home soon,” said
Mrs. Watrous, who was busy straining sundry pails
of white, foamy milk, in the cool recesses of a dain-
tily clean ‘imilk-room,’ where the shelves were
whiter than alabaster, and the pans shone like
minted silver. ‘‘And I guess Squire Dayton don’t
mind waiting just a few minutes or so.”

She spoke with due reverence, for Squire Dayton
was the grand mogul of the village, the wealthy
autocrat who owned the grand house on the hill,
with its conservatories, and vast glass graperies, and
acres of superb lawn and flower-garden. And to-day,
for the first time since his recent return from Europe,
Squire Dayton had deigned to cross the humble
threshold of Farmer Watrous’ unpretending farm-
house.

“T wonder what he can possibly want of our Liz-
zie,” vaguely mused the honest old farmer, as he
stood by the window, watching the stately crests of
the jet-black horses, and the silver mountings of the
harness. ‘“P’raps he wants a governess for his
daughter’s children in New York, and has somehow
heered how well our Lizzie manages the village
school. Yes, I guess that’s it. I shouldn’t be sur-
prised if she earned sixteen dollars a month.”

Mr. Watrous drew a long breath at the idea of such
boundless wealth. To Farmer Watrous sixteen dol-
lars was more than sixteen hundred would be toa
modern spendthrift.

“Your daughter is pretty, they tell me,” said Squire
Dayton, abruptly, as he sat by the bright wood fire
which flickered so cheerily on the chill April evening.

“Well, yes, she’s a nice looking gal enough,” said
the farmer, a litthe disconcerted both by the manner
and matter of this peculiarly sudden address. “Blue
eyes, and hair, for all the world, just like the rind of
a chestnut, cheeks like roses, and a figure tall and
straight as a young birch, yes, I guess folks ginerally
would call our Lizzie pretty.”

“And tolerably well educated ?’

“She went four quarters to the academy at Briggs-
ville,” said Farmer Watrous, with conscious pride:
“She can read books in forrin languages, and play on
the pianny elegant, and——”

“Yes—yes. Well,’ said the old man, abruptly
cheers list of qualifications, ‘‘my errand to-
night r

But just here Mrs. Watrous, who had been eagerly
watching from the milk-room window, called briskly
out:

“Here she comes down the road now, and that
young Stephens with her. I tell you what, husband—
there's something about them two that makes me
think of you and me in the old sparking days.”

Five minutes afterward Lizzie Watrous came in;
her companion had sat. down on the trunk of a tallen
tree under the old willows a few rods back, and was
idly twisting a branch of freshly leaved hazel, as he
sat and watched the sunset growing purple above the
western woods.

She was pretty; Squire Dayton recognized her

claim to the royal gift of beauty at the very first
glance. Her eyes, large and of a peculiar tint of
liquid violet, were fringed with long, thick lashes; her
oval face was delicate as a crayon drawing, and the
bright luxuriance of her glossy brown hair fell
oo she sweet countenance like a sort of softened
zlory.
. “Tam glad you are pretty, Miss Bess,” said the
quaint old man, with startling abruptuess, the mo-
ment the ceremony of introduction was over. I
eg have liked a scrawny daughter-in-law.”

“Sixt

Lizzic Watrous looked at him as she might have
looked at an escaped lunatic.

“Farmer Watrous,” said the old man, turning short
to the girl’s father, “I have come to ask your daugh-
ter’s hand in marriage for my only son. He has
seen her at church or somewhere; he wants to
marry her.”

There was a moment’s dead silence in the little
assembled group. Mrs. Watrous’ face lighted up with
quick maternal pride. Her Lizzie the mistress of the
grand mansion on the hill—her daughter the lady of
the hall!

“What do you say, child?’ said the old man, his
voice softening as he took Lizzie’s hand in his. **Will
you come and be my son’s wife?’ He has wealth and
station to give yon; you will be the richest and the
prettiest bride in all the country. What! you shake
your head? Surely you have not already made your
choice.”

But Lizzie smiled and blushed with
maidenly shyness.

“T thank you, sir, but I am already engaged.”

“Engaged!” repeated Mrs. Watrous, in almost a
shriek.

“Engaged !” echoed the farmer, in a lower voice.

“T promised Frank Stephens to be his wife, this
very night, mother,” pleaded Lizzie,” and I love him
with all my heart and soul.”

“Frank Stephens—a journeyman carpenter!” said
Mrs. Watrous, scornfully. ‘You will never refuse
Squire Dayton’s son for him !”

“Mother, I love him!”

“But, Lizzie——”

“Let us stop this discussion,” said the old squire,
peremptorily. “I'll give this pretty Miss Lizzie
twenty-four hours to think the matter overin. My
son willbe here to-morrow night to plead his own
cause; she can say yes or no then, just as she
pleases.”

And Squire Dayton got into his carriage and drove
away again like a queer little old magician of the
olden time.

When Frank Stephens strolled in, a few minutes
afterward, he found the household in stormy con-
clave over the new aspect of affairs, and was soon in
possession of the whole story.

“Frank,” pleaded Mrs. Watrous, “you never could
exact the performance of Lizzie’s promise when she
can make aso much more advantageous match!
Lizzie, speak to him child! Ask him to release you!”

Frank Stephens’ dark eyes were fixed with a calm,
inquiring glance on Lizzie’s face. She came softly
to his side, and put her little hand confidingly in his.

“T do not want him to release me, mother. I love
Frank—and I would rather marry him than be the
wife of the richest man whose gold ever dazzled
human eyesight!’

“Lizzie, you talk like a mad woman!”

“T speak only what I feel, mother.”

Frank Stephens said nothing—he only pressed the
hand that lay so trustingly in his own. And when
they parted for the night, at the little wicket gate
where the climbing roses were just putting out their
tender leaves, he said, earnestly :

“Yon will be true to me, Lizzie!”

“Tlove you, and you only, Frank!” she answered,
with simple frankness.

nace you are not dazzled by young Dayton’s
gold?

“Your heart is all the gold I covet, dearest.”

“You will be sorely tried, Lizzie,--your father and
mother will spare no entreaties nor influence.”

 

innocent

 

“T shall be true to my own heart and to you,
Frank !”’

And they parted.

Frank Stephens was right. Lizzie Watrous was
sorely tried, but she stood firm.

The sun was low in the western heaven the next
evening when Squire Dayton’s carriage again stopped
at farmer Watrous’ door,

“Well, young beauty,” said the old man, ‘I’ve
brought my boy to pions his own cause.”

“It is entirely useless,” said Lizzie, but the next
moment she started up with a scream.

“Frank Stephens!”

“No,” said the old man, looking with a certain

ride at the tall form by his side, ‘‘Frank Stephens

ayton! My dear, Iam satisfied now that what so
much I dreaded is not so. You do not marry my son
for his wealth. He has won your heart incognito—
a 7 claim it in his own proper pride of name and
irth !’

“So you are going to marry the rich lover after
a tc Frank, archly, as he held Lizzie to his

eart.

“Yes—but I still retain the poor lover’s heart!”
said Lizzie, with rosy blushes, that made her lovelier
than ever.

 

o~<

A DUEL AMONG THE GLACIERS,

BY HENRY W. PENDLETON,

 

Not far from where Alpine glaciers rear their glit-
tering peaks, in Switzerland, is the village of N—.

It is a grand sight, early in the morning, or of an
evening, to watch those stupendous cliffs from the
village. There they stand, their summits buried in
clouds, their peaks, in many places, glistening with
snow.

Occasionally hovering on the very brinks of. stu-
pendous ravines, a mere speck may be seen at a dis-
tance—the daring chamois hunter, pursuing his
avocation among the dizzy heights, with sure foot
and unerring rifle.

The village is about a mile from the mountains.

Some years ago,a young Englishman, on a tour
through France and Switzerland, put up»at the vil-
lage inn, a small place, kept by a burly landlord
named Jezman.

Seated in the front, or pene room, one morning,
smoking a cigar, he beheld a peasant girl tripping
past, with a pail in her hand.

Beauty like hers had seldom met the gaze of the
young Englishman, not even among the higher
classes. He actually went to the door to watch the
rustic beauty.

Her form was of unrivaled proportions, her eyes
were of a dark brown, her cheeks smooth, plump, and
rosy, tinged with a pink color as delicate as that seen
in the inside of a sea-shell.

Her hair, which was of a light brown, fell down
her shoulders in graceful ripples, her neck was as
white as marble, and her pretty teeth glistened be-
tween the ripe, red lips.

“How beautiful!” ejaculated Henry Manton—the
name of the spectator.

And his eye gleamed with rapturous admiration as
he noticed the light, elastic step and graceful waik
of the young girl, whose form seemed to sway lithely
like a wave with every motion of the supple body.

“Take care!” exclaimed a voice behind his back.

The Englishman turned and beheld Jezman, the
burly landlord.

“That is Mary Freeton,” said Jezman, ‘and the
less you look at her or have to say to her, sir, the
better for your bones.”

“And what have my bones to do with the matter ?”’
inquired Manton.

“They are apt to get broken,’’ answered Jezman, “‘as
Mary is to marry William Setzler, the chamois hun-
ter—the strongest, bravest, and, I am sorry to say,
the most quarrelsome mau in the village.’

“What you say only tempts me the more to make
Mary’s acquaintance,” said Manton.

The landlord stared.

“You do not know Setzler or you would not say so,”
remarked he. “Why, I have seen him thrash three
men at a time, and [ have seen him take a bull by the
horns and throw it down.”

“He must be a sort of Hercules,’ said Henry,
quietly, ‘I confess that I have as much curiosiry to
see him, as to get acquainted with pretty Mary.”

Henry spoke lightly; yet no man ever respected
woman more than he. He would not have wronged
one, either by thought or deed, forthe world. Buthe
was very sensitive to beauty, and a sort of romantic
idea about educating Mary etc., to be his wife, had
flitted across his nfind.

Having found out Mary’s residence from the land-
lord, he determined to repair there on the first oppor-
tunity.

Fortunately for him her father was a shoemaker,
so that the making of a pair of boots would of course
be sufficient excuse for his calling.

Mary was in the little room where her father
worked when the young man called, She had seen
him on the steps of the inn, and blushed as she recog-
nized him.

With the easy tact of a man of the world, he glided
into conversation with her father, and contrived also
to draw Mary out.

Before a minute had passed she was delighted with
the agreeable manners of the young Englishman,
He, on his part, was surprised at the degree of intel-
ligence and the sensible behavior shown by this
simple girl.

He staid an hour. Her father became uneasy, and
more than once directed a glance at Mary as a hint to
her to leave the room.

The poor girl, however, did not notice him, but sat,
with her whole soul in her eyes, gazing upon the
visitor, except when he would look at her, on which
occasion her long lashes would droop, and her cheeks
redden with blushes. S

Suddenly the door opened, and aman, who was
obliged to stoop to enter, came into the shop.

A giant in size, standing six feet five inches, he was
clad in a rough garb of goat-skin amd leather, with
boots reaching above his knees,-which gave him an
appearance at once singular and grotesque.

Strapped to his enormous shoulders was a large
leather knapsack, and he carried in his arms a large
roll of the skin of the chamois.

“Welcome, my son,” said the old shoemaker; “and,
ah! I see you've brought me a good stock of leather.”
- The person addressed rubbed his great whiskered
face, without saying a word, while glaring stupidly
at Mary and the Englishman.

In this position, his enormous figure drawn Hp to
its full height, his long goat-skin cap, which he had
not yet taken off, drawn partly over his low brows,
he resembled nothing so much as a great bull about
to go mad.

“Sit down, sit down,” said the shoemaker, “and
don’t stand there in that way, gaping at a good cus-
tomer.’

“Good customer!” growled the intruder, while
Manton kept on speaking to Mary as if searcely
aware of the other’s presence. ‘Ay, and a bad one
you may find him, father, before you are through.”

“What do you mean ?” exclaimed Manton, his eyes
flashing fire. “No more of that, or I shall be com-
pelled to chastise you !”’

The huge mountaineer looked down with sneering
contempt at the speaker.

“T could crush you like an egg-shell,” said he; ‘“‘but
you may leave this place unhurt, and thank Heaven
you do so with a whole skin.”

“Oh, Will! Will!’ half screamed Mary, rushing for-
ward and drawing him outside, ‘you are unreason-
able; you know you are, and yuu had better leave at
once.”

“How now—you ask me to leave?” he roared, in a
voice of thunder.

“Yes, [ask you to leave; for I know there will be
trouble. Lask you, as I have asked you many times
before, never to come to see me again, as you know I
have for you no greater feeling than friendship.”

“You have said so, I know. But your father wants

ou to marry me, and you said you would, and iry to
ove me.”

“T said I would try, but it can never be. Alas!
alas! I feel now how useless it would be for me to
try, and—and—I have changed my mind.”

“Since this Englishman came. I see how it is!”
cried Setzler.

“Nay, I had made up my mind before.”

He looked at her, his brow gathering darkly. Then
he started away without uttering a word.

Mary felt terrified, and re-entered the shop with a
pale countenance. The young Englishman, how-
ever, with merry conversation, soon soothed her.

Another hour passed ere he departed, not before
he had craved and obtained permission to call again
and see Mary.

The shoemaker had wanted her to marry Setzler
because he was thrifty, economical, and well off.
The young Englishman, however, seemed better off
than Setzler, aud so Freeton had no objection to a
change which promised so well. As to Manton
having any intention to deceive Mary, the shoemaker
did not entertain such a thought fora moment. He
was well versed in human nature, and a tirm believer
in phrenology.

He had set Manton down as an honest man at once,
and when the latter had stated that he was a _ travel-
ing clerk for a mercantile house in London, Freeton
had credited the well-told story at once.

The truth was Manton did not care to have it
known that he was a wealthy English gentleman,
the owner of large estates, and descended trom one
of the oldest families in England, lest poor Mary,
with the singular veneration of the lower classes tor
high birth, should feel too much awe in his presence
to love him.

As to himself he was completely fascinated by the
beauty and artless manners of this simple child, and
was determined to win her if he could.

Of a brave, reckless nature, he scarcely thought of
Mary’s low-whispered warning to beware of Setzler
as he drew near the inn where he lodged.

In the afternoon, still thinking of Mary, he took
the first path he came across fora stroll. His foot-
steps carried him to a valley.

 

A man sprang up from behind some bushes as the! in the ark and sum say he didn’t. So it goes, which

young mau cameon. It was William Setzler!

“Now I have you!” roared the giant.

Henry stood looking at the speaker from head to
foot, with the amused air of a person in a menagerie
surveying a wild beast.

This enraged the fellow, who at once sprang upon
the Englishman, seizing him by the collar.

“Not so fast,” said the latter, as he rapped the giant
on the head with the butt of a pistol, taken trom his
coat-pocket.

He followed up this blow with a well-directed one
from his fist, right between the man’s eyes.

Setzler, at this sudden and unexpected assault,
staggered back half stunned.

“Now get out of my way!” said Henry, quietly
cocking his pistol. ‘I came out for a stroll, and you
have disturbed my reverie.”

e a he spoke, he pointed his pistol at the fellow’s
ead.

The giant laughed.

“Do you think to scare me with that toy?”

And he unstrung his carbine from his shoulder.

“Really,” said Henry, smiling, ‘‘I had not intended
to tight a duel with you.”

“A duel—yes, that’s the word; but not one of your
child's duels. We must fight to the death— where he
who falls may never get up again !”

And he pointed where the glaciers of the Alps
gleamed redly in the afternoon sun,

Somehow, the turn this adventure was taking
pleased the romantic fancy of the Englishman, who
at once understood the moun‘aineer, and assented.
Arrived at the foot of one of the lofty peaks, the
giant commenced the ascent.

Henry followed with more difficulty.

Setzler observing this, turned now and then to
render assistance to the unaccustomed climber, who,
however, declined it.

Finally, arrived near the summit, each of the two
men took his place on an icy, conical peak, barely
broad enough fer a foothold, and overlooking an un-
fathomable abyss, about thirty yards in width, which
wepereree them from each other.

he slightest misstep on the part of either of the
men must precipitate him into the yawning gulf.

And so there they stood, looking at each other,
hate flashing from the mountaineer’s eyes as he
raised his carbine. _

Henry lifted his pistol at the same moment, a pecu-
liar light in his gray orbs.

“One—two—fire !”

This, the signal agreed on, was given. :

Simultaneous reports rang among the hollow rocks.

There stood Henry, smiling, his left arm hanging
bleeding at his side. He had received a severe
wound, and yet had presence of mind enough not to
move.

The chamois hunter watched him with rough ad-

wiration.

“We were to fight to the death!” said he, folding
his arms across his broad chest. “You have five
loaded barrels yet remaining to your revolver.”

“T will wait till you reload,” said the Englishman.

“T have fired my last shot. I used all my ammuni-
tion this forenoon,” answered the mountaineer. |

“All right, then; I am satisfied.”

“Nay, we were to jight to the death !” cried Setzler.
“Nothing was said about the number of shots.”

“Oh, well, as long as Iam satisfied,” said Henry,
coloring.
re truth was, he had discharged his bullet in

avr,

“T insist that you fire!” cried Setzler. ‘Come, I
am not afraid to die. Had TI your pistol, and you my
carbine, I should discharge all my shots at you.”

“I will not consent,” said Henry, in unfeigned ad-
miration at the rough fellow’s courage, “to fire upon
an unarmed man.”

“Then I willjoin you where you are!” cried Setzler,
“and we will have our fight out with a tussel to see
who shall throw the other into the abyss! As you
are wounded, I will make it fair by only using my
one band.’”’

“Be it so," answered Henry, feeling sure that his
time had come, yet not hesitating a moment. The
Switzer was such a giant that he could not fail to get
the advantage in a wrestle on such a narrow footing.

Too hastily leaping from his point, however, the
man’s feot slipped, and he was only saved from fall-
ing into the ravine by clutching the root of a stunted
shrub, fully two feet below the edge of the rocky
shelf for which he had sprung.

And so there he hung, that root all between him
and eternity. The shrub was fast giving way be-
neath his weight. His eyes were turned appealingly,
and half scornfully, upon the young Englishman.

Not a moment did the latter hesitate. The thought
occurred to him even at that moment, that the
Switzer would otherwise think he was actuated in
the fear of encountering him in a wrestle.

He sprang quien to the spot, and with his un-
ore hand grasped the arm of the chamois hun-

er.

“Brace your knee against the wall of the cliff,”
said he, ‘and let go the shrub. I will give you a pull
upward, which will enable you to seize the rugged
edge of the cliff.”

The mountaineer did as requested, when, with the
assistance received from the imperiled man pres-
sing his knee against the rocky wall, Henry was
enabled, with great danger to himself, to haul him
up so that he could seize the edge.

The next moment the hunter was at his side, tears
in his eyes.

“It’s no use,” said he; “I cannot turn my hand
against the man who has so nobly rescued me at the
risk of his own life. Sir, you are the bravest man I
ever saw!”

With these words, he helped the young man down
the precipice. He needed assistance, too, for loss of
blood had made him weak almost to fainting.

Arrived at the base of the precipice, Setzler was
obliged to carry him in his arms to the inn where he
lodged.

A physician was sent for.
the wound.

Mary heard of the young Englishman’s condition,
and, with her father, came frequently to see him.

Her presence seemed to do him more good than the
medicine and food he received. He recovered the
use of his arm. He married Mary.

Not until after he had educated her, and worn off
some of her rusticity by taking her freely into good
society, did Manton reveal his true position to the
surprised girl. r¢!

‘One day they were riding through a country lane
in England. 3

There was a high wind; a branch fell across the
horses’ path, frightening them. They would have
dashed the coach to pieces, as Henry could not stop
them, but for the assistance of a gigantic fellow.
whom they had noticed before slouching through
the fields, and who now, springing from behind a
hedge, stopped the horses almost by a single effort
of strength.

“My good fellow,” began Henry, taking out his
purse; but the man now raised his slouch hat, re-
vealing the face of William Setzler.

“T have traveled far to get sight of you once more,”
he said to Mary. ‘{tseemsI came just in time to
repay your noble husband for the good turn he
served me up among the glaciers.”

With these words away he went, overpowered by
his emotion, and the twain never again saw this half
savage, but not evil-hearted man.

ca «x * * *

Subsequently, however, they heard that he had
married a French woman, who made him an excel-
lent wife.

This was true, but the big fellow would often sit
and sigh mournfully as he thought of Mary Freeton.

TALK ABOUT THE SHANGHI.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

He came, and dressed

 

 

The shanghi ruseter is a gentile,
forrin tung.

He is hilt on piles, like a Sandy Hill crane.

If he had bin bilt with 4 legs, he wud resemb?e the
Peruvian lama.

He is not a game animal, but quite often cums off
sekund best in a ruff and tumble fight. Like the in-
juns, tha kantstand sivilization, and are fast disap-
pearing.

Tha roost on the ground, similar tew the mud tur-

and speaks in a

e. 3

Tha oftin go to sleep standing, and sum times
pitch over, and when tha dew, tha enter the ground
like a pickaxe.

Thare food consis ov korn in the ear.

Tha crow like a jackass, troubled with the bron-
skeesucks.

Tha will eat as mutch tu onst as a district skule-
master, and ginerally sit down rite oph tew keep
from tipping over.

Tha are dredful unhandy tew cook; yu hav tu bile
one eend ov them tuatime; yu kan’t git them awl
into a potash kittle tu onst. é

The femail ruster lays an eg as big as a kokernut,
and is sick for a week afterwards; and when she
hatches out a litter of yung shanghis she has tew
brood them standing and then kant kiver but3 ov
them—the rest stand around on the outside, like boys
around a cirkus tent, gitting a peep under the kan-
vas when ever tha kan.

The man who fust brought the breed into this
kuntry ought tew own them all and be obliged tew
feed them on grasshoppers, caught bi hand.

I never owned but one, and he got choked tu deth
bi a kink in a clothes line, but not until he had swal-
lered 18 feet ov it.

Not enny shanghi for me, is yu pleze; iwuld rather
board a travelling kolporter; and asfor eating one,
give meabiled owl rare dun, or aturkee buzzard,
roasted hole, and stuffed with a pair ov injun rubber
boots, but not enny shanghi for me, not a shanghi.

Speaking ov hens, leads me tew remark, in the fust
place, that hens, thus far, are a suckcess.

They are domestick, and occasionally are tuff.

This iz owing tew their not being biled often enuff
in their younger daze; but the hen aint tew blame
for this. :

Biled hen iz universally respekted.

Thare iz a grate deal ov originality tew the hen--
exactly how mutch i kant tell, historians fight so
mutch about it.. Sum say Noah had hens with him

 

 

and tuther.

I kant tell yu which waz born fust, the hen or the
egg; sumtimes i think the egg waz—and sumtimes I
think the hen waz— and sumtimes i think i don’tkno,
and i kant tell now, which way iz right, for the life
OV ine,

Laying eggs iz the hen’s best grip.

A hen that kant lay eggs iz laid out.

One egg iz konsidered a fair day’s work for a hen.
i hav herd ov their doing better, but i don’t want a
hen oy mine tew do it—itiz apt tew hurt their con-
eeisation and by-laws, and thus impair their futer
worth.

The poet sez, butifully :

“ Sumboddy haz stole our old blew hen !
I wish they’d let her bee;
She used tew lay 2 i a day,
And Sundays she’d lay 3.”

This sounds trew enuff for poetry, buti will bet 75
thousand dollars that it never took place.

i best time tew sett a hen, is when the hen is
reddy.

I Kant tell you what the best breedis, but the
shanghi is the meanest. It kosts as mutch tew
board one, as it duz a stage hoss, and yu mite as well
ae tew fata fanuning-mill, by running oats

ru it. :

Thare aint no proffit in keeping a hen for its eggs,
if it laze less than one a day.

Hens are very long-lived, if they dont contrakt the
thrut disease,—thare is a grate menny goes tew pot,
na year, bi this melankolly diseaze.

I kant tell exactly how tew pick outa good hen,
but, as a general thing, the long-eared ones are
kounted the best.

The one-legged ones, i kno, are the lest apt tew
skratch up a garden. :

Eggs packed in “ase parts ov salt andlime water,
with the other end down, will keep from 30 to 40
years, if they are not disturbed.
| Fresh beef-stake is good for hens; iserpose4 or 5

ey aday would be awl a hen would need at
ust,

Ishall be happee tew advise with you, at enny
time, on the hen question, and—take my reward in
eggs.

ea
—/

Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

a
acum

 

 

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,

A, B. W., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The Bellevue Hospital
Training School for male nurses is under the direction of
the Commissioners of Charities and Correction. It was
informally opened on Dee. 11, 1888. Two years’ training

will be given. Application must be made to James F.
O’ Rourke, the warden of Bellevue Hospital, upon whose
approval they will be received into the school for one
month on probation. The age of acceptance for candi-
dates is from twenty-one to thirty-five years. References
as to good moral character and good health will be re-
quired, and the applicant must be prepared for an exam-
ination in reading, penmanship, and simple arithmetic.
This examination is to test the candidate’s ability to read
aloud well, to write legibly and accurately, to keep simple
accounts, and to take notes of lectures, During themonth
of probation the pupils are boarded and lodged at the ex-
yeoee of the school, but receive no other compensation.

f accepted as nurses, the pay for the first year is $12 per
month; for the second year $15.

R. W. C., East New York.—The building now used for
the Custom House in this city was built for the Mer-
chants’ Exchange, and occupies the entire block between

Wall, William, and Hanover streets and Exchange aoe
It is built of Quincy granite, and is fireproof It is 200 by
171 feet, 77 feet to the cornice, and 125 feet to the top of
the dome. In the portico which fronts on Wall street
are 18 columns, 38 feet high, and 4 in diameter at their
base. Each of the columns weighs nearly 45 tous. The
rotunda is the principal room, and is in the center of the
ponerey: Its diameter is 80 feet, and its height is the
same. It is surmounted by a dome in which there is a
large skylight rising from the center, and resting on 8
tiuted Corinthian columns of Italian marble, 41 feet high,
and 5 feet in diameter. The Custom House is open to
visitors from 10 A. M. to3 P. M.

Cc. T. R., Washington, D.C.—The Cunard steamer Ore-
gon was lost by collision with a deeply laden three-master
schooner, name unknown, off Fire Island, on March 14,
1886. The collision took place about 4:20 A.M, The olen
life-boats of the Oregon were launched with difficulty,
but as speedily as possible, and the passengers transfer-
red to them. Shortly after the transfer pilot boat No. 11,
and the schooner Fannie, bound from Jacksonville to
Boston, came to the rescue, and the passengers were
safely put on board of them. At 12:15 the German steamer
Fulda came up, and the passengers were transferred to
her. The Oregon was 520 feet long, and at the time of the
accident one of the finest vessels afloat.

Cecil May, Burlington.—To make Boston pound cake,
take one pound of sugar, three-quarters of a pound of
butter, one pound of flour, six eggs, one cupful of cream
or rich milk, one teaspoonful of saleratus, the grating of
two lemons. Beat the butter and sugar until very light,
to which add, gradually, the cream and lemon, with one-
fourth of the flour. Whisk ten eggs until thick, and stir
in one-third at a time. After mixing well, ada the re-
maining flour. Beat all well together ten or fifteen min-

utes, then stir in the saleratus thoroughly, without much -

beating. Butter and paper the pan, put in the batter,
spread itover smoothly with a kuite, and bake in a moder-
ate oven.

F. J. C., Milton, Pa.—ist. The American Museum of .

Natural History, west of Central Park, this city, can be

reached by the Ninth and Sixth Elevated Railways to -

Eighty-first street station, and by the Eighth-avenue
horse-cars. Also from the Park by way of the stone
bridge erected to connect the Museum with the Park at
Seventy-seventh street and Eighth avenue. 2d.
obelisk in Central Park stands on a knoll in the grounds
adjoinin
Semcon ogical Observatory is located in the Arsenal, and
has all the necessary facilities for observation. Some of
the rooms are open to visitors.

L. J. L., Cornwall, N. Y.—Yes. Any acknowledgment
of the debt and a new promise to pay it, made either
within the period or afterward, if in writing, as, for in-

stance, in a letter to the creditor, revives the debt, and
makes it good again for the legal period, counted from the
new promise. Also apart payment by the debtor, whether
of interest or principal, revives the debt from the time of
the payment, and makes it good again, as in the case of a
new promise.

Clementina, Long Island.—Pineapple jam is made as
follows: Pare the pineapples and grate them fine. To

every five pounds of fruit add three pounds of loaf sugar.
Put the whole on the fire and boil it about three-quarters
of an hour.

close, or paste paper over
place.

Carrie L., Petersburgh, Va.--To make cream tapioca,
soak a cup of tapioca all night in milk enough to cover.
In the morning add nearly a cup of sugar and the yolks
of three eggs beaten, Puta quart of milk in a pail and
set into a kettle of water on the fire. When the milk
boils add the tapioca, and let it boil until thick. Take
from the fire; add flavor to taste, adding also the whites
of the eggs beaten stiff. ~

O. W. G., Lexington, Ky.—In fifteen States a subse-
quent marriage of the father and mother makes the child

legitimate, no matter how long after the birth of the
child. These States are Maine, Vermont, Massachusetts,

em. Keep in a dry, cool

Connecticut, Maryland, Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, .

Missouri, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and
Kentucky.

Young Painter, Newark, N.J.—For painters’ or lead
colic, sulphuric acid in very small quantities is recom-

mended. One way of using it is to put one dram of acid -

into ten pints of spruce beer; shake it up well, and allow
it to stand a few hours. A tumblerful three times a day
may be used.

B. O. F., Quebec, Canada.—The resignation of M. Gre
as President of the French Republic took place on Dee, 2,
1887. M. Sadi Carnot was elected to succeed him on the
4th of the same month.

Constance R. W., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—The first hus-
band of Adelina Patti wasa French nobleman, the Mar-
quis de Caux. She is now the wife of Signor Nicolini, a
tenor singer.

I. B.—The turkey is so called because it was once be- -

lieved that it first came from Turkey. It is a native of
mare Fis but is now raised in almost all parts of the
world.

Evelina, New London, Conn.—There are thirty-two Jew-
ish Synagogues in New York city, besides numerous small
pen g-houses. The Jewish charitable societies number
eighteen.

R. J. L., Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. The cost of a palace

sleeping car, if “‘vestibuled,” is about $15,000 to $17,000.
2d. A steel rail, it is said, will last, with average wear,

about eighteen years.

A. B. J, Boston.—The remains of Napoleon III. and’

the Prince Imperial were removed from Chiselhurst to
Farnborough on Jan. 9, 1888.

Adelaide Somers, Providence, R.I.—The Prince and.

Princess of Wales celebrated their silver wedding on
March 10, 1888.

Allan R., L., Schenectady, N. Y.—The fare to San Fran-
cisco, via Aspinwall (first-class) is $80, meals and berth
included. In the steerage it is $35.

Poppy T., Cincinnati—ist. Unable to oblige you. What

you request would fill many columns of the paper. 2d.

Any savings-bank in good standing.

Benj. F. C., Albany, N. Y.—The session of Congress
which terminated Oct. 20. 1888, wassthe longest on record.

J. S.—We can send you a coin book containing the ad-
dress of dealer, etc., for 25 cents.

M. C. M., Seabright, N. J.—We will send you “The
Painter’s Manual” for 50 cents.

P. N. O., Jamestown, N. Y.—Not in our power to oblige
you. .

G., New Orleans.—ist. Long walks, with boots or shoes
without heels, may aid you. 2d. As arule, no.

R. W.S., Lowell.—_New York.

J. A., Chapinville, N. Y.—Unable to enlighten you.

May Parkes.—See “The Ladies’ Work-Box.” -

 

 

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the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 3d. The ~

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VOL. 44—No, 17.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
BY ARTHUR L. SALMON.

In the quiet shadows of twilight
I stand by the garden door,

And gaze on the old, old homestead,
So cherished and loved of yore.

But the ivy now is twining
Untrained o’er window and wall ;
And no more the voice of the children

Is echoing through the hall.

Through years of pain and sorrow,
Since first I had to part,

The thought of the dear old homestead
Has lingered around my heart:

The porch embowered with roses,
The gables’ drooping eaves,

And the song of the birds at twilight
Amid the orchard leaves.

And the forms of those who loved me
In the happy childhood years
Appear at the dusky windows,
Through vision dimmed with tears.
I hear their voices calling
From the shadowy far-away,
And I stretch my arms toward them
In the gloom of the twilight gray.

Butonly the night winds answer,
As I cry through the dismal air ;

And only the bat comes swooping
From the darkness of its lair.

Yet still the voice of my childhood
Is calling from far-away,

And the faces of those who loved me
Smile through the shadows gray.

ie as
—> >

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

de eee

JUAKER HEIRESS ;

OR; THE
Sewing-Girl’s Destiny.
A TALE OF PHILADELPHIA.

By JUAN LEWIS,

Author of “The Sorcerer’s Victim,’’ etc.
(“THE QUAKER HEIRESS” was commenced last week.]

CHAFTER V.—(CONTINUED.)

In the meantime the gallant firemen had not been
idle. A long ladder had been hoisted to the roofs of
the adjoining row of houses, carried across, and one
end dropped upon the burning gable, just as Cling-
ham—for it was he—slipping, staggering, breathless,
reached it with his burden, and was instantly drawn
up to a place of safety.

Then, and not till then, did the lookers on seem to
breathe; and one tremendous shout, that for the
moment drowned all other sounds, bore witness to
the success of the daring achievement.

It had hardly died away, when there came a rush-
ing sound, a burst of confined air, and a great volume |
of flame shot upward, and floating fragments filled '
the sky.

The roof had fallen in.

Through the pressing, demonstrative throng, Mr.

_Clingham made his way to the street, and placed the
oung girl in the arms of the elderly woman, whose
rantic attempt to rescue her child had first made

known the fact that some one still remained in the
house. Needless to say, she was the gir’s ‘‘auntie”

—Mrs. Macgregor. ;

“T have a carriage close at hand,” said a voice, that
Clingham immediately recognized, as he stopped the
woman in a wild expression of incoherent thanks.

He turned to the speaker, a middle-aged man of
medium size, shaven face, and kindly expression.

“Thank you, Parry,” he said, in his business man-
ner. “It is like you to be thoughtful. Lead the
wowan to it,” and half carrying the girl, he followed.

“The old woman has lost all, in common with the
others who lived on tlie first floor,” said Parry, who
was Clingham’s confidential clerk, in a stage whis-
per, as the lawyer gently placed the girl in the arms
of her “auntie,” and closed the carriage door.

“Tf [T might be allowed to suggest,’ Parry con-
tinued, hesitatingly, ‘as they have neither friends
nor money, wouldn’t it be as well for them to go
around to my old mother’s in Coates street? It’s
quite near, and the old lady—bless her dear heart !—
would be delighted to have them; and she can fix up
the girl’s scanty wardrobe from garments belonging
to poor Daisy.”

“Tt’s a good idea, Parry,” said Clingham, this time
in his social manner, “and you are a good boy to
think of it. Ihadavague purpose of taking them
to the house—you know I discharged my housekeeper
last week—but it will be better as you suggest. Tell
them what you propose, and get them there as

uickly as you can. In-the meantime, I will aes
dew to Doctor Wallace and have my hand dressed,
change my clothes. and will look inupon you, for a
moment, in about au hour—if not too late for you to
sit up.”

. *x * * * * ¥ *

Gabriel Hickson slept soundly that night.

It is a peculiarity of such men that they can sleep,
even amid the crumbling fragments of their varied
schemes for power and gain. But no unpleasant
dreams came to disturb his slumber.

On the following morniug he was early awake, and
his thoughts alert in furtherance of the plan of action
he had devised for his release from what he deemed
oe gente consequences of Mary Wardlaw’‘s

eath.

Could the girl have passed away gently, without
creating that reversion of the inheritance to the
Kiowa Mission, itis more than likely that he would
have cared but litile, so intensely selfish was his
nature. It had been said. by people claiming to
know, that he had rather neglected his ward in her
younger days, before she was sent abroad at her own
- request; and still others had said that this last re-
sult was brought about solely because of his attempt
to persuade the young girl, when fourteen, into a
marriage alliance with young Gabriel, whose disso-
lute habits were something notorious.

It was further said by the same authorities—always
“with bated breath and whispering humbleness,” of
course,—that the spirited refusal of these overtures
by Mary Wardlaw, and the scorn and contempt she
then expressed for the reputation and condu¢t of
Mr. Gabriei, had aroused the old man’s ire, and had
led to his yielding to her demand. to be sent abroad.
An opportunity was soon aff rded, for a suitable con-
sideration, for her to become a member of a family
going to Switzerland for a protracted residence—the

ead of which had been appointed to a semi-official
position under that government.

And thus Mr. Gabriel Hickson’s plan of securing
himself at that time, by securing the heiress, and of
getting the succession in the hands of his dissolute
son, was, if people said truly, completely frustrated,
_ But the news of her death had been to him a thun-
derbolt. He had received a cable dispatch, dated at
Paris, from some stranger introducing himself as a
traveling Philadelphian, who had accidentally heard
of Miss Wardlaw’s sudden and alarming illness near
Marseilles, and had felt impelled to telegraph the in-
formation to her guardian, known to him by reputa-
tion.

The reader knows how, on receipt of this dispatch,
he had hurried to France, and with what results, so
far as his words to Clingham reveals the story; but

ust how much or how little, if anything, was kept
ack in that narrative, will, perhaps, be made known
as we proceed,

He had breakfasted in his usual substantial man-
ner, and was on the point of rising from the table,
with the purpose of his morning visit to the young
sewing-girl and her aunt occupying his mind, when
he was startled by an exclamation from his hopeful
son, whose t a eho presence in the room he had not
aoe and who, in fact, had only just come down
stairs. :

Some of the effects of last night’s excesses were
still visible in the young man’s shaky hands and rest-
less eyes as he glanced over acopy of the Philadel-
phia Ledger.

“By Jove, pawp,” he exclaimed, “here’s an accoun*
of a big fire last night,” and he read the head-lines,
with running comments: “ ‘Great fire in Melen
street—Rescue of a girl—Gallant act of a well-known
lawyer—Bravery of the noble firemen—Names of
the’—What’s this ?—by Jove !—‘Clingham, Mary Gib-
son, Mrs. Mac——’”’

His comments suddenly ceased, for Gabriel Hick-
son had strode forward and clutched the paper, say-
ing, in a tone hoarser than usual:

“Let me see that account, Gabriel, while thee
finishes thy breakfast.”

He withdrew to the window, read it carefully
through, and returned the paper to his son. -

‘Does thee know this girl—this Mary Gibson—men-
tioned here, Gabriel?” he questioned.

The graceless youth looked at him for a moment.
as if uncertain whether he ought to affirm or deny
what he knew; but, doubtful of the extent of his

_—

 

 

father’s knowledge, he said, brazenly :

“Well, pawp, it’s the girl I spoke to in Walnut

street last night, and made an egregious ass of myself
in so doing, if you must know the truth.”

“Thee does well, Gabriel, to call thyself an animal
of that stubborn sort. Verily, itis not difficult for
me to coincide with thee, and I thank thee for the
truth that is in that portion of thy speech. Be equally
truthful, and tell me how thee knew her?”

“Come, no chaff! [learned her name at the shop
where she gets her work—gave one of the floor-
walkers a dollar for telling me; and,” he continued,
unblushingly, ‘ta cheap rascal he was !”

Very cheap, indeed, but not so cheap as the one
who bought him.

Even Gabriel Hickson must have thought this, as
he stood for a moment looking at his son lazily drink-
ing strong coffee; but he forbore comment, and but-
toning his coat over his portly figure, put on his
broad-rimmed hat and went toward the door.

With his hand upon the knob, he turned back.

“Gabriel,” he said, in a repressed but distinct
voice, ‘‘Gabriel, does thee want this young girl, Mary
Gibson, for a wife?”

The young man started, and then made a grimace.

“A wife?—ha, ha!—a poor sewing-girl! No, pawp,
T thank you—not much?”

— laugh was a derisive accompaniment to his
words.

X

CHAPTER VI.
* CONDITIONAL—OR OTHERWISE !”

There was some excitement apparent under the
usually placid exterior of Gabriel Hickson when he
presented himself that morning at his lawyer’s house
in Broad street, for he had decided on going there at
once.

He found Clingham reclining on a lounge, his right
hand bandaged, and rather odorous of some pungent
liniment. Coffee, toast, and steak were placed ap-
petizingly on a small table near him, to which, with
the aid of Sampson, his colored man, he helped him-
self leisurely.

He greeted his visitor with his customary airiness,
evincing no surprise at seeing him, and after the
usual common-places had passed, and fome further
toying with his breakfast, he dismissed Sampson
with the remainder.

ltd oy have seen the papers this morning?” he ques-
tioned.

Mr. Hickson said that he had.

“Linferred as much, of course, from your presence
here,” he responded. ‘Rather remarkable affair, on
the whole, was it not? Occurred shortly after you
leftlast night. [had gone out for a walk, and to post
a letter, and hearing the alarm and finding the fire
so close, I naturally went.” x

“Thee could hardly be expected to.see the resem-
blance of which I spoke, under such circumstances,”
said Mr. Hickson, hesitatingly.

“On the contrary,” respouded the lawyer, “I am
prepared to admit that the resemblance is marked
and decided.”

The visitor’s countenance began to brighten.

“Can I assume. then,” he asked, speaking quickly,
“that thee intends aiding me in this enterprise as my
counsel ?”

“That venenes entirely on yourself, Mr. Hickson,”
responded Mr. Clinghain, with ready assumption of
his business manner. “I said last night I would
to-day give you an answer, conditional or otherwise.
The necessities of the case, and justice to myself, re-
quire that it shall be conditional.”

“Well, well; let me hear thy conditions, friend
Clingham. No doubt but what they can be accepted
easily enough.”

“Listen then. You are now, and have been for
some time, bending all your energies, financially, to
putting on the New York and London markets cer-
tain faney mining stocks, of no present actual value,
which you confidently expect to yield a heavy per
centum on the outlay, said outlay being mostly for
brokers, subsidies, printers’ ink, and advertising.
You arealso arranging with certain speculators in
North Carolina and Tennessee to develop a grand
American tea-growing enterprise—on paper—for the
purpose of stimulating the Coolie emigration scheme.
Am I right ?”’

“You are most certainly right, so far as my alleged

8

“GABRIEL, DOES THEE WANT THIS YOUNG GIRL,
MARY GIBSON, FOR A WIFE?”

interest is concerned,” responded Mr. Hickson, in
such evident surprise as to again forget his Quaker
habit of speech. ‘Right as to interest, bunt wrongas
to the nature, reliability, and probable extent of
those enterprises. Why, out of those investments I
am confident of realizing within two years not only
large sums—fortunes in themselves—but to refund,
in addition, every dollar borrowed of the Wardlaw
estates.”

“T should, indeed, be glad if such wild hopes could
be honestly realized,” said Clingham, gravely; ‘but
I happen to know the shifting sands on which they
are founded. Of all the fortunes yearly lost at the
gaming-table, not one half are so utterly hopeless as
those which are invested in fancy stocks in Third and
Wall streets. There may be one chance in a million
of getting your money back from the professional gam-
bler, but the other takes both hide and fleece. Your
hopes of realizing on those investments are ground-
less, Mr. Hickson, and it is one of my conditions that
you give them up, and with them, whatever other wild
specuiation you now entertain. Whatever funds can
be got out of these kite-flying ventures, for legitimate
investment, must be realized immediately, and se-
cured in landed property within this county. Stay!
Nor is this all. You must hereafter consult me in all
matters, of whatever nature, wherein money is to be
used out of the Wardlaw estate; and all moneys

derived froin the same source now in bank in your

own name, must be withdrawn and deposited in the

name of Mary Wardlaw, subject to my order, as her

attorney and the agent of the estate.”

‘ a een Not to be thought of! The girl is
ead .”’

“Ah! Deal—and you propose to proclaim it?”

“No!” cried the baffled man, who, in his wrath and
desperation, had for a moment lost sight of his pur-
pees renetding Mary Gibson. ‘No; I declare her

iving! But,
terous—not to be thought of.”

“As you like, Mr. Hickson,” said Clingham, coolly.
“My hangs are clean; [ intend that they shall so
continue. On no other terms will I consent to acta
day longer as your counsel. Parry has been at work
on the books and papers for some weeks, and the
connection can be closed as easily now, probably
easier than at any other time.”

“You cannot possibly be in earnest in regard to
those fancy stocks. It would be ruinous to sell out
now. Why, our agents in London, Brass, Bullion &
Co., write that they expect to shove five million
shares on the market within two months. To talk of
withdrawal is absolute folly. I tell you, Clingham,
prices will advance as rates increase.’

“The whole thing is a fraud, a swindle, and a de-
lusion !—inflated by the sharpers who are keeping it
afloat. Something is pardonable for your want ot
actual knowledge in the premises on account of your
late absence from the country. Bit I do not propose
to argue the matter. Nothing but loss awaits you in
that direction—that I know. I have stated the alter-
native.”

‘Even if I sell,” cried the other, desperately—‘‘and
it must be at a heavy loss, if at all—I can see no
money in what you term legitimate investments,
but——”

“They will at least be honest securities for the
estate’s funds,” responded Mr. Clingham, quietly.
“But take time to think, if you choose,” he continued,
rising. ‘Remain here for half an hour. I am going
around to Parry's, to conclude an arrangement he
was to propose for me, of making Mrs. Macgregor my
housekeeper. I told him to wait tilll came. Make
yourself comfortable here, and think over the matter
until my return.”

“Hold!” interrupted Mr. Hickson, who already saw
the firm earth of his little world of intrigue slipping
away from him. ‘ Hold!, I will go with you. I ac-
cept your conditions, Clingham. You leave me no
other choice—unless suicide be a choice,” he added,
with ashudder. ‘Without your aid, Iam ruined. I
must have help in order to clear the breakers, and I
throw myself on your mercy. Take whatever you
want, and secure yourself as strongly as you can.”

“Very well. I felt certain we should understand

, Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

repeat, your conditions are prepos-.

 

one another. I will have Parry draw new papers to-
day, and bring them up for signature to-night, if you
can call. He is a notary, you may remember, and he
ean thus ratify our arrangement without other for-
mality or trouble. You assent? Very good. Any-
thing further to be said? No? Then let us be off.
It is only a short walk, and I need to stretch my legs
aftcr last night’s want of sleep.” :

A minute later the two men were walking up
Broad street, on the way to the house of Parry, the
clerk, whither the young sewing-girl and Mrs. Mac-
gregor had been taken.

Pausing before a plain, unpretentious brick tene-
ment they ascended the steps; the door opened, the
cheerful, kindly face of the clerk looked out, and
they were promptly admitted.

“Waiting for you, sir,” he said, briskly, consulting
an ancient time-piece. ‘Past opening hour, sir, and
case of Jackall & Co. versus Pray & Badger to come
on at eleven! Papers all complete, sir, and verdict
sure for defendant in twenty minutes if the jury
breakfast late enough to bring good nature into
court.”

Clingham smiled slightly.

“You must manage it yourself, Parry,” he said, “T
shall not be at the office to-day. This bandaged hand
must be my excuse to all inquiries.”

After receiving some further brief instructions in
regard to business matters, including the arrange-

tijtiyteo
“HOLD! I ACCEPT YOUR CONDITIONS. YOU LEAVE
ME NO CHOICE, UNLESS SUICIDE BE A CHOICE!”

ment with Mr. Hickson, the clerk hurried away,
leaving Mrs. Parry to do the honors of the occasion.

The young girl had not come down stairs yet, the
old lady said, a sort of reaction having set in, and the
doctor recommending that she keep her room fora
coy = two to recover from the nervous effects of the
shock.

Mrs. Macgregor was with her, but at Mrs. Parry’s
request came down to see the callers, in a great flut-
— of spirit, occasioned by her gratitude to Cling-

am.

he proved a woman of plain, practical good sense,
and was soon led from the discussion of the fire to
speak of the future, thankfully accepting the propo-
sition made by Mr. Clingham to take the position
vacant in his household.

Mr. Hickson broached the subject of the adoption
of Mary, setting forth at some length the educational
and other advantages she would derive, proposing,
as soon as she should be well enough, to have her
become an inmate of a popular female seminary in
an adjoining State, at the same time that she (Mrs,
Macgregor) assumed her new duties as Mr. Cling-
ham’s housekeeper.

Leaving the good woman in a whirl of excitement
by the brilliant prospects afforded by these propo-
sitions, and enlisting Mrs. Parry’s best efforts to
secure success with the young girl, the visitors de-
parted,

As they reached the door, a small boy was in the
act of ringing the bell, his diminutive stature making
the effort quite an accomplishment. ,

What was Clingham’s amazement at seeing the
portly Mr. Hickson, who was in advance, suddenly
collar the boy, give him a vigorous shake that made
his teeth clatter in his head, and raise his cane
threateningly.

The lawyer caught his arm.

“Don’t strike him,” he said, quietly. ‘‘What has he
done? I know him—Joey Small. Calls names, eh?
Joey, give an account of yourself.”

“Ef you please, Mr. Clingham, I didn’t go for to do
it,” sniveled Joey, taking refuge behind the lawyer
as the least of two impending dangers, and putting
on a dismal face, but whether of preparatory grief or
joy it would have been hard to determine. Very
wisely he hastened the business in hand.

“Ef you please, Mr. Clingham, here’s a letter what
has jist kim to the cftice, and Mr, Parry—he said I
was to bring it here.”

With a very expressive cast of the eyes in the

direction of Mr. Hickson, and a “Thank you, sir,” for |

the quarter dropped in his hand, the boy ran off, but
was soon afterward discerned, surrounded by two or
three ragged admirers, playing leap-frog over a fire-
plug located in the next block.

“At eight to-night I shall expect you, Mr. Hick-
son,” said the lawyer, as he left him at the next
corner.

He walked quietly home, let himself in, resumed
his old place on the lounge with an air of relief, and
leisurely read the note brought him by Joey.

It was as follows:

“CONTINENTAL HOTEL, 9 A. M.
“NAYLOR CLINGHAM, Esq.

“My DFrarR Str:—Your note of last evening, in-
closing check for cabinet picture of the Yosemite,
advance payment, has just cometo hand. For the
kindly sentiments so feelingly expressed therein, in
reference to my proposed departure for the Pacific
Slope, I am profoundly grateful,and deem myself
peculiarly fortunate in having, by my labors in the
cause of art, been able to inspire them.

“Tt will afford me much pleasure to accept the invi-
tation to drive with you before leaving for the scene
of ny western studies. I am, indeed, selfishly desir-
ous of cultivating an acquaintance thus auspiciously

begun, for, though bearing mournful intelligence to |

you, that very fact would alone serve to make our
first meeting forever memorable. The confirmation

 

“TY DIDN’T GO FOR TO DO IT!” SNIVELLED JOEY,
TAKING REFUGE BEHIND THE LAWYER.

you speak of, brought by the young lady’s guardian,
was, of course, to be expected, yet how like a knell
for all loveliness it seems! You owe me no thanks
forthe crayon. I am only glad that it should go into
the permanent possessiou of one so appreciative as
yourself. As I told you, it is reproduced from mem-
ory. [am glad you think it truthful.

“In regard to the honor eee as my time is
likely to be limited, may I, in accordance with your
suggestion, name the hour of five o’clock to-morrow,
for dinner? If so, expect me at that time; and I ask,
in all the earnestness of an older friendship, that
there may be no formality nor preparation.

“T am, my déar sir, very hastily yours,

“GIRARD HOPE.”

“A noble nature, Iam certain,” said the lawyer,
musingly. ‘‘The soul of a true artist! What a memory
to have retained such a likeness; and what skill to
reproduce it.

CHAPTER VII.

“THE GHOST OF HICKSON WARDLAW.”—
THE KIOWA MISSION.
Gabriel Hickson sat in his after-dinner easy-chair.

Tt had been his custom for some years to sleep an
hour or two after that favorite meal, and this day he

established rule.

A week had passed away, but not without events.

The proposition for the adoption of Mary Gibson
had been accepted gratefully by the young girl—not
so much on account of the change in social position,
as of the opportunity it afforded her to acquire edu-
cation—and the arrangement had been concluded, at
his desire, without formality. He had completed all
his arrangements with a popular seminary in an ad-
joining State for the admission of his ward. He had
seen Mrs. Macgregor comfortably installed in her
new duties, and as soon as the girl’s new wardrobe
sheuld be completed, she would begin her new life at
school. But one more day remained to complete the
limit assigned for that highly important preparation.

Had it not been for the rigid exactness of Mr.
Clingliam in the transfer of the funds, and the other
conditions of the arrangement with that gentleman,
Mr. Hickson felt that he should have happily en-
tered on his scheme. But even with these draw-
backs he felt more at ease than he. had done at any
pole since hearing of Mary Wardlaw’s death, and

e therefore composd his mind and disposed his
framefor his after-dinner sleep like one Whois on
quite excellent terms with himself.

The inside blinds were drawn just enough to ex-
clude the sun, without excluding the air, and a hazy
indistinctness rested upon everything in the room
where he sat.

This dining-hall was quite an extensive one, as
compared to many of later architecture, with shad-
owy corners, and odd angles, and roomy cupboards,
like the house itself, reflecting in some degree, per-
haps, in its incongruities the peculiarities of its for-
mer owner; for it had once been the residence of the
late Hickson Wardlaw, built after a plan furnished
by himself, and no charge in its internal arrange-
ment had been made by its present occupant.

Sitting thus in his easy-chair, Gabriel Hickson
slept, and, contrary to his previous experience, a
strange dream came to him.

He thought that one of the frescoed panels in the
wall opposte him had noiselessly opened, asif hung
on hinges, showing a dark recess beyond, whence
came a draught of cold air.

As he sat looking at this strange phenomenon and
wondering what it meant, out of the recess slowly
drifted—for shadowy and impalpable, it hardly ap-
peared to waik—the singular figure of an old man,
attired in a rusty suit of faded drab, with knee-
breeches, shoe-buckles, broad-rimmed hat, and crab-
tree walking-stick, whose hair of silvery white con-
trasted remarkably with a pairof keen dark eyes
fixed in accusing sternness uyon the shrinking
Gabriel.

“Ah! thee knows me, I see, Gabriel Hickson!” said
this singular apparitien, in a hollow voice. “Thy
memory is more truthful than thy acts, the baseness
of which are not unknown to me, though eighteen
years have passed away. Nor the manner in which
thou hast acquitted thyself of the trust I gave thee.
Where is my orphan daughter, to whom thee was to
be a father and protector?”

Gabriel Hickson shook as ifthe breath of the char-
nel-house was blowing upon him. He groaned in his
sleep, and made desperate attempts to respond to
the stern demand; but his tongue was dry and
parched, his teeth rattled against each other like the
clashing of castinets, and his working hands clutched
with vise-like grasp the stout arms of his chair to
prevent himself from falling.

“Answer me,” continued the apparition. ‘Where
are the hopes that were contained in thee? Where
the golden opportunities wasted? Answer me,
Gabriel Hickson !”

There was menace in the tone, and the long arm
waved the crab-tree stick threateningly.

The sleeper uttered a groan, and his chin sunk
upon his breast. He could not meet that accusing
gaze. The world seemed receding from him, while
that pitiless hand beckoned him away. Itseemeda
loadstone drawing him on to destruction. He strug-
gled with all his power against it, and awoke in an
agony of apprehension, with perspiration bathing
his forehead like a December rain.

Even when waking in the mellow light and genial
comfort of his own dining-room, and fully con-
scious of his familiar surroundings, it was some
minutes before he could throw off the terrible im-

pet

Mi

 

 

‘WHERE IS MY ORPHAN DAUGHTER, TO WHOM THEE
WAS TO BE A FATHER AND PROTECTOR!”

pressions, and almost unconsciously his eyes sought
the painted panel opposite, half fearing the literal
fulfillment of his vision.

“Tt is strange that old wine should aftect me thus,”
he muttered. ‘Yes! It must have been the port.
1’ll have no more of it.”

= r . - - * * x *

In a plain but richly finished parlor of a substan-
tial brown-stone house in Walnut street, Rittenhouse
square, two nen were seated in earnest discussion.
Between them stood a marble-top table on which
was placed a fanciful Japanese tray containing the
fammaute of a lunch, whereof they had just par-
taken.

“T tell you, Harddimes,” said the younger of the
two men, with some excitement of manner, ‘‘you
have never given the old man credit for one half the
sharpness he possesses. I have no past experiences
of his folly to blind me, and I say to you that a
shrewder, smoother, more respectable old rascal
does not exist anywhere !”’

“You are forgetting yourself, Rumford,” responded
the other, withafrown. “The name you mention,
however familiar once, is now unknown to me. If
you must call names, have the goodness to remember

ill | you are addressing Mr. Richard Montgomery, retired
| banker, formerly of Grosvenor square, London.

Mr. Hank Ruinford, for he was the individual ad-
dressed, looked at the speaker with a slight grimace,
asif half inclined to laugh; but the cool, matter-of-
fact air of the remonstrator induced him to repress
the inclination, if he felt it.

“T will remember it, Mr. Montgomery,” he said:
“and do you remember what I tell you of Gabriel
Hickson. If your plot for the Kiowa Mission Fund
is to succeed, it must do so because it has the basis
of truth. Heiscrafty and subtle as a fox, and will
never, until forced to do so, yield possession of what
he has so long held. His denial of the girl’s death—
or rather, affirmation of her health—the other night,
shows conclusively that he will stick at nothing.”

“Thatis merely a matter of opinion,” was the re-
sponse. ‘“Itis useless to discuss it now. He will
seek to gain time, of course, and I don’t propose to
hurry matters. When things are ripe I shall strike.
Having obtained control of this nearly obsolete
charter of the Kiowa Mission Association, my know-
ledge of the revision in old Wardlaw’s will becomes
interesting. I am distressed to hear from you,” he
added, with a sneer, ‘that the old man quarreled

esterday with his son, and ordered him out of the
taaue, About some girl, too, you say! Well, I don’t
propose to regulate his domestic matters. But young
Gabe has been of some service tous, and may aid us
further. Wecan’t have him here, where everything
must be quiet, but you might provide tor him at your
rooms in Chestnut street, if he can be of future as-
sistance to us in keeping us posted. These old mat-
ters of Hickson’s and Swetsam’s require watching
and avoidance. I rely upon you.”

“You may welldo so,” said Mr. Hank Rumford,
with the demureness of a tiger waiting for his claws
to grow. ‘Our interests are alike—I had almost said
the same.”

“And why not—why not?’ responded Mr. Mont-
gomery, in a tone of the utmost carelessness. ‘Our
interests are the same! Indemnity for the past—
security and fortune for the future! Oblivion for
your career at Marseilles, the same for my indiscre-
tions here, and a sound boat on a rising tide!”

The effect of these words, carelessly as they were
spoken, was quite extraordinary on Mr. Hank Rum-

rd.

His brow darkened, his eyes flashed, and his hands
clinched.

“If [ am to forget some names and remember
others, Richard Montgomery,” he said, slowly, ‘‘may
I suggest to you to forget all reference to Marseilles ?

“Certainly—certainly !” pues the other, in a
tone of great surprise, as if he had never till that
moment entertained a doubt of such reference being
a most agreeable one to his auditor. ie

“By all means, my dear fellow, since you wish it.
So, say no more. It is time for me_ to go out,” he
added, rising, and looking at his watch as he did so.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

oe
saw no necessity for longer infringement of that

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

“Thave an engagement in West Philadelphia. Meet
me here to-morrow, same hour, or earlier, if there is
anything important.”

He went into an adjoining room and made a few
alterations in his dress, run aleaden comb through
his long whiskers—jet black, thanks to the dye—and
placed over his scanty gray hairs and bald forehead
a luxuriant wig of the same hue—the effect of which
alterations was to make him seem twenty years
younger than he actually was.

“After all, Rumford,” he said, lightly, “this sort of
masquerading business is not so difficult as one
might imagine. Inthe rush and crush of financial
circles not one of them remains unchanged for a
year—let alone five! People nowadays can’t stop
to inquire very closely into a man’s autecedents,
especially in this country. The main question is:
Has he got the money! Not where did he get it. And
IT have no doubt but that half of them I jostle against
in the street, whom I might recognize if I would, are
quite as anxious their old careers should be forgot-
ten as I am that they should forget mine! Ring the
bell, their, please, and tell Thomas to bring the car-
riage round! Thank you! Where can I drop you?”

“TI? Oh, it don’t matter,” said Rumford, abruptly,
“vou are not going my way. I’m for a walk, and
afterward will see Gabe, and arrange about his quar-
ters. He’s a heavy lot, and with his dissolute habits
is likely to talk too much! I’ve been trying to in-
duce him to commit himself in some way, thus far
without success. But weshall see! Here comes the
carriage.”

They left the room together.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
——_—_— or
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

IN LOVES CRUCIBLE

By BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of ‘Only One Sin,” “‘A Heart’s Bitterness,”
** Another Man’s Wife,” ‘*Thrown on
the World,” etc.

 

(“IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE” was commenced in No. 15,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER V.

THE HOME COMING,

brilliant and ablaze as it had been three months be-
fore, when Guy had been introduced as the heir of
the title and estate; but cheerily and comfortably

In the little picture-gallery, where Guy had learned
the sad story of his uncle’s life, the old man sat, nerv-
ously stroking his silvery mustache with his thin,
white hand. By his side on a little table lay two tele-

but one was of older date than the other, as might

have been seen by a hasty glance at it, for it was

worn at the creases so that it hardly held together.
tread:

“T have found Constance.
on the steamer of to-day.”

It was dated twelve days before, and was signed
“Guy Hartleigh.” The other was dated the same day
as that on which we see Sir Richard, and was from
London. It read:

“Will be home to-night by ten o’clock train,’ and
was also signed by Guy.

These two telegrams were all the anxious old man
had received from Guy,and he would have wished
full details of the daughter who had been found and
was coming back to him after all those years of ab-
sence. Did the reticence of Guy mean that he did
not wish to anticipate the pang with which the proud

We leave for Liverpool

from all the refining influences his daughter should
have had by right?

The old man looked up at the face of the mother,
with a silent plea for forgiveness for the past, and
his lips murmured a promise to cherish the daughter,
be she what she might, taking on himself all the
burden of whatever she might lack in moral or in-
tellectual training.

He was not the reserved, stern man of only three
months before. Ever since the departure of Guy he
had been softening, and after the receipt of the first
telegram there had come into his face an expression
ot yearning tenderness which completely transformed
him. And in that short time the servants of the
Hall, who had been wont to iook upon him with a cer-
tain fear mingled with their respect, now began to
find themselves warming toward him.

He had atonce given out the news of the finding of
his daughter by Guy, and not only his own household
but all the country was look'ng forward to her com-
ing, with a curiosity second only to his own, The
story of his early life was known to a few of the older
people, and they told enough of it to whet the curi-
osity of everybody to know what sort of a person
the daughter would be. ;

For that he cared nothing, although he must have
known that she was being talked about. He dreaded
to find her ignorant and coarse, but he had stead-
fastly kept before himself the one idea that, be she
what she might, it was his own doing, and therefore
he would not permit himself to look forward with
any other thought than one of joy at having his
daughter with him.

It was already after half-past nine o’clock, and he
began to look nervously at his watch every few
minutes. He paced the floor and sat down again. He
rose to look at the picture of his wronged wife. He
paced the floor again. He read and re-read the tele-
grams. He listened with sharpened ear for every
sound on the gravel-drive under his window.

The time dragged, but at last the listening ear
caught the longed-for sound of wheels. He sank
upon the lounge, holding his hand over his heart,

come and tell him that his daughter was in his house
once more.

How would she greet him? What was she like ?

These were the questions that coursed through his
mind, as he sat there listening to the opening of the
great doors, to the depositing of trunks on the porch,
and to the sound of voices too indistinct for him to
recognize at that distance. He was sure he had
heard the voice ef Guy, but listen as he would it did
not seem to him that he could catch the faintest

too.

Could it be that she had changed her mind at the
last minute, and decided that she could not forgive
the man, her father though he were, who had caused
her innocent mother such suffering? He looked up
at the sweet face in the picture, with a look, so full
of pleading, thatif the young wife could have been
there she would certainly have told him that all was
fergiven.

“Sir Richard!”

He turned quickly, and, half rising, cried, brokenly:

“Guy, my boy, you have brought her with you?’

“Did you not receive my telegrain ?”’

“Yes, but I feared—I feared she might not have
been able to forgive me.”’

“She is here. She has gone up stairs. She was
very tired, and asked if she might not go to her room
hefore meeting you.”

“Of course, of course,’ he answered, nervously.
“Tf she would prefer, she shall not come down at all
to nigut.”

“Oh, she will come down. How are you, uncle?”
and he took the trembling hands in his.

“IT am well. But Constance, 1s she—is she——?
You have told me nothing about her. Why did you
not write ?”’

“IT tried, unele, but I could not. I thought it better
eae until you could see her and judge for your-
self.

The old man would ask no more questions about
her, lest Guy should have to say something in dis-
praise of her. He would have liked to know if she
resembled her mother, but he would not ask; he
merely looked up at the picture with that peculiar
expression of longing which now underlay all other
expressions when he looked at his wife.

Guy saw the glance, and, though not ordinarily
quick in such cases, understood his uncle at once.
He said, hastily:

“She is not like her mother, but she has a striking
resemblance to you. She carries the proof of her
origin in her face and bearing.”

A shade of disappointment crossed the old man’s
face, but he made no comment on the statement, and
nervously turned the conversation to other channels,
asking Guy about America, and how he had enjoyed
the trip, and a hundred other indifferent questions.
Suddenly he asked:

“Do you remember the conversation we had before
you went for her ?”’

“Yes, sir,’’ uneasily. :

“Do you like her? Does she like you? Are you
friends ?””

Guy flushed, and answered, as he drummed awk-
wardly on the little table: :

“We are very good friends, sir, I believe.
to tell you, uncle,” he said, turning from the subject
abruptly, ‘‘that you must make allowances for Con-
stance at first.”

“Allowances? Yes, of course, of course.”

“T mean that she has undergoue a great deal, par-
ticularly lately, as I will tell you at some other time,

and may not be just what you would wish, but [hope
that in a little while—indeed, I do not know——”

He stopped awkwardly, as one who is afraid of say-
ing either too much or too little, and cannot find the
right expression to clearly state his real meaning.

 

Hartleigh Hall was bright with lights again. Not .

lighted up, as when the absent loved one is expected. -

grams. Both had the airof haying been much handled, -

old man must greet the girl who had grown up far .

and, with blanched face, waited there for some one to ~

sound that would indicate that Constance was there, |

il ought

AeA e Oe BS

 

+e Se a nts cee Sone aah gie laments o 6)

fette bee ates seem retention Sime ee amr mee

vee

PME EI em SR eg RR oem mete ET TU cee Lica es eee

 

 

 

 

 
 

    

2

 

 

 

 

«ay THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 32

VOL. 44—No. 17,

 

 

But the old man, with the idea strong upon him that
his daughter was in some way lacking in the quali-
ties he would most like her to possess, said, quickly :

“It shall not matter; she is my daughter, and I
shall find no fault with her, be assured of that, Guy.”

“Tt was not what I meant, exactly. I would have
said 45

“Miss Hartleigh awaits in the drawing-room,” an-
nounced a footman, and Sir Richard, as if glad to
escape any further explanations, took Guy’s arm and
led him from the room.

“Pray be calm, sir,” said Guy, as he felt the old
man’s hand tremble on his arm, ‘‘and whatever hap-

ens, do not be cast down. All must come right ina

ittle while.” ; :

Sir Richard looked up at his nephew in a piteous
way, and passed his hand nervously over his face.
He dreaded to see his daughter after Guy’s words of
warning twice repeated, but he was firm in his re-
solve to greet her with words of love, and with all
fatherly affection. Guy looked down at his uncle in
a pitying fashion, but said no more.

As they neared the drawing-room the old man
made a strenuous effort to control himself. He would
prove to himself and to Guy that he was not afraid
to meet his wronged daughter. He disengaged his
hand from Guy’s arm, and quickening his pace, en-
tered the room first.

Several weeks had passed since Constance had been
carried fainting into a wretched hovel in the wilds of
America, and during that time she had recovered all
of her freshness and beauty. She was pale, but with
the cream-like pallor which was characteristic of her
style of beauty, and served to set off the dark eyes
and hair. With true art she had chosen a black dress
of some soft material. and, for her only ornament one
een rose in the thick folds of her soft, dark

air.

She had come down to the drawing-room and dis-
patched the footman on his errand, after which she
had crossed her hands in front of her and glanced
around the richly furnished room, with its costly
bric-a-brac and articles of virtu, its statuary and
paintings, and a look of lofty scorn passed over her
beautiful face. She was not accustomed to such
luxury, but she contemplated it coldly. Her eye
roved over the paintings and there was nothing but
scorn on her face as she glanced from face to face of
her ancestors—hers, though the world would have
disputed her right to them hadit known who she
was,

‘They prided themselves on their blood—its purity
and age,” she murmured‘ ‘and they would scorn me
as I scorn themif they could know me for whom I
am; and yet the most remote ancestor of them all
had no more right than Ito a place in his father's
house.”

Her lip curled bitterly as she swept the walls, and
she would have turned away had not her eye been
caught by the portrait of a handsome young man.
She turned swiftly and faced that.

“It is my father,” she whispered to herself. “So he
must have looked when he won my mother’s heart,
and wrecked her life. Young, handsome, rich, and
fortunate. He cared no more for my poor mother
than if she had been a fly for his hook. He deceived
her, and laughed at her misery. She was not noble,
as he was, and it did not matter.”

From the picture her glance wandered around the
room, and a burning sense of contrast fired her
heart. Her thoughts traveled back to the little
house in San Francisco where her mother had died,
and to the days of hardship and suffering which they
two had borne together. She looked again ‘at the
portrait and lifted her eyes to heaven, murmuring:

“Have no fear, oh, my mother! I will be steadfast
in my purpose of revenge for your wrongs. And
you, too, my sister, whose name I have taken, can
find no wrong in what Iam doing. Did he not treat
you and your mother with a cruelty as bitter and
selfish as ever man in his brute strength meted out
to his weaker fellows? I will be steadfast.”

She let her eyes drop moodily to the floor, and was
standing thus with thoughts of hatred and revenge
in her mind when the anxious old man entered the
room and saw her. Her back was toward him, but
he could see enough to convince him that whatever
her shortcomings might be she had at least the bear-
ing of a lady. That thought flashed through his
mind almost unconsciously to himself, but it modified
his greeting of her, for there was nothing of pity in
his.voice as he cried, in a low, eager tone:

“My child! Constance!”

She turned with an air far more regal than filial,
and saw him standing tremblingly near the door,
with hands pleadingly outstretched, looking at her
with a sort of awe on his thin face. He was startled
by her wonderful beauty and aristocratic air, and in
some indefinite way chilled by her composed glance
athim. For she gave no answering sign of warmth,
and did not speak for a minute, and then only to say,
eoldly: :

““My father.”

Guy, standing back from the door-way, eould see
her expression, and could tell from the o:d man’s
hesitating manner that he was struck to the heart by
this cold reception. He turned his head away, how-
ever, and waited silently for what might follow.

Sir Richard, after a moment of heart-rending
silence, let his hands fall to his sides and stepped
toward his daughter with a humility the more
striking in one who had ever borne himself so

roudly. ;
. “My daughter,” he said, sadly, ‘‘you do not forgive
me the misery I have caused you and your mother,
and you are right. I make no excuse for myself,
and yet TI have suffered, too. Can you not forgive
me ?”

The cold, proud look faded slowly from the beau-
tiful face, and with a weary, protesting glance up-
ward, as if begging witness that she could not, un-
moved, see that stately old man bending his white
head so humbly for a kind word, she stepped slowly
toward him and said, gently:

“Father.”

The sudden, eager happiness that flooded the sad
face of the old man almost brought the tears to her
eyes, but she was accustomed to repressing emstion,
and only put her two hands in his when he made a

esture asking her to do so. He held her small, soft

nands in his, regarding her with a look in which love
and wonder were equally mingled.

He could not have asked his daugnter to be more
than this peerless creature was, and he bent over
and kissed-her hand with as much respect as if she
had been his sovereign instead of his daughter. She
answered by a slight pressure of the hand, and then
allowed herself to be led toa chair. He sat beside
her, and Guy withdrew, going to his room to change
his clothes for supper, which he knew would soon be
Berved.

“Constance,” began the old man, “Guy must have
told you how I have searched for you and your
mother ?”’

He said this hesitatingly, as if he would discover
how much she had really forgiven him. And he
watched her closely, so that he saw the sudden hard-
ening of the lines around the mouth, and the quick
flash from the dark cyes.

“T do not say this as any palliation of my first in-
justice,” he hastened to add, ‘‘but only as a preface
to what else I would say to you. Are you too tired
to listen now ?”’

“No,” she answered, with a resumption of her chil-
ling manner.

“Tknow itis hard to forgive me,” he said with
pathetic humility, “and I donot ask it now. You
may, in time, learn to doso, and then I shall be glad;
but to-night I wanted to say that ro atonement that
I can make to youfor the wrong done your mother
shall wait for lack of will on my part. T live foryour
happiness, and no wish of yours that Ican gratify
shall go unsatistied. I shall try to make you happy,
and, Heaven willing, I shall succeed. Have you no
word for me, Constance?’

If seemed to the girl that if she could have thrown
her arms around the neck of the old man, and wept
the tears that struggled in her heart foran outlet.
she would have been happiest, but with a glance at
the Mad Dick Hartleigh on the wall, she murmured:
aie will try to doas my mother would have had
me.

“That is more than I deserve, for I know her gentle
heart too well to fear that she would wish unhappi-
ness to her worst enemy.”

Maida thought of the real Constance, and it came
over her, with a rush of pity for the old man, what a
difference it would have made to himif she had found
her way to Hartleigh Hall, instead of meeting her
death in those desolate wilds. And was he not her
own father, too, and who, more than she, needed a
little love? She choked back a rising sob, and then,
throwing off all restraint, put her arms around his
neck and whispered, brokenly:

“Do not mind my strange ways, father.
not myself.”

He thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, and
stroked her dark hair lovingly, saying softly:

“My poorchild! Shall we bury the past and try to
live in the present? I do not ask it to relieve myself
of my righteous burden of self-reproach. But the
past is dead, and I would have the future atone for
the evils of it.”

“Yes, the past is dead,” she murmured, as if plead-
ing with the face which had hardened in death de-
manding of her to remember her oath to avenge the
wrongs of a betrayed and slighted woman.

“And we will refer to it no more,” he said.

“No more,” she repeated. and witha slight shud-
der withdrew from his affectionate detention.

“Sir Richard kissed her hand with the air of thank-
ing her for the forgiveness which he felt assured she
had extended to him, and she could not say a- word
to wrench his heart again. And so he talked to her
with a proud and eager happiness of all they would
do, rebuking himself smilingly for his childishness
and yer continuing in the same strain until Guy came
to announce that-supper awaited them.

  
 
  

 

I--I am

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE LOCKED PORTRAIT.

If the first fear, that he would find his daughter
such a one as he must be ashamed of, ever occurred
to Sir Richard, it was only to be dismissed with a
smile andan increased wonder that she, who had
lived as she had, could accommodate herself to her
new Sifuation, with an ease which no one could have
surpassed.

 
 
  
 
  
 

 

He could not keep his eyes from her, but watched
her as she presided at the table with all the grace
and nonchalance of one who has done the same thing
so often as to be unconscious of the details of her
movements. And yet Maida Carringford was acting
asshe never before had acted, recalling the many
bits of “business” with which she had taken the part
of lady on the stage. :

But after the meal there came a harder trial than
merely sitting at a tea-table and acting as if she were
at home there. Sir Richard, anxious to please her,
gave her his arm as they rose from the table, and led
her into the little gallery where he had sat that night
awaiting her coming. ;

With a pleased smile on his face, he led her from
picture to picture, without making any comment on
any one of them, and she got the idea, somehow, that
an ordeal was being prepared for her, and she was
on the alert to meet it, whatever it might be. It
came, but it was different from anything she had
foreseen, and it nearly betrayed her.

The portraits had not interested her, and she had
given them but scant attention, so that when Sir
Richard stopped in front of the picture of his wife,
she was not even looking at it. e saw that she was
thinking of other things, and gently called her by
name: f

“Constance!”

“Father ?” and she looked at him, and then, follow-
ing his glance, turned her eyes on the face in the
portrait.

A look of startled horror crept into her eyes, and
she shrunk back, murmuring:

“No! no!”

The last time she had seen that face was in the dim
light of a gray morning, after she had taken from
her that which was to aid her in robbing her of her
birthright. Yes, she was dead, and she had said she
might have the little book, but was it not a betrayal
of the gentle, loving girl's trust? She covered her
face with her hands, and moaned softly to herself.

Sir Richard was alarmed at the effect of the picture
on his daughter, and exclaimed, in an agony of self-
reproach :

“My darling, what have I done? I was wrong to
bring you to your mother withont a word of warning;
but I thought only of the surprise.”

“Yes, yes!” she murmured.

“Forgive me, will you not?”

“Tt is unnecessary.” c

“T have always kept it covered by the doors, but it
is yours now, and I brought you here to give you the
key.”

He took a little golden key from his pocket and put
it into her listless hand. She took it mechanically,
and then, recovering herself by degrees, lifted her
eyes steadily and gazed full into the calm, sweet eyes
of the woman whose child she was wrongly pretend-
ing to be. The eyes seemed to look back into hers
with a pitying glance, and it seemed to her that if she
had to see that face often she would surely betray
herself.

“My mother!’’ she made herself say, and then, with
a deep-drawn breath, walked to the picture, and
closing the doors, locked them. Then she put the
key in her bosom, and whispered, “Let us go away!’

Her father led her away, blaming himself for his
want of tact, and not until they were in the drawing-
room again did she venture to look at Guy. He was
regarding her intently, but he blushed, and dropped
his eyes like a schoolboy when he found himself ob-
served. She did not believe he suspected her, but
the thought that she was under observation gave her
the self-control she needed, and she turned to her
father, and said:

“Are you fond of music ?”’

“Very. Do you play?’

“Do you like any particular thing?
favorite ?”

“You are too tired to play to-night,” he said, so-
licitously.

“IT am not too tired,” she answered, and, without
another word, she sat down at the piano and ran her
fingers over the keys to try them, betraying as she
did so a thorough familiarity with the instrument.

She loved music, and could find in it a solace for
her troubles when everything else failed, and so, as
she sat there now, she forgot those who were in the
room with her, and instinctively drifted into one of
tbose wonderful songs without words into which the
gifted Mendelssohn poured so much feeling and
emotion. Herexecution was marvelous, and showed
careful training, but her expression—which is to
music what the soul is to the human body—proved
her a natural musician, 5

Sir Richard and Guy stood entranced, listening to
the weird, sorrowful strain as it poured sadly from
the awakened instrument. Sir Richard placed his
hand on Guy’s arm, and there were tears in his eyes
as he said:

“She is not happy, Guy. We will make her so, if
there is power in love. You will help me, Guy ?’

“There is. nothing 1 would not do to make Con-
stance happy,’ returned tke young man, with a sin-
gular fervor.

The older man looked at him with a smile of com-
prehension and pleasure.

“Could any one help loving her?’ heasked, proudly.

“She is very beautiful,” was the answer, accom-
panied by a sigh.

“Ts she not? Why did you not tell me she was
beautiful and accomplished ?—so different from what
I had every reason to fear she might be. Blood will
tell, Guy. Why, she bears herself as if she had been
accustomed to having the whole world at her feet.”

How little either suspected that the doting father’s
words were true in a sense neither thought of. Yes,
she had been accustomed to having the world at her
feet, and more than once that evening she had
thought, with a bitter sense of humor, how she was
merely practicing on a small audience what she had
been used to doing on a large one.

Guy assented to his uncle’s words with another
sigh, which this time did not escape the old man’s
notice. He turned quickly, and asked:

‘*Have you told her, Guy, what is the dearest wish
of my heart?”

“You mean——” He hesitated.

“T mean your marriage.”

“How could I?”

“True,” assented Sir Richard, with alight laugh,
“it would not have come with a very good grace from
you, would it? Iam not mistaken in the symptoms,
ain I, Guy ?—you love her, do you not?”

ane much, I am afraid,” was the almost inaudible
reply.

“You do not mean”—the old man turned pale with
a sudden fear—‘“‘that there is a more favored one
than yourself?”

“I do not think we need to fear that. She told me
there was no one in the world to regret her since her
mother died.”

“Her mother.
mother?” .

“Very little. Nothing of her own accord. She told
me of their life and all that was necessary to estab-
lish her identity, and then begged me to say as little
as might be. You saw how deeply affected she was
by the sight of her mother just now.”

“They must have suffered. And she has locked the
picture into darkness again. Well, itis best. It will
pe the burial of the past. I can never do enough for
her, Guy.”

The thought of the dreary past overcame the old
man, and he sank into a chair, and with downeast
eyes rested his head on his hand.

“Guy,” he said, a moment later, “do not tell me for
afew days anything about her past life. I would
enjoy her as she is without any thought of her past,
if I can.”

_ Guy answered by a sympathetic glance and crossed
lightly to the piano, where, unnoticed by Maida, he
stood and watched her with admiration and longing.
Presently she became aware of his presence and
looked swiftly up, catching his glance and interpret-
ing it. An indescribable air, in which pity and cold-
ness were mingled, came over her in an instant, and,
ceasing the pathetic thing she was playing, she
changed the tune and broke into a gay aria from one
of the popular operas.

Guy turned away moodily, for he had noticed the
effect of his presence on his cousin, but the old man
looked up gayly and began to nod his head in ap-
preciative time to the music. He arose and went
over to her side, and when she stopped said, enthusi-
astically:

“You play and sing divinely !”

“T am glad if you are pleased.”

“More than pleased. Guy! He was here a moment
aso.

“He has stepped out om the veranda.”

‘“‘He wished to smoke, I suppose. Constance, how
do you like Guy ?”

‘‘He is handsome, good, and noble. A true man, I
should say.”

The old man smiled ina pleased way and stroked
the dark hair. ;

“T am glad to hear you say that,” he said.
inte It seems to me nobody could say less of

uy.

“Guy is all that you say, and Tam glad that you—
you—like him. Before you were found, and when
we feared——. You will forgive me for what I am
about to say, will you hot?”

She turned a little pale, but answered steadily that
she would.

“TI would not speak of it now, when you have just
returned home, but that it seems better to have it
understood at once. Besides, you know Guy, and it
is not as if he were a stranger to you.”

She seemed to comprehend what was coming, but
she only looked expectantly at her father, and he
went on:

“Before you were found, and when it seemed as if
you could not be what—what you are, we had formed
a little plan. I could not have hoped that you were
so beautiful, so fit to grace the throne of a queen if
necessary; and then we had arranged—Guy and I—
that he would insure your proper reception by the
world by marrying you. And now that you are what
youare—I am afraid I do not express myself as I
should—butif there is no obstacle, could you look
forward to being his wife. Remember, my darling,
that your will shall be the law. If you have engaged
your heart elsewhere, or if for any reason you would
rather not have itso, you need fear no opposition
from me. Do not answer now. Take time to con-
sider it.”

The beautiful face was downcast now, and very
pale. And as she listened to her father she could not

Have youa

Has she said much to you about her

 

 

help thinking of that night in San Francisce, when

Caryl Wilton had told her of his love. She did not
know why she thought of it. She did not love the
man, and yet she had thought of him more than once
since she had become Constance Hartleigh. It seemcd
very long ago. She was silent for a few moments
after her father ceased speaking, and then said ina
low tone, devoid of all emotion:

“T do not need to consider it. Sometixing told me
that you had this at heart. I know of no reason why
T should not be his wife—in time.”

“In time, of course,” agreed the delighted old man,
“in time. You must have a life full of ee
first. Ah, here is Guy, Is ita fine night, Guy?’

“It could not be more beautiful. If you would like
to see an English night at its best, Constance, you
would be wise to come out here.”

Glad of any diversion, she expressed her readiness
and started for the window, and would have gone
out had not her father laughingly detained her until
he could wrap something about her. saying:

‘The night may be beautiful, but it isnone the less
treacherous.”

“Beauty and treachery do sometimes go together,”
she said, as if thinking aloud. And then she stepped
through the window and stood alone in the moon-
light with the man she had said she would marry.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Rime a A eit
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

A BOY'S FORTUNE;

OR, THE

Strange Adventures of Ben Baker,

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.,
Author of “The Train Bov,” ‘‘ Ragged Dick,”
“Tattered Tom,” ‘Oliver the Outcast,”
“Frank and Fearless,” etc.

 

 

(“A Boy’s FORTUNE” was commenced in No. 14. Back
numbers can be obtained of al News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XII.
A SURPRISING ANNOUNCEMENT,

ARRY BEAUFORT entered
the Metropolitan Hotel, with
the contidence of a city boy
who kuew that hotels are
places of general resort, and
that his entrance would not
attract attention. He walked
slowly through to the rear,
looking about him guardedly
to see if he could discover
any boy who answered to bis
idea of Philip Grafton. Had
he seen Ben, he would doubtless have supposed that
he was the cousin of whom he was in search; but
Ben had come in about five o’clock, and had gone
out again with his friend the reporter, who had
called for him.

Thus Harry looked in vain, and was disposed to
think that he would have to leave the hotel with his
errand unaccomplished. This he didn’t like to do.
He concluded, therefore, to go up to the desk and in-
quire of the clerk.

“Ts there a boy staying here named Philip Graf-
ton ?” asked Harry.

“Yes, my boy. Do you want to see him?” returned
the clerk.

“Yes, sir, if you please.”’

“He went out hate an hour since,” said a bell-boy,
who chanced to be near.

“You can leave any message,” said the clerk,

; “T have a note for him,” said Harry, ina doubtful
one.

“T will give it to him when he comes in.”

Harry hesitated. He had been told to put the note
into Philip’s own hand. But there was no knowing
when Philip would come in. :

“T guess it'll do to leave it,” he thought.

“Please give it into his own hands,” he said; and
the clerk carelessly assented.

Harry lett the hotel, aud five minutes later Richard
Gratton, or Major Richard Grafton, as he called him-
self, entered and walked up to the clerk’s desk.

“Any letters or cards for me?’ he asked.

“There’s a note for your nephew,” said the clerk,
producing the one just left.

“Ha!” said the major, pricking up his ears, sus-
pee. “Very well, I will take it and give it to

im.’

Of course the clerk presumed that this was all
right, and passed it over.

Major Grafton took the note carelessly, and saun-
tered to the reading-room, where he deliberately
opened it.

“T must see who is writing to Philip,’ he said to
himself. “It may be necessary to suppress the note ”

As he read the note, of which the contents are
already familiar to the reader, his brow darkened
with anger and anxiety.

“Tt is fortunate that this came into my hands,” he
reflected, ‘It would have puzzled the boy, and had
he gone to see these people the murder would have
been out, and my plans probably would have ended
in disaster. There is something about the boy that
leads me to doubt whether he would second my plans
if he suspected what they were. Iimust devise some
means for throwing these people off the scent, and
keeping the boy in the dark. What shall I do?”

After a little reflection, Major Grafton decided to
remove at once to a different hotel. He resolved to
do it that very night, lest there should be another at-
tempt made to communicate with his young secre-
tary. He must wait, however, till Ben returned.

Half an hour later Ben entered, and found the
major walking impatiently up and down the office.

“I thought you would never come back,” he said,
impatiently.

“T am sorry if ITinconvenienced you, sir,” he said.
“T didn't know you wished me back early.”

“Come up stairs with me and pack. We are going
to leave the hotel.”

“‘Where are we going?” asked Ben, in surprise.

“You will know very soon,” answered the major.

Major Grafton notified the clerk that he wished a
or in fifteen minutes, as he was about to leave the

otel.

“Very well, major.
city ?”’

“Not at once. I may spend a few days at the house
of a friend,” answered Grafton, evasively.

“Shall we forward any letters ?”

“No: I will call here for them.”

In fifteen minutes a porter called at the door of
Major Grafton’s room, and took down the two trunks.
A hack was in waiting.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

“You may drive to the Windsor Hotel,” was the
answer.

The Windsor Hotel, on Fifth aventie, is over two
miles farther up town than the Metropolitan. Lean-
ing back in his comfortable seat, Ben enjoyed the
ride, and was pleased with the quiet, aristocratic ap-
pearance of the Windsor. A good suite of rooms was
secured, and he found himself even more luxuriously
accommodated than at the Metropolitan.

“IT wonder why we have changed our hotel,” he
thought.

Asif aware what was passing through his mind,
Major Grafton said:

“This hotel is more conveniently located for my
business than the other.”

“Tt seems a very nice hotel,” said Ben.

“There is none better in New York.”

“I wonder what his business is,” passed through
Ben’s mind, but he was afraid of offending by the in-
quiry.

. Another thing puzzled him. He was ostensibly
Major Grafton’s private secretary, and as such was
paid a liberal salary, bat thus far he had not been
called upon to render any service. There was noth-
ing in this to complain of, to be sure. If Major Graf-
ton chose to pay him for doing nothing, that was his
lookout. Meanwhile he would be able to save up at
least half of his salary, and transmit to his mother.

When they were fairly installed in their new home,
Major Grafton said:

“T have a call to make, and shall be absent till late.
I suppose you can take care of yourself ?”

4 “Oh, yes, sir. If thereis anything you wish me to

o—-

“Not this evening. I have not got my aftairs set-
tled yet. That is all the better for you, as you can
spend your time as you choose.”

About an hour later, as Ben was in the billiard
room, looking with interest at a game, his cousin,
Clarence Plantagenet, and Percy Van Dyke entered.

‘How are you?” said Clarence, graciously. “Percy,
this is my cousin, Ben Baker.”

“Glad to see you, I’m sure,” said Perey.
you join us in a little game?”

“No, thank you,’ answered Ben.
billiards.”

“Then you ought to learn.”

“IT thought you said you were staying at the Met-
ropolitan,” said Plantagenet.

“So Iwas, but we have moved to the Windsor.”

“Have you a good room?”

“Tip: top!”

“Does that mean on the top floor?” asked Percy,
laughing.

“Not exactly. We are on the third floor.”

“Come, Percy, here’s a table. Let ns havea game.”

They began to play, and Ben sat down in a coin-
fortable arm-chair and looked on. Though neither
of the boys was an expert, the lee a fair game,
and Ben was interested in watching it.

     
  

a
tn
ZN

    
  

LL)

WG OZ ag

Are you going to leave the

“Won't
“T don’t play

ence. ‘When I saw him in pa’s office I thought he
was awkward and gawky; now he looks just like one
of us. He’s had great luck in falling in with this
Major Grafton. Really, I think we ean afford to
recognize him as a relation.”

When the boys had played a couple of games, and
absorbed a glass of whisky each, they prepared to
x0.

“By the way, Ben,” said Clarence, ‘the governor
told me to invite you to dinner on Sunday. Have
you any other engagement?”

“Not that I know of. I will come if I can.”

“That's right. Ta, ta, old fellow.”

He treats me a good deal better than he did when
we tirst met,” thought Ben. “There’s a great deal of
virtne in good clothes, I expect.”

Ben was asleep before Major Grafton came home.

In the morning when he awoke, he found that the
major was already dressing.

“By the way, Philip,” said his employer, quietly,
“we sail for Europe this afternoon at three.”

“Sail for Europe!” ejaculated Ben, overwhelmed
with surprise.

“Yes. See that your trunk is packed by eleven.”

 

CHAPTER XIII.
A FAREWELL CALL.

Ben was startled by Major Grafton’s abrupt pro-
posal. To go to Europe would be delightful, he ad-
mitted to himself, but to start at a few hours’ notice
was naturally exciting. What would his mother and
sister say ?

“I suppose there isn’t time for me to go home and
see my mother before sailing?’ he ventured to say,
interrogatively.

you can judge for yourself about that,” said the
major, coolly. ‘Don’t you want to go?” :

“Oh, yes, sir. There is nothing I should like bet-
ter. I should like to have said good-by to my mother,
but -

“Unfortunately, you can’t.
sensible a view of the matter.
to be ready.”

“How long shall we probably be gone?” asked Ben.

“T can tel! you better some weeks hence, Philip.
By the way,” he added, after a moment’s thought,
“if any letters should come here addressed to you,
don’t open them till I come back.”

Ben footed at the major in surprise. Why should
he not open any letters that came for him? He was
not likely, he thought, to receive any except from
Sunderland.

“T will explain,” continued the major. ‘There are
some people in the city that are continually writing
begging letters to me. They use every method to
annoy me, and might go so far as to write to you and
ask your intercession.”

“T understand,” said Ben, unsuspiciously.

“T thought you would,” returned the major, evi-
dently relicved. “Of course if you get any letter
from home, you will open that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After breakfast Major Grafton left the hotel with-
out saying where he was going, and Ben addressed
himself first to packing his trunk, and then going
down to the reading-room. Then he sat down and
wrote a letter to his mother, which ran thus:

 

Tam glad yon take so
IT will depend on you

“DEAR MOTHER :—I can imagine how much you
will be surprised when I tell you that when this let-
ter reaches you I shall be on my way to Europe.
Major Grafton, my employer, only told me an hour
since, and we sail this afternoon at three. I should
be glad to come home and bid you and my little sis-
ter good-by, but there is no time. I know you will
miss me, but it is a splendid chance for me to go, and
I shall be receiving a liberal salary, out of which I
can send you money from time to time. I know T
shall enjoy myself for I have always had a longing
to go to Europe, though I did not dream that lshould
have the chance so soon. I will write to you as soon
as we get on the other side.

“Your loving son,

“Pp. 8.—We sail on the Parthia.”

It may readily be understood that this letter made
& great sensation in Sunderland. Mrs. Baker hardly
knew whether to be glad or sorry. 1t was hard to

art from Ben for an uncertain period. Onthe other

and all her friends congratulated her on Ben’s
great success in securing so good a position and sal-
ary. It was certainly aremarkable stroke of good
fortune.

Ben was about to write another letter to Clarence,
explaining why he could not accept the invitation

BEN.”

‘for dinner on Sunday, but a glance atthe clock

showed him that he would have a chance to go to his
aoe store, and that seemed on the whole more
polite.

Hejumped on board a Broadway carat Twenty-third
street, and half an hour later got outin front of bis
uncle’s large business establishment. He entered
with quite a different feeling from that attending his
first visit, when, in his country attire, poor and with-
out ecceneer he came to make an appeal to his rich
uncle.

Handsome clothes are apt to seeure outward re-
spect, and one of the salesmen came forward, ob-
sequiously, and asked:

“What can I show you, young gentleman ?”

“Nothing, thank you,” answered Ben, politely. “Is
my uncle in ?’

“Your uncle ?’

“Mr. Walton.”

“Oh, yes; you will find him in his office.”

. “Thank you.”

“Nicholas Waltou looked up as Ben entered his
presence, and did not immediately recognize the
handsomely dressed boy who stood before him. He
concluded that it was one of Clarence’s high-toned
acquaintances.

‘Did you wish to see Clarence?’ he asked, affably.
“T am sorry to say that he has not been in this
morning.’ ;

“TI should like to see him, Uncle Nicholas; but I
also wished to see you.”

“Oh, it's Ben!” said Mr. Walton, in a slightly
changed tone.

“Yes, uncle. I met my cousin at the Windsor
Hotel last evening.”

“He told meso. You are staying there, he says.”

“For a very short time. My cousin was kind enough
to invite me to dinner on Sunday.”

“Yes; we shall be glad to have you dine with us.”

“T am sorry I cannot come. I am to sail for Europe
this afternoon.”

“You sail for Europe!”
amazement.

“Yes, uncle.
ing.”

“Tt is indeed surprising. To what part do you go?”

“T believe we sail for Liverpool in the Parthia.
More than that, I know nothing.”

“You are certainly strangely fortunate,” said the
merchant, musingly. ‘Does this Major Grafton ap-
pear to be wealthy ?”

“T judge that he is.”

“Does he pay you well?”

“He gives me fifty dollars per month.”

“And what do you do ?”

*, am to be his para secretary, but thus farT
have not been called upon to do much. I suppose I
shall have more to do when I get to Europe.”

“He seems eccentric as well as rich. Perhaps he
wae want to adopt you. I advise you to try to please

im.”

“I shal. certainly do that, though I don’t think he
will adopt me.”

“Clarence will be sorry not to have seen you. He
has taken a trip to Long Branch this morning with
Percy Van Dyke.”

“T saw Percy last evening.” : -

“This country nephew of mine gets into fashionable
society remarkably quick,” thought the merchant.
“There must be something in the boy, or he would
not make his way so readily.”

“We are all going to Long Branch next week,” said
Mr. Walton, aloud. “We are to stay at the West
End. If you had remained here you could have tried
to persuade Major Grafton to spend part of the season
at the Branch.” °

“IT shall be satisfied with Europe,” said Ben,
smiling. ;

“You have reason to be satisfied. Clarence will
envy you when he hears that you are going.”

“Tt didn’t look as if he were likely to envy me for
anything when [I met him here the other day,”
thought Ben.

“Please remember me to my cousin,” said Ben,
and shaking his uncle’s extended Land he left the
store.

He was passing through the store when he felt a
touch on his shoulder.

Turning, he recognized the tall lady he had met
just after his last visit.

“Are you not the boy who told me I had a ticket on
my shawl?” she inquired.

“Yes, madam,” replied Ben, smiling.

“I recognize your face, but otherwise you look very
different.”

“You mean I am better dressed.”

“Yes; I thought you a country boy whenI met
you.”

: “So I am, but I am trying to be mistaken fora city
OY.

“I am relieved to meet you, forsome one told me
you got into trouble with the unmannerly boys who
were following me.”

“TI am much obliged to you for your solicitude in
my behalf,” said Ben, not caring to acknowledge the
fact of the arrest.

*T had hoped to be of service to you, but Isee you
don’t appear to need it. I am here buying a suit of:
clothes for a poor boy in whom I am interested. Let
me give you my card, and if you ever need a friend,
come and see me.”

The card bore the name of “Jane Wilmot, 300
Madison avenue.”

Pang thanked Miss Wilmot and left his uncle’s
store. ;

repeated his uncle, in

I knew nothing of it till this morn-

 

_ CHAPTER XIV.
WHAT BEN’S FRIENDS THOUGHT.

“Did you see Philip?” asked Adeiine, eagerly,
when her young brother returned from his visit to

 

the Metropolitan Hotel.

“No,” answered Harry. ‘He was out.”

r «
“Tt’s wonderful how he’s improved,” thought Clar

“As we are to sail at three o’clock this afternoon,

“And you brought back the note, then?” said his
sister, disappointed. ;

“No; the clerk said he would give it to him; so I
left it with him.”

Adeline looked anxious.

“T am afraid his guardian will get hold of it,” she
said, turning to Rose. ’

“Even if he does, there is nothing init that you
need regret writing.”

“Tt would never reach Philip.”

“Probably you are right. In that case we must
make another effort when there seems a good
chance.”

It was decided that Harry shonld call the next day
at his dinner hour, and ascertain whether the note
had been delivered. He did so, but only to learn that
the note had been given to Major Grafton, and that
both he and Philip had left the hotel.

“Do you know where they went,” asked Harry,
eagerly.

“No; the major did not say. He will probably send
bere i letters, and then I can mention that you
called.”

Harry assented, not being able to explain that this
would not answer his PRemore.

When he reported his information at home, Ade-
line said, quickly:

“He left because he does not want us to communi-
cate with Philip.”

“Probably,” said Rose. *‘This shows,” she added,
“that he is afraid Philip would be inclined to do
something for us. I am glad to have my faith
strengthened in the boy,at all events. If he were
willing to live in luxury while he knew we were
struggling with poverty I could not regard him asa
cousin.”

The next morning Mr. Codicil read in the morning
apers, among the passengers who had sailed for
Surope the day before, the names of Major Grafton

and Philip.

“The fellow has lost no time,” he said, to himself.
“The boy is bright and attractive, but he stands a
chance of being spoiled under such a guardian. I
wish I had questioned him, and tried to learn some-
thing of him. I might have given him some idea
of the injustice which has been practiced toward his
poor cousins. I do not care 80 much that he profits
by it as that that worthless uncle of his should live
in luxury at their expense. I am afraid they are
having a hard time.”

How hard a time the sisters were having—how
stern and exacting was the toil which her sister's
eee! imposed upon Rose—Mr. Codicil really
hadlittleidea. If hehad, he would certainly havedone
something to assist them, for he was a kind-hearted
man, but whenever Rose called upon him she was
neatly dressed, and did not bear outward marks of
the poverty with which she had to contend. 2

So far as Nicholas Walton was concerned, he was
glad upon the whole to learn that his nephew had
gone to Europe. He could not see Ben without his
conscience reproaching him with the wrong he had
done him, and was still doing him and his mother by
retaining possession of a sum of wey which would
have given them opulence in exchange for the
poverty which was not removed by the sinall allow-
ance he sent them. , : ie

“Perhaps Major Grafton will adopt the boy,” he
said, to himself, ‘“‘and then he won't need his father’s
money.”

As if this would gloss over or excuse the base
fraud of which he had been guilty. He had know-
ingly and intentionally been the occasion of his
brother-in-law’s sudden death, and was as much his
murderer as if he had plunged a knife into his breast,
though his crime was less brutal and revolting.

While these thoughts were passing through his
mind, Clarence entered the office.

“Clarence, your cousin has been here to see you,”
said Mr. Walton.

“What did he have to say, pa?”

‘He came to bid you good-by.”

“To bid me good-by? What for? Where is he
going?”

“He is to sail for Europe this afternoon.”

“To sail for Europe !” repeated Clarence, in amaze-
ment. ‘‘He didn’t say anything about it last even-
ing.”

“Because he did not know it. He was only told
this morning.” ‘

‘‘He’s a lucky beggar!” said Clarence, enviously.
“T’ve been longing to go to Europe this ever so long.
Percy Van Dyke spent last summer in Switzerlan
It annoys me to hear him talk of the splendid times
he had. Here is my country cousin going, while I
have to stay at home.”

“Don’t worry, Clarence,” said his father, encour-
agingly. “‘You shall gointime. If your friend Percy
should be going again, and will accept you as a com-

 

panion, I will let you go.”
This somewhat cheered up Clarence, though with
the natural impatience of youth he wanted to go at

once.

“T think I never knew a boy as lucky as Ben,”
said he.

“He certainly has been strangely fortunate," said
Mr. Walton. ;

“He would have been glad to take a place in a
store at five dollars a week, and now he’s got some-
thing ever so much better. I believe ‘he has more
Binney than I to spend, and I am sure he dresses

etter.” ;

“He seems to have made an impression upon this
Major Grafton. I shouldn’t be surprised ifpGrafton
adopted him. He has no family of his own, and is, I
imagine, very rich.”

We know that on this last point Mr. Walton was
misinformed. The suggestion, however, was enough
to excite the envre and foes of Clarence.

“Do you think he will be richer than I ?” he asked.

“You will be well provided for, Clarence. You
won't have occasion for envying your cousin, even if
he should be adopted by Major Grafton.”

We have now to change the scene to the little town
of Sunderland, from which our hero had come to
New \ork to seek the good fortune which he so
strangely found.

We direct our steps to a plain cottage, containin
but four rooms and an attic, which stood a little ou
of the center of the village. Small and plain as it
was, it had an air of refinement and good taste, with
its climbing honeysuckles, tiny beds of flowers, its
trimly kept lawn and neat surroundings, which are
seer sought about many more pretentious resi-

ences.

Here dwelt Mrs. Baker and Ben’s little sister, Alice,
but ten years old. She bcre astrong family resem-
blance to Ben, and was equally good-looking.

“Tt seems an age since Ben left home,” said Mrs.
Baker, with a little aa

“T miss him dreadfully, mother,” said Alice. “Why
need he go away ?”

“T ecan't blame him, Alice, ge TI am very sorry
to have him go,” said Mrs. Baker. “He is an-
bitions——”

‘What does that mean?” asked Alice, puzzled.

“Tt means that he is anxious to get on in the
wee make money. It is a natural feeling for
a boy.”

“‘He used to earn money here at home,” said Alice.

“Only a little. No doubt he can do better in New
RS oe if he can get achanee. If his uncle will only

elp him——”

‘ * Should think he might, mother. Ben is a good
oy.”

“There is none better,” assented his mother, fondly,
“but strangers may not know that.”

Just then a neighbor, driving by, paused in the
road, and called out to the widow, whom he saw at
the open window:

“Widder Baker, there’s a letter for you at the post-
office. ’Spect it’s from Ben.”

“Go right over and get it, Alice,” said his mother,
excitedly. oF

Alice wasn’t long in performing her errand. She
came back well rewarded, bringing with her two let-
ters, one of which had arrived the day before.

The first letter contained an account of his cold re-
ception by his uncle, and on the other hand his good
luck in encountering Major Grafton. As an earnest
of his good fortune he inclosed three five-dollar bills.

“God has been very good to us!” said the widow,
with beaming face. “I can hardly believe in Ben's
good fortune.”

‘Open the other letter, mother,” said Alice.

Mrs. Baker did so, and glancing over it rapidly, ut-
tered a quiet exclamation of eto and dismay.

“Alice,” she said, “Ben has sailed for Europe!”

“Gone to Europe, and without bidding us good-by !”

“He did not have any chance,” and Mrs. Baker
read Ben’s letter.

When she came to think it over, she felt that Ben
was, on the whole, fortunate to have so good an op-
portunity of seeing the world; and as to dangers and
risks, God would take care of him abroad as well as
at home. She would have liked to have known the
man who had her boy in charge. Doubtless he must
have taken a fancy to Ben, or he would not have
given him such a chance.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

GAVE HIMSELF AWAY.

Better than “presence of mind” in a railway acci-
dent, says an ancient jest, is ‘absence of body”; but
in a case of compensation after the accident is over,

and you are doing your best to get the most you can
out of the company, presence of mind is all-import-
ant. A curious case of the want of it. and of the un-
happy results that flowed from it, lately occurred in
a Certain law court. The “injured party,” with his
ari in a sling, is under cross-examination by counsel.

“You tell me you cannot lift your arm ?”

“Well, perhaps half an inch—like this; but it gives
me horrible torture; it pains me even to touch it.”

“Poor fellow! just show us how high you find it
possible to lift it.”

With many sighs and groans he lifted it three-quar-
ters of an inch.

“And before the accident there was nothing the
matter with it?’

“Nothing whetever.”

“How high could you lift it then?”

“Oh, a8 high as you please—like this”;. and he
raised his arm over his head. ‘

 

This did please the counsel very much, for it ex-
tinguished “net Ga claim. tr the moment the
poor fellow had lost his presence of mind.

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
    
  
   
 
   
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
  
   
  
 
  
   
  
   
   
   
   
 
    
    
     
 
 
  
 
   
    
      
    
      
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
      
     
    
     
    
  
  
  
  
     
    
   
  
    
   
   
  
  
  
  
     
   
 
    
     
    
  
   
      
   
       
    
   
   
    
  
  
  
   
    
   
   
   
   
   
 
 
 
     
  

 

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—_—

 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 

 
 

 

   
     
 
   
     
   
 
   
 
     
   
      
     
    
 
 
 

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VOL. 44—No, 17,

 

osm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =>

 

HOME AGAIN.

 

BY EMMA NAMUR,

 

The summer night was falling,
The thrush had ceased to sing;
The drowsy quail was calling
Her brood to shelt’ring wing.
The village lights lay flashing,
Around the yew-clad hill, y
The mountain brook came splashing
To turn the old-time mill.

My weary footsteps plodded
The old, familiar lane ;

Each shrub and pine tree nodded
A greeting “Home again.”

A thousand recollections
Came rushing to my mind

Of ch-ldhood’s fond affections
That . had left behind.

I traced them o’er the mountain
And through the shady dell;

I lingered by the fountain
And by the mossy well;

I found them in the wild wood,
And on the river shore,

But oh! those days of childhood.
Were gone forevermore.

> 0 er

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

EDRIE'S LEGAGY:

FROM THE STREET 10 THE STAGE

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.
Author of * Brownie’s Triumph,” “* The Forsaken
Bride,” “‘ Sibyl’s Influence,” ‘*‘ Geoffrey's
Victory,” ‘ Witch Hazel,” etc.

 

 

{ ‘EDRIE’s LEGACY” was commenced in No. 12. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XII.— (CONTINUED.)

“There is no doubt that I was insane for awhile
after being told of the death of my beloved wife,”
Mr. Richards resumed, “but at this time I was as
rational as Iam to-day. I told the physician so, and
demanded to be allowed to leave the institution;
but he curtly refused, saying that he was the best
judge of my condition, and his orders were, to care
for me as long as I needed attention. His orders, I
knew, could have come from no one but Campbell,
and I indignantly questioned his right to exercise
authority over me; and yet I did not, at that time,
suspect the diabolical plot which he had so cunningly
worked out against me.

“Several years passed, during which [kept demand-
ing my liberty, only to be as often refused, while I
was constantly watched and guarded lest I shouid
try to escape. I was allowed to go outin the grounds

with the other patients, but I was always accom-
panied by an attendant, and never had the slightest
opportunity to make my escape.

“Thus fifteen years passed. Think of it, madam—
fifteen years in such a place and in such company !—
when one day something occurred which finally re-
sulted in my escape. I saved the life of an attend-
ant; he would have been murdered in cold blood by
a frenzied patient but for my timely interference,
and then alittle while after he came to me and, out
of the gratitude of his heart, confessed the diabolical
plot which Daniel Campbell had conceived and car-
ried out against me. He said that Campbell had
taken Skale, the proprietor of the institution, into
his confidence, and the latter had agreed to assist
him in carrying it out for a handsome consideration,
over and above what he wasto get for the care of
me yearly as long as I should live. This attendant
was a nephew of Skale’s, and from boyhood he had
been dependent upon him for his living. Es had
never been well treated, and he received nothing for
his laborious and disagreeable services save that
which his uncle chose to give him, and he hated and
feared the man with all his heart. He did not dare
to run away from him, for he had been guilty of
some indiscretion in his youth, which gave his uncle
a hold upon him, and he threatened to imprison him
if he refused to remain with him. How he ever
gathered courage to betray the plot against me is a
wonder; he said he overheard the two men planning
it during my illness, after my relapse. He said that
Daniel Campbell told Skale of my great wealth, that
I had nota relative in the world but my wife, who
was really vee at the point of death at that time.

“Campbell’s plan was to conceal this knowledge
from me, make me think I was going to die, if I
should have a lucid interval—and they did not think
I would ever be well again—and induce me to make
a will, giving all my property unconditionally to my
wife; only Daniel Campbell's name was to be in-
serted in every place where Mrs. Richards’ should
appear. If I should rally—which no one believed I
would do—I was to be retained in the institution as a
permanent patient. Skale was toreeeive ten thou-
sand dollars down and two thousand a year as long
as I lived. All this was successfully carried out.
Another patient died about that time, and my name
was handed in to the authorities instead of his, and
Daniel Campbell buried ‘his dear friend,’ with every
outward appearance of grief and respect, in a fine lot
of one of the city cemeteries, and set up a costly
monument to mark the spot. Madam, I have visited
my own grave and read the epitaph inscribed upon
the marble column to my memory.”

The man paused a moment and wiped the perspira-
tion from his brow; it was a severe tax upon the
nerves to live over this dreadful past,even though he
was now free from the terrible bondage he had so
long suffered.

Mrs. Campbell neither moved nor spoke. She
seemed frozen, congealed, or like some sable-draped
statue carved from purest marble.

“It was a fearful plot,” Mr. Richards went on after
a moment, “and perhaps you can imagine how it
would be likely to affect me. I can scarcely think of
it now without my brain reeling, and I believe if I
could have met Daniel Campbell then I should not
have hesitated to kill him. As it was, I boldly con-
fronted that wretch Skale and charged him with it,
the very next time he paid mea professional visit.
The look of blank amazement and dismay that swept
over his face confirmed my belief in the truth of the
attendant’s confession, even before his reply assured
me of it.

“*¢Are you man or devil,’ he questioned, with pale
and faltering lips, ‘to have conceived such an idea?’

**T am a sane, well, man, Dr. Skale,’ I replied, ‘and
I command you to release me from this den, where
you have kept me these fifteen years.’

**You are not a fit subject to be set at liberty,’ he
replied, recovering himself somewhat; ‘your very
language proves that, and yeu will need even more
eareful attention than you have hitherto received,’
he concluded significantly, and then he turned to
leave me.

“*Where is my wife?’ I demanded. I had begun to
think they had deceived me about her, with all their
other plotting.

“She is dead,’ he told me.

“‘How am Ito know? Doubtless you have told her
that Jam dead. Great Heaven!’ I cried, as a terrible
thought smote me, ‘have you consigned her also to a
living death, that you and your accomplice might
enjoy your ill-gotten toa v

**No; she is dead, I tell you,’ he said, gravely, even
gently, and I was convinced.

“After that, for more than two years, I was kept
in close confinement, until my health began to suffer
serionsly from being denied proper exercise, and
Skale began to be frightened lest he should lose me.
You can readily understand that he would be loth to
part with a patient who brought him two thousand
a year; so he began to nurse me up again, and to
grant me more liberty. Iwas allowed the freedom
of the grounds once more; I had good, nourishing
food, and was also supplied with plenty of reading
matter to employ my wind.

“One day I was walking about the buildings, medi-
tating upon some plan of escape—for I was deter-
mined that I would get away, hunt Daniel Campbell
down, and bring him to justice for his treachery,
when an envelope was blown from a window above
me. I stealthily secured it, and at once recognized
the handwriting. It was Campbell’s, and it was post-
marked ‘Boston, Mass.’

“This circumstance greatly encouraged me; I had
learned where my enemy was located. Let me but

et out of that vile den, and it would not take me
ong to find him. But how should I escape? I was
closely watched, and there sremed not the slightest
chance for me. At last I resolved to take into my
confidence the attendant who had told me of the

lot. Idid so. I told him my whole story, and prom-
ised to give him five thousand dollars if he would
assist me in eluding Skale, telling him also that if I
succeeded, we should have the man soin our power
that we could make any terms we chose with him,
and he need never fear him again.

“The poor fellow eagerly seized upon the hope of re-
leasing himself from the bondage of his unprincipled
uncle, and consented to aid me. He had saved a little
money that was given to him by visitors from time
to time; he said that I should have this, and he

 

 

 

finally succceded in obtaining a duplicate key to one

ot the gates, which would enable me to get out of the
inclosure.

“T improved my first opportunity, you may be very
sure. One evening, just at dusk, I concealed myself
in the midst of a fir tree,as the patients were re-
turning from their exercise, and then, armed with
my key, slipped out of the grounds, made my way
directly to the railway station, boarded the first east-
ward-bound train, and came with all speed directly
to Boston.

“IT met a friend on the way from New York to
Boston, whom I had known in college; he is now an
eminent lawyer in the latter city. I told him my
story.and found that he knew my enemy very well,
and he has thrown his whole heart into the work of
helping me to regain my property, and vowed that
he would leave no stone unturned to bring Daniel
Campbell to justice, although he was greatly sur-
prised to learn that he was such a man.

“T easily discovered that Campbell was one of the
magnates of this vicinity, and that he was reputed to
be worth millions.

“On Christmas night I came out here, just to see
how he was living on the money which he had stolen
from me eighteen years ago. I happened to reach
the house just as a young lady was singing a little
song to please the children, and Iwas so delighted
with it. and attracted by her, that I pressed up to one
of your drawing-room windows and looked in upon
the charming scene, forgetting myself entirely, and
that I was liable to be seen and taken for a disrepu-
table character. Allat once I looked up from the
young lady to find the gaze of Daniel Campbell fixed
full upon my face. He immediately left the house
and began to search for me; but, as once before, I
escaped detection by crawling into the midst of a
fir tree, where I remained until after the lights were
nearly all out, and I thought the household had re-
tired. I was about to creep from my hiding-place,
when [saw some one else coming up the avenue
leading to the house. I shrank back among the
heavy branches, and the man passed so near to me
that [ could have touched him. You can perhaps im-
agine my feelings when I discovered him to be no
other than my former keeper, Skale.

“He made his way directly to the house, stepped
lightly upon the veranda, aud tapped on that very
window yonder. In another minute it was raised,
and he was admitted to this very room.”

 

CHAPTER XIII.
THE BOGUS WILL.

“Tmpossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, looking
both amazed and skeptical.

“Tt is true,” replied Mr. Richards. “I followed him,
and stood outside watching both men, for only the
lace draperies were drawn over the window. They
were in earnest consultation for perhaps half an
hour; of course I was the subject of it; then Mr.
Campbell went to his desk and took out some bills
which he gave to Skale, who immediately took his
ees leaving by the same way that he had en-

ered.

“Mr. Campbell watched him out of sight; then as
he attempted to close the window I stepped from be-
hind a blind and confronted him. You can, perhaps,
imagine his astonishment and dismay. I entered the
room, drawing the shade close, that Skale might not
see me if he should return, and then [told Daniel
Campbell that, at last I had come to demand justice,
and that meant a full confession, in writing, of the
erime he had committed against me, and the restitu-
tion, with interest, of the fortune he had stolen from
me.

“He was so enraged and desperate that he would
have killed me with yonder poker if I had not as-
sured him that my lawyer knew where I was and
what I had come for, and would therefore know
whom tocallto account if [ failed to make my ap-
pearance at his office the next morning. I told him
I would give him until noon of the following day to
do as I required; then he might go free—leave the
country if he chose. If he refused I would not spare
him; a felon’s doom and cell should be his. I thought
when [ left him that he would come to my terms; [
never dreamed that he would try to outwit me by
committing suicide——”

“Suicide! Then you thiuk he took his own life?”
interposed Mrs. Campbell, eagerly.

“Certainly ; I have not a doubt about the matter.”

“But you know that a young girl, whom I have
been educating, and whom Mr, Campbell, for some
reason, disliked, has disappeared in a mysterious
way, andis accused of having poisoned him? The
papers have been full of the story.”

“Yes, I have read the reports, but nothing could
be further from the truth, I feel convinced, and if
that girl be found and arraigned for the crime, [shall
do my utmost te save her, even though I have no
personal interest in her. Iam very sure that Daniel
Cainpbell committed suicide to escape punishment
and exposure, and thus outwit me,” Mr. Richards re-
plied. ‘He was too proud and obstinate,” he con-
tinued, “to yield to my demands and live; he could
never face the disgrace and scandal which an open
trial would have entailed, and to run away to escape
1t, relinquishing all his ill-gotten wealth and being
obliged to toil for a living, was a lot which he could
not contemplate after the luxury of the past eighteen
years. God knows,” he concluded, sadly, “that I did
not wish—that I had not a thought of driving him to
such a deed; but I did intend that he should be wade
to suffer and atone, in a measure, for the crimes he
had committed.”

“Mr. Richards, your story is a very remarkable
one,” Mrs. Campbell observed, after an oppressive
pause, upon the conclusion of his narrative, while
she regarded him earnestly, searchingly, as if to read
his inmost thoughts.

“Do you doubt the truth of it, madam ?”

“It seems almost incredible,” she said, thought-
fully. “I have never known Mr. Campbell todo a
really dishonorable act; he has been regarded as a
man of integrity in business circles; he was always
kind to me and generous with his family.”

“Very likely, madam; whepv a man has an unlim-
ited income it is easy to be honest and generous; but
what I have told you is absolutely true in every par-
ticular, notwithstanding.” .

“Why have you come to me?—why did you not go
to my lawyer?’ Mrs. Campbell asked, regarding him
with some suspicion.

He lifted his head and met her eyes with a steady
yet respectful look.

“T thought perhaps it would seem kinder to you to
make it a strictly confidential matter. I did not
wish to wound you by reveaiing these facts to others,
who might think it: wise to take legal action with
reference to them, without first consulting your
wishes. If, however, you refer me to your lawyer, I
will trouble you no further,” he concluded, with the
utmost politeness.

Mrs. Campbell flushed.

She saw that he had been prompted by delicate
consideration for her, and she was really grateful to
him for it; yet it galled her proud spirit almost
beyond endurance to learn that she had been the
wife of such a deeply dyed villain—to discover that
all these years she had been supported by money
which had been obtained by fraud of the grossest
nature, and she would have been only too glad if
her suspicions could have been proved true—that
this story was all a fabrication to intimidate her
into giving up the large fortune which her husband's
will, made a few years previous, had given unre-
servedly to her.

“How will you prove it to me?” she asked, not
wholly convinced even yet.

Mr. Richards smiled.

“First, I will prove my identity, which I can easily
do, as men with whom I had business relations in
New York, before my imprisonment, wil readily
recognize ine. Second, TI will prove that after my
supposed death Daniel Campbell, by presenting a
bogus will, secured the large fortune bel nging to
me. Then I will bring forward the atterdant who
helped me to escape, and who overheard Mr. Camp-
bell and Skale plotting my ruin, and who was also
one of the witnesses to the bogus will. By the way,”
he added, “I wonder if that document may not be in
existence even now. Allow me to ask if your hus-
band’s papers have been examined ?”’

“No,” Mrs. Campbell replied. ‘““My son and my
lawyer were to attend to that matter this week.”

“It is very likely that he may have destroyed it
before he took that deadly drug, hoping thus to wipe
out all evidence of his crime. If that should be
found, however, you could hardly doubt the truth of
my statenients, even though I could bring forward
no other proof.”

“No, I could not doubt it,’ Mrs. Campbell said,
looking very pale and miserable, but speaking
proudly. ‘And you may rest assured, Mr. Richards,
that from the moment I receive absolute proof of
what you have told me, I shall cease to appropriate
even a single dollar of the wealth which you claim.”
‘ Mr. Richards arose and stood respectfully before

er.

“Believe me, madam,” he said, “I regret, more
than I ean tell you, having been obliged to wound
you in this way; but I feel that the right should
prevail. I am far older than my years, when I should
be just in my prime, for the best of my life has been
rendered worse than useless, and my health is broken
from long confinement. I am absolutely penniless,
and have no means for future support unless my
property is restored to ine. I should be glad to have
this matter settled in a quiet and friendly way, if
possible, and I assure you I have no intention of
being extortionate or unreasonable; but if my claim
is contested, I shall be forced to appeal to the courts
for a settlement.”

Mrs. Campbell now arose also, remarking :

“T will consult with my son at once, and he will
communieate further with you at an early date, if
you will kindly leave me your address.”

She was white to her lips, and it was only by a
nighty effort that she was enabled to maintain her
self-control.

Mr. Richards drew forth a card bearing the name
of his lawyer, and writing his own upon this, he
handed it to her.

“A letter will reach me addressed to my friend’s
office, or I can be found there personally, for the
present, between the hours of nine and four,” he said,
and then courteously bowed himself out.

Who shall describe the struggle that Mrs, Camp-

 

 

bell had with her proud heart when left once more
to herself ?

The tale to which she had just listened seemed too
terrible, too monstrous, to be true, and she was filled
with horror and loathing as she reviewed the crimes
of which her husband had been guilty, to secure the
wealth which she had shared and so lavishly spent dur-
ing the past eighteen years. She thoughtof that poor
man shut into a den of madmen—of his long years
of suffering and despair; of the young wife who had
been deceived and wronged and crushed. Perhaps
she was not dead after all—that may have been a lie
on a par with those others; she might be living, even
now, in poverty and hardship, mourning the loss of
the kind and generous young husband who had been
her all in life.

“Tf she is dead, where did she die, and how?” the
suffering woman asked herself. ‘She could not have
died there in Denver, or he—they would have buried
her beside the man they preteuded was her husband.
It drives me to distraction to think that I have been
appropriating what belonged to her; I have been
living here, amid all this elegance, where she should
have lived; I have worn the clothing, the jewels,
that should have been hers; my children have en-
joyed the advantages and luxuries which should
have been their children’s. Then, to think how he
cheated me,” she continued, pacing excitedly the
length of the room, a crimson spot now burning on
each cheek. ‘I thought him at least an honest man.
I believed he made his money in a legitimate way—
in Western railroad speculations, as he said. He has
always seemed honorable in all business transactions,
as faras I have known. He has been kind to the
poor, he has given liberally to various objects of
charity. I never dreamed that he had stolen this
fortune—cheated a man, at the point of. death, into
signing a bogus will! Itis dreadful! I cannot bear
it! I will never touch another dollar of his money
if this wretched story proves to be true, and I am
afraid that it will. Ob, why did I ever sell myself
for his miserable gold? Better, a thousand times,
have struggled with poverty, to have toiled patiently
and honestly with these hands, which he covered
AE jewels, rather than suffer such degradation as
this.

“And yet,” she went on, with a shiver of dread, as
the other side of the picture presented itself, ‘how
can I give up all these luxuries when they have be-
come almost necessities to me? How can I bear to
see Helena poor and struggling with hardship? How
can I deprive Harold of the many advantages that I
have planned for him? But”—with firmly com-
pressed lips and a glittering eye—‘‘it will have to be.
IT will resolutely turn my back upon my beautiful
home, and upon every other good thing. If Mr. Rich-
ards’ claim proves an honest one, I will never contest
it; [ will not perpetrate a wrong.”

She made herself really ill with anxiety, with re-
morse, and self-accusation, and humiliation.

She had thought the disgrace of being the wife of a |
suicide was almost more than she could endure; but
this terrible fraud in which she had been a sharer,
though an innocent one, was a hundred-fold worse.

She telegraphed for Harold to come to her at once,
and he was with her within a few hours.

He was.amazed at what she told him, and at first
indignantly refused to give any credence whatever
to it. Butas they went over the facts one by one,
they became too self-evident to be doubted, and they
felt sure that the very worst could be proved.

Harold would not confer with their lawyer, though
Mrs. Campbell thought it would be wiser to do so.

“No,” he said, with a stern, white face, “if this
thing is true we will keep it to ourselves; we will as-
sure ourselves of it first, and then we will give up
everything and go away somewhere, where no one
will know us, or suspect the horrible truth. No
further shame shall ever rest upon you, my mother,
than the simple knowledge of it.”

Alone he undertook the task of looking over Mr.
Campbell's papers, seeking forthat bogus will, and
other evidences of his guilt.

It was no light task, for the man’s business trans-
actions in the past had been multifarious. But at
last he found it—the will; it was in an old wallet,
hidden away in the back of one of the pigeon holes
of his safe.

The shock, when he finally unearthed it, and real-
ized that at last he held the evidence of a terrible
crime in his hands, almost unmanned him.

“What a skeleton this must have been to him,
haunting him continually,” he muttered, shuddering
as he looked upon it. ‘and yet, suppose he did not
dare destroy it lest his title to Mr. Richards’ fortune
should some time be contested.”

He read it carefully through and found it correct,
as far as he knew, in every form, and marked the sig-
nature at the bottom.

That was genuine, at all events, for it was the ex-
act counterpart of the writing upon the card which
Mr. Richards had given his mother the day before,
ouly it looked a little tremulous, as if the hand that
had traced it had not been quite strong and steady.

“This is the bitterest blow of all,” he said, through
tightly locked teeth. The disgrace of suicide is
nothing compared with the knowledge that we have
been living upon stolen property during the best
portion of our lives—that I owe my education and
all the pleasure I have enjoyed to it; that my mother

 

sold herself for it—that my sister owes her accom-
plishments to it, and has figured as a belle in society |
upon it. I feel humiliated, dishonored ; and now all |
that remains for.us is poverty and seclusion, Poor

mother! with her culture, her large heart, and her | 10c. Catalogue free. H.J. WEHMAN, 130 Park Row, N.Y.

indomitable pride. Poor Helena! with her beauty,

With life all before her, and all her future prospects | A GENTS WANTED. Permanent Employment. $100

perhaps blighted.

“As for me,’ he continued, gloomily, after a mo
ment of thought, “it does not matter much, for I am |
aman. I can work my own wayin the world, and |
not mindits scorn and hard knocks. How fortunate,” |
with a deep sigh, ‘“‘that I never succeeded in declar-
ing myself to Edrie—dear, dear child! I wonder
where she can be! Atall events this clears her from
all suspicion of having been concerned in any way
with the wicked man’s death.”

He started as this thought occurred to him, for he
realized that all this story, which he was too anxious
to conceal, for the sake of his mother and sister,
would have to come out if Edrie should be arrested
and brought to trial; and yet, how could her inno-
cence be proved without making it public. He knew
that detectives were seeking for her, believing her
guilty; was it not his duty to tell the whole truth,
and thus remove suspicion from her? It was a hard
matter, and between his desire to shield Mrs. Camp-
bell and Helena from ought that would wound their
delicacy and pride, and his love for and desire to ex-
onerate Edrie, he was very wretched.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE SETTLEMENT OF DANIEL CAMPBELL’S ESTATE,

The next morning Harold went directly to the
office of Mr. Richards’ lawyer, taking the bogus will
with him.

He had a long talk with both gentlemen, and he
was fully convinced of the justice of Mr. Richards’
claims, and of the villainy and baseness of the man
to whom he had been indebted for his subsistence
for so many years.

At the conclusion of their conference he remarked,
in a straightforward, manly way:

“My mother has commissioned me to say, in case I
was convinced of the advisability of so doing, that
she is willing to renounce all right and title to the
property of the late Mr. Campbell; indeed, sir, she
would scorn to use another dollar, or to oceupy, for
even a day longer than was absolutely necessary, the
estate which was obtained by such fraudulent means.
We all regret that we have ursurped your rights for
so many years, and we will endeavor to vacate the
premises by the end of another week, if that will
suit you.”

This was said with the utmost courtesy, without
a vestige of anger or malice, but rather with an air
of conviction of what was simply right and just.

Mr. Richards regarded the manly, handsome fellow
adm:ringly, and a wistful look shot into his eyes, as
he replied :

“Mr. Sturtevant, you are a noble young man, and
an honor to your mother, who is also an honor to her
sex, and [ deeply regret having been instrumental in
adding to the trouble which you have already suf-
fered. But I have. rights which I must assert to a
certain extent, and yet I know that I have nofa right
to all the property which. Daniel Campbell left. To
be sure, he made his money on my capital, but he
spent his own time and energy.in increasing it, and
his heirs ought to reap the benefit of his labors.”

“IT do not know just what the man was worth,”
Harold replied, thoughtfully; ‘‘but IT can readily un-
derstand, if he stole more than a million from you,
that that amount, with compound interest—to which
you are justly entitled—added, would make sad in-
roads into a very large fortune.”

Mr. Richards smiled.

“My young friend, if you will allow me to use the
term, we will estimate this prope'ty, and then I
mean to do the square thing with you. I mast have
my own back again, with a fair amount of interest;
but I shail relinquish all claim to what remains, feel-
ing that it belongs to Mrs. Campbell.”

Harold Sturtevant flushed to his temples.

He was very proud, and, for himself, he would have
refused to touch even a penny of Daniel Campbell’s
ill-gotten wealth. At the same time, he could but
acknowledge that what Mr. Richards had said was
fair and honorable, as well as generous, and, for his
mother’s sake, he was grateful to him for being so
considerate when he could easily have made so much
trouble for them all.

Daniel Campbell had spent his time and energies,
and had been successful in increasing the money he
held to more than double the original amount, and
it would seem hard if those who were dependent
upon him could not reap the benefit of some of it.

“IT thank you, sir, for your consideration,” he
courteously replied, ‘and I am at your service when-
ever you choose to begin your investigations.”

He went back to his mother, and told her the result
of his interview.

At first all her pride arose in arms at the thought
of accepting the slightest concession on the part of
Mr. Richards, while she shrank from making use of
money which had been so dishonorably obtained.

 

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coisa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

BE KIND TO YOUR MOTHER,

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Be kind to your mother! Oh! be not ungratful
When age dims her eye, or disease racks her frame ;
No taul in mankind shows more glaring and hateful,
Than that which would lead us her foibles to blame.
She has borne with our follies in life’s early stage,
And should we not, then, bear with hers in her age?

Be kind to your mother! Has she not stood near you
When loathsome disease caused all others to fly ?

To comfort, to solace, to nurse, and to ch er you—
Yes, even if called on, to suffer and die ?

Then in her decline you should never demur,

If you have to labor and suffer for her.

Be kind to your mother! Be duteous and grateful—
The heart’s deepest reverence and love are her due;

And if of these natutal claims you’re neglectful,
Look not for respect from your children to you.

Each untfilial action against you is scored,

And when you grow old, you will reap your reward.

Be kind to your mother; for fast she is failing,

And soon she will sink ’neath the sad weight of years,
And all your regrets will then prove unavailing—

Your actions can not be erased by your tears.
Then guard well your passions, be patient and mild—
’Tis the least that a mother expects from her child.

DIARY OF A GOUNTRY SCHOOLMA’AM.

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Author of “The Diary of A Minister’s Wife,” etc.

(“Tuk DIARY OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA’AM” was begun
in No. 138. All News Agents supply the back numbers. }

Tuesday, May 31st.—I am an inmate of the house of
Mr. Jackson, a mechanic, who lives near the school-
house. I came here yesterday noon. Have been
boarding for a few days past with a pleasant, quiet
family, who have no distinguishing traits of charac-
ter deserving of a mention in my diary. But my
present hostess I find a character—a regular gossip,
too.

WhenTI came from school yesterday at noen, I found
Mrs. Jackson leaning over the garden fence, talking
with a neighbor. She wore a tattered dress, that bore
marks of the wash-tub, a kerchief tied over her head,
sleeves rolled above her elbows, while slip-shod shoes
revealed black hose footed with white, and enormous
holes in the heels. A few garments fluttered on the
fence, where she had placed them to dry, and a basket
full of wet clothes stood near her, into which a small
dog had juinped, and was busy shaking out the
clothes.

“Do tell!” I heard her exclaim, in answer to seme
communication of the other. ‘‘Well, Inever! Who
would have thought it? I don’t know what the world
is coming to! Of course I won't mentionit. I de
elare,if thefe ain’t the schoolma’am, and dinner not
ready, for I forgot to put over the potatoes. Betsey,
take Miss Burton right into the square room, and
then pick up sone chips to make the fire burn. Fido,
you good-for-nothing, get out of this!’ And dis-
lodging the dog, she strung the clothes on the fence.

Hastily entering the kitchen, she threw things
hastily about; but it was two o’cloek before I could
eat my dinner and get back to open school. Mrs. J.
did not have much of an opportunity during dinner
to converse, but when I came home this afternoon, I
found her sitting down with her knitting work, aclean
calico dress and checked apron making her quite
respectable.

As soon as I had laid aside my things and seated
myself in a low rocking-chair, she began to question
me in regard to my home, parents, friends, ete., then
commenced a regular string of gossip.

“Why, they do say young Remington comes to the
school-house a-courting! Who’d have thought it?
And they say his ma is dreadful mad about it, too.”

I began an angry disclaimer, but she only laughed,
and went on:

“Folks say you hold your head pretty high. That’s
right, my dear; I like to see a body think well of
themselves; if they don’t, people won’t be likely to
think a great deal of them either. They say you be-
witched the committee and got the school in spite of
Deacon Green’s daughter, who [ hear is put out at
you. They say you whipped the deacon’s gal, Han-
nah, awfully; and when her father came to see you
about it, you was saucy and told him to mind his
business. Of course J don’t believe any such thing,
but folks will talk, you know, if they say anything.”

“Well, if reports are all true,’ she went on, “the
deacon had better be looking out a little at home.
They say his daughter Lucinda has been seen walk-
ing with a man in the grove at ten o’clock at night!
Now don’t mention it. JZ don’t like to talk about folks,
but such things look droll, and he a stranger, too.
Some one thought maybe it was her cousin Tom who
is going South, but’tain’t likely; and if it was, cousins
ain’t no better than other folks!”

For a few moments her needles clicked vigorously
-and she remained silent, but soon commenced afresh:

“They do say Mrs. Haven uses her little step-
daughter dreadrully, and that pert little minx, Rose,
is set up over her. I don’t like to talk about my
neighbors, but I should think Miss Haven would be
afraid Lilly’s mother would appear to her! Why, they
say she shut her up down cellar the other day, and
she whips her cruelly. I declare there goes Doctor
Warren; he’s bound for Nileses’ again. That woman
is always complaining, driving her family half dis-
tracted; she sends for the doctor if her great toe
aches. A pretty bill her husband will have to pay,
and he a poor man.. I guess my Sam would blow me
sky-high if [employed a doctor so much! Well-a-
day, some folks can always get waited upon, but I
never was so fortunate. ’

The clock striking five, she rolled up her knitting
work, and went out to get tea, leaving me to my own
thoughts for a season.

After the dishes were washed, in the evening, she
threw a shawl over her head and went out to one of
the neighbors. She was gone more than two hours.
The children grew cross and sleepy, and one by one
stole away to bed, except the youngest, who, not
being able to undress himself, lay down and sobbed
himself to sleep on the floor.

Mr. Jackson brought in wood for the next day’s
fire and piled it up neatly in the coruer, then split
the kindlings, milked the cow, strained the milk, and
washed the pail, as if used to it. Then he picked up
Jimmy, the little fellow on the floor, and undressed
him, in spite of his kicking and screaming; taking
him in his arms he rocked back and forth in a kitchen
chair, singing a rude nursery ditty, till the lids closed
once more over the tearful eyes, and the child had
forgotten his sorrows in sleep.

Depositing him in his little bed, the father seate’
himself on the threshold of the door and began to
whistle desperately.

It was half-past nine when I saw a figure hurrying
through the gate. .

“Only think,” she exclaimed, as she gained the
door, out of breath with the haste she had made,
*“Mrs. Downs says Doctor Warren ecalls to see Kesiah
Burke twice a week!”

‘Well, what of it? He has a right to call where he
pleases, I suppose.”

“But to think on it!—his wife hain’t been dead
more’n a year, and then she’s old enough to be his
mother! It’s shameful, I say.”

And Mrs. J. looked for a match to light a candle,
for we had been in the dark all the evening.

“You and Mrs. Downs appear to be the only ones
troubled about it. I’ve heard no complaint before
in regard to his calls. Every one else seems to think
he is at liberty to do as he pleas: s.”

“Sam Jackson, did you know of this before ?” asked

 

 

his wife, suddenly confronting him with her lighted

candle.

“To be sure I did. The shop-hands have discussed
it for a fortnight.”

“And you never fold me! Butit’s just like you! I
never should know what is going on if it wasn’t for
the neighbors to enlighten me. My own husband
knew of this scandalous report without mentioning
it to me!”

“ Because it’s nothing that concerns us, wife, But,
come—I’m sleepy, and I guess Miss Burton is tired of
sitting there in the dark.” '

Mrs. Jackson came in and showed me into a small
bedroom opening out of the parlor—or, as she calls
it, the “square rovin.” It was very comfortable, and
I rested well.

This morning and noon my hostess was too busy to
say much, but this afternoon, when I came home
fromm school, she was very social, and told me of the
shortcomings of the whole neighborhood.

“Just think what they say about Mr. Heath! Why,
he actually steals his sermons! His wife is dreadful
quick-tempered; he has a great trial with her. I can
hardly believe it, but Mrs. Downs says Mrs, Ran-
dolph told her that Miss Grimes said her Patty was
visiting Mr. Heath’s girl, Sally, and she said Mrs.
Heath boxed the parson’s ears one day, then made
believe she was all in fun!”

“They do say,” she rattled on, ‘‘that Squire Burke’s
affairs is dreadfully tangled up; folks think he’ll be-
come bankrupt before long; and all ou account of his
wife’s extravagance! And what do you think I
heard to-day, ny dear? Why, they say Miss Kesiah
has a dreadful heart disease that is going to kill her!
I guess it is indeed heart disease! Why, she’s thrown
herself at every unmarried man she’s met these
thirty years! She even tried my Sam before I mar-
ried him! True, every word of it! But don’t men-
tion it, for the world. I don’t make a practice of
telling of my neighbors’s faults—bless you, no! But
sometimes one can’t help speaking.”

I was glad when domestic duties called. her away.
I begin to dread her tongue, for I presume I shall fur-
nish a topic of conversation with cronies next.

Saturday, June 4th.—When I came from school this
noon, I found Mrs. Jackson stepping briskly about.
I was sure she had heard some nice bit of scandal,
for her lips were pursed up, and her eyes twinkled,
and she bore herself like a woman who has an im-
portant secret on her mind. IT had not long to wait
to hear it; for as soon as her dinner duties were over
she sent the children out into the yard, donned a
clean dress, and came into the front room.

“Oh, such a dreadful thing as I have heard to-day!
There is a family by the name of Waters. lately
moved into the place—they send some children to

| school, don’t they ?”

“One little boy, and a fine little fellow he is, too.”
“Well, only think! Mrs. Churchill has had some

| friends from down East visiting herand they kuew

the family well. They say the young man was ar-
rested for stealing, and put into jail. To be sure, it
wasn’t proved against him; but everybody thought
it ought to have been; and then the disgrace of hay-
ing been sent to jail! I’m so shocked! I feel dread-
ful sorry for them, of course, but it’s shameful for
them to come here under false colors, pretending to
be respectable folks, and all that! They’ve a girl,
Linda, who has associated with the young people
about, and appeared dreadful nice; and young Sikes
has been paying attention to her. I don’t want to
hurt the girl, of course; but ’m going over to tell
Mrs. Sikes about it. It would be dreadful to have
so fine a young man as Henry taken in by such a
girl—the sister of a thief ?”

“But, Mrs. Jackson, you said yourself if was not
proved against him. Innocent people are often
re y, acensed, and he ought not to suffer when not
guilty.

“You don’t understand the matter at all. Tain’t
likely he’d have been arrested if he hadn’t deserved
it. However, I’m going to do my duty inthe mat-
ter, and put Mrs. Sikes on her guard! It would be
such a horrible thing for Henry to throw himself
away ona girl whose family are not respectable!”
And fired with a virtuous indignation against the
transgressor, she rolled up her knitting work, put on
her sun-bonnet, and left the house.

During the afternoon I saw her orange-colored
dress flit in and out of half a dozen houses, and knew
she was industriously circulating the report. She
came in just before tea-time with a self-satisfied air,
and has actually spent the evening at home, giving
ves Ae ie their baths and preparing for the Sab-

ath.

By (TO BE CONTINUED.)
a

Pleasant Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Good Place to Swear Off.

Bliffers—“ How did you come to stop smoking ?”’

Whiffers—“‘Got stuck for six weeks in a small vil-
lage where there was only one cigar store.”

White Caps Expected.

First. Citizen—“‘Hayve you any White Caps in your
neighborhood ?” « ‘

Second Citizen—“Not yet, but I expect we will
have. The superintendent of our idiot asylum. re-
ported last week that there wasn’t room for any
more.”

Love’s Young Dream.

Little Girl (at school) —“‘What did the teacher send
you here for ?” 3

Little Boy—‘‘She said I was bad, and must come
over and sit with the girls.”

“T like you. Can you stay long?’

“Guess not. I wasn’t very bad.”

“Well, you be badder next time.”’

Progressive Pronunciation.

Mr. Culture—‘Do you like Rider Haggard ?

Miss Finemind—‘“Yes, indeed. I love Reeder Ha-
gard. Some of his descriptions are as grand as a
scene from a Wagner opera.”

Mr. Culture—‘‘Ah! They are superior to Vogner.”

Theory and Practice.

Mistress—“‘Mercy on me, what a kitchen! Every
pot, pan, and dish is dirty, the table looks like a junk
shop, and—why it will take you a week to get things
cleaned up! What have you been doing ?’

Servant—‘‘Sure, mum, the young leddies has just
been down here showing me how they roast a potato
at the cooking school.”

Repeating Orders.

Patron (at church fair festival)—‘“‘Oyster stew,
please.”

Waitress (to cook)—“‘Oysters, two ”

Feminine Nature.

Adult Son—‘‘Mother, does a girl mean to encourage
or discourage a man when she——”

Mother—‘‘My son, there is no need of goinginto de-
tails. When a girl starts out to either encourage or
discourage a man, the man never has any doubt
about what she means.”

Go West.

Mother—“Now that you have become a chiropodist,
where are you going to settle?’

Ambitious Youth — ‘I think, mother, I'll go to
Nebraska. All the papers say that is a great corn
State.”

Accidents Will Happen.

Miss. Gushington—“I admit, Arthur, that this is
not the first time I have been engaged, but I’m sure
your noble, generous heart——”

Little Brother—‘‘Sis, the baby’s got your bag of
engagement-rings.”

A Generous Landlord.

Tenant—That chandelier in the parlor is so shaky
I’m afraid some time, when the children are romping
under it, the whole thing will fall.”

Landlord—“Well, that chandelier ain’t worth more
than its price for old brass anyhow. It don’t matter
whether it gets broken or not.”

Knew Herself.

Stranger (at the door)—“I am trying to find a lady
whose married name I have forgétten, but I know
she lives in this neighborhood. She is a woman
easily described, and perhaps you know her—a sin-
gularly beautiful creature, with pink and white com-
plexion, sea-shell ears, lovely eyes, and hair such as
a goddess might envy.”

Servant—“Really, sir, I don’t know——”

Voice (from head of stairs)—‘Jane, tell the gentle-
man I’ll be down in a minute.”

Plenty of Notice.

Mrs. Winks—“‘The paper says a cold wave has de-
veloped in Montana, and is expected here within a
week.”

Mr. Winks—‘‘Well, send word to the plumber that
our pipes have burst, and then he and the cold wave
will get here about the same time.”’

Traveling Outfits.

Trunk Dealer—“I see. Want something for a six
months’ tour abroad. Well, madam, in the adjoining
building I have a trunk which I’m sure you will like.
Can’t get itin the store-room; double door is too

narrow. I thought of remodeling it and using it for
a sea-shore cottage, but if it will suit you I will let
you have it cheap.”

Dame—‘‘I’m not the one who is going abroad; it’s
my husband.”

“Oh! George, show the lady one of those vest-
pocket hand-satchels.”

Hard to Please.

St. Peter—“You were a very, very good little boy
on earth, and now you enter to your reward.”

Boy Spirit—‘‘Can I have a tin horn and a drum and
a horse fiddle ?”’

“Oh, no, but you can have a harp and a crown.”

“T wish I’d been bad.”

Perfectly Safe.

Wife (petulantly)—‘Such a lump of selfishness!
The house was full of strange noises last night, and I
didn’t dare close my eyes once; and there you were
sleeping like alog. Burglars might have carried us
both off and you wouldn’t have known it.”

Husband (wearily)—‘tDon’t fret, dear. If they ever
carry you off they’ll bring you back.”

Bred in the Bone.

Myr. Hayseed—‘Yes, mum, all I’ve been telling you
about my dog is true. He kin huntin every sort o’
way, mind children, chew up tramps, keep off crows,
tend sheep, go to the post-office—or du anything you
tell him to.” *

City Dame—‘‘How wonderful! What breedis he?’

“No particular breed.”

“No particular breed? Why, what do you keep
him for then ?”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

MODERN RAILROADING.—Old Wayback Wayback
(from Wayback township)—“‘Gee whack! things is
scrumptious, aint tfiey? What fur is that ’ar axe in
th’ furrard part o’ th’ kyar?”’

Young Wakeup Wayback (from the city)—“That is
to help kill the passengers in case of accidents, so as
to bring the damages down to $5,000.—Life.

A Live Topic.—Sensational Preacher—‘There is
no use talking, I must start another live topic, in
order to keep some of our fickle pewholders from go-
ing to Snorter’s church.”

Wife—‘What topic do you think of starting this
time ?”

“Well, the wickedness of the daily press would be
a good subject. All the big papers will report my
sermons, and I shall be famous in a month.”—N. Y.
Tribune.

STraGeE KissinG.—She (at the end of the fourth act)
- “I don’t like that play. It’s too gushing. There is
altogether teo much kissing in it.”

He—It isn’t real kissing. They don’t do that in
plays. It’s only an imitation—it’s stage kissing.”

She (later in the evening)—‘‘Don’t you think,
George, that a stage kiss must be—don’t George !—
es y—quit, George ! — unsatisfactory ?’—Chicago
Tribune. —”

INFORMATION.—Hir grandmother was so sick that
the report got out that she was dead. A sympathetic
old gentleman met the child on the street,

“And wheris your grandmother to be buried, my
dear ?”’ he asked her.

“Not till she’s dead, sir.”—San Francisco Chronicle.

IN THE Musitc-Room SuNDAY.—Mamma (at the
piano) —‘‘Now, Georgie, what shall we sing? Some-
thing for Sunday, you know ?”

Georgie (after thought)—‘Let’s sing, ‘Shall We Go
in Swimming? ”

Mainma—Why, Georgie, there’s no such hymn as
that.”

Gertie—“I guess, mamma, he means, ‘Shall We
Gather at the River?’ "—Life.

SHE HAD THE BESsT OF IT.—Magistrate (to pyeeeer)
—‘Do you get drunk often, Mrs. O’Toolihan ?”’
Prisoner—‘‘No, sorr, | was niver drunk in me life,
but I drinks like a fish.”
Magistrate—“Then you must be often drunk.”
Prisoner—‘“‘Arrah, sorr, did yez ever see a fish
drunk?”’—W. Y, Sun.

LOOKING AHEAD.—“You must be very fond of me,”
she muriuured, as she leaned her golden head againat
his tricot vest,

“What makes you think so?” he asked, in tones of
tenderness.

“Because you have only known me a week, and yet
my little brother says that he has seen you hanging
around our house every day since we became ac-
quainted. Such ardor, I am afraid, will not last.”

“Shall I tell you why [ have been hanging around
your house during the day ?” he asked, as he pressed
the tiny hand which nestled so lovingly and so con-
tidently in his own.

“Tell me.” ;

“Tam trying to get acquainted with the dog.”—
Boston Courier. ~

THE latest novelty in decanters is a musical affair
which plays ‘‘Comin’ Thro’ the Rye,” ‘‘When the
Corn is Waving,” and ‘The Wind That Shakes the
Barley.” Very appropriate; but to the list of tunes
should be added ‘‘Hard Times,” “Dear Father, Come
Home,” and “We Won't Go Home Till Morning.”—
Norristown Herald.

WE have received the following complaint: “In
the poem which I sent you, the proof-reader made me
say ‘hungering regret,” whereas I wrote ‘lingering
regret.’”’ That’s allright. The proof-reader under-
stands that a poet is a good deal more apt te hunger
than he is to linger.— hicago Times.

A NEw YORK man recently paid $25 for an almanac
275 years old. It was a foolish waste of money. He
might have got into a nigger minstrel entertainment
for half a dollar, and some of the jokes would ante-
date his expensive almanac two or three hundred
years.— Boston Transcript.

GOLD-HANDLED umbrellas are coming into fashion.
The handle is so arranged that it can be taken off.
This is an improvement on the old style, where the
entire umbrella was taken off.—Exchange.

DECEIVED.

What, married! My Lillian married!
Great heavens, it cannot be so!

And yet here it is in the paper,
And happened a fortnight ago.

A wife; why, ’twas only in August,
That leaving her down by the sea,

She swore by the round moon above us,
She would ever be faithful to me.

And now she is wed to another,
if I my poor eyes can believe ;

Oh, false! oh, most faithless of women!
So cruelly me to deceive!

Of course I meant nothing—was only
Killing time—but I swear ’tis a shame
To think that that innocent maiden
Was all the while doing the same!
—The Cartoon.

WISE MAN.—It is now firmly believed that the mur-
derer Tascott is clerking in some store that doesn’t
advertise. Itis asafe refuge.—N. Y. Herald.

His SACRIFICE. —‘“Do you think there is any
danger?’ asked a sweet-faced girl on the ferry-boat
the other day, of a gentleman, as the boat was about
to start.

“Oh, no,” he gallantly replied, as he took a seat be-
side her.

“But the boat may be crushed by the ice!” she
gasped, as she nestled closer.

“Tf itis, I will sacrifice my life to save you.”

Twenty minutes later he was hunting up and down
Woodward-ave. with a policeman, looking for sweet-
face. His watch was gone.—Detroit Free Press.

FLIMSEY.—“I don’t know how itis, but the small-
est of men get the best wives.”

Mrs. F. (archly)—‘‘Oh, you flatterer.” —Exchange.

>e~<

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.
FASHION’S FANCIES.

Velvet and tulle are used in combination for dressy
evening toilets.

New sleeves are considerably shorter than those which
have been worn recently.

The Empire redingote, now so popular, is simply the
polonaise of other days.

Bright blue, after being out of fashion for some time,
bids fair to again become popular.

The waists of children’s dresses are now cut natural
length, and only look short by reason of the wide sashes
that are worn with them.

A low coil in small plaits, or high puffs in Empire style,
are the fashions most in vogue for dressing the hair, the
latter style being preferred for full dress.

A simple yet charming ball-dress for a debutante is
made of white lace net, embroidered all over with small
pearl beads, with no other decoration save tufts of small
white feathers. ‘

‘Violets are now the rage, a tiny bouquet of them being

worn in hats of all colors, while they are the only popular
flower for corsage bouquets for street dresses.

Two velvets of contrasting colors are now often com-

 

bined in the same costume.

.
Skirts, as a rule, have long effects, being wider than

formerly, and finished with an invisible foot plaiting.

Full sleeves are worn more than those of coat design,
and when full to the elbow, the joining to the lower part
is hidden by a band of galloon.

The most popular wrappers are of princess or Watteau
shape, with either coat or mutton-leg sleeves, and loose or
half-fitted fronts.

The newest mode of fastening dresses is the use of
hooks and eyes, few buttons being used, and all semblance
pe Ac closing being disguised or hidden as near as pos-
sible.

Small boys are nicely dressed in cloth or velvet kilts,
and short, round jackets, showing a loose white serge or
cashmere blouse beneath, while broad cuffs and collar of
heavy lace are donned, and the jacket fronts are finished
with trefoils or double loops of silk cord.

Dresses of cream-white India cloth, embroidered with
gold, are made up in picturesque Grecian fashion, and show
the perfection of art in the classic grace of each simple
curve and fold.

“Empire embroideries” are now shown for next sum-

mer’s white dresses, and are very elaborate, consisting of
a combination of open guipure designs with the most del-
icate nainsook patterns.
_ Popular coats for little girls are made of dull green cloth
in accordion plaits, and are trimmed with white Persian
lambskin, while a plaited shoulder cape to match always
accompanies this style of cloak. 4

Guimpes are worn beneath low-necked evening cor-
sages for semi-dress occasions, and give a dainty finish to
the costume, while they are generally of gold-figured or
beaded tulle, or embroidered silk muslin, and are gathered
around =e neck on a narrow ribbon, and have full sleeves
to match.

Effie Van T.—Pretty tea-gowns are made with the back
in princess breadths and the front cut off at the waist-
line, with a full gathered vest of the same cashmere held
by a wide sash of moire ribbon, which is tied at the left
side, and hangs in ends nearly to the foot. The front of
the skirt is tucked in lengthwise clusters as far down as
the knees, and falls thence in a deep tlounce, across which
four or five rows of inch- wide moire ribbon are run near the
foot, while the revers at the top of the jacket fronts are
short, the standing collar is of folds fastened on the left
side by a bow of the ribbon, and the sleeves are full, in
mutton-leg shape, with ribbon around the deep cuffs.

Nellie S., Boston, Mass.—White dresses are very fash-
ionable for opera and ball toilets, and are worn alike by
elderly and young women, white striped gauze, white
tulle, white China crape embroidered, and white ben-
galine wrought with silver making beautiful gowns,
which are now accompanied by white ures quite as
often as by those of light tan shades. Pink costumes are
also popular, and are made of bengaline, trimmed with
black lace, and completed by a pink ostrich-feather boa,
while bright red or old-rose colored tulle dresses also
make very handsome and effective evening toilets.

Dollie.—ist. You can have very pretty and graceful
parlor curtains at asmall expense by buying a sufficient
quantity of Swiss muslin and afew yards of heavy silk
cord. In measuring your windows, remember that the
curtains should fall to the floor, and also allow a little for
looping back, and for the fold at the top. 2d. For lambre-
quins, you reid use ladies’ cloth, opera flannel, or any
woolen material that hangs gracefully. 3d: Poles are far
more popular than cornices, and much cheaper, though
the latter are again coming in fashion.

Mrs. Grace W.—Cloaks for infants in long clothes have
coat or shirt sleeves, and square or vandyked smocking,
back and front, with a lining of quilted satin or surah,
and either with or without a cape, as you wish. Cream
cashmere is the material preferred, though occasionally
one of pale tan or light blue is seen, while ribbons on the
sleeves and to tie in front form the necessary trimming,
and some mothers embroider the lower edge.

Nellie, Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. You should never fasten
your napkin around the neck, but lay it across your
knees, convenient to the hand, and lift one corner only
to wipe the mouth. 2d. At the close of a jionable meal
no one folds his or her napkin, while at a social tea or
eae each guest follews the hostess’ example in this
respect.

May Parkes.—In devlining an invitation to a party, the
usual form is as follows: ‘Miss Parkes presents her com-
pliments to Mrs. Seem and regrets that circum.
Stances will prevent the acceptance of her kind invita-
tion for Friday evening.”

Edrie, Philadelphia, Pa.—The price for one number of
the “Domestic Fashion Monthly” is fifteen cents, and the
subscription price is $1.50 a year, including one dollar’s
worth of patterns.

UP A TREE.

While my partner and I were looking up the gold
and silver question in Montana, we camped for some
time on Big Timber Creek, which heads up in the
Crazy Mountains. We did not find much mineral, but
it was a fine p'ace to camp. One day we had sepa-
rated, and I was resting on a rock waiting for Hank
to turn up. At length, thinking that I heard him
coming, I looked up and saw as fine an old bear and
two cubs as a man would wish to see in a day’s ride.
Indeed, I would gladly have ridden nine days rather
than see them at all. They are a noble-looking brute
iu a cage; or after being thoroughly killed, they look
very well. If I was going to keep one alive I would
have his photograph taken and kill him. I never
owned a bear, consequently these could be no prop-
erty of mine. © :

Not wishing to engage in the culture of bears, I im-
mediately started about my business. The line of
business I was following at that time led me directly,
and rather quickly, toward a scrub cedar that I

thought was too-small for a bear toclimb. I am
not built for either running or climbing, but on
this occasion [ did some lively work. Taking my
seat in the top row, I looked for the bears. They were
there all right. I removed my hat, and stated my
case as follows:

“Madam, I address you as the head of the house.
You no doub. have a husband—at least I should infer
such was the case. Andif no accident has befallen
him, he probably would mourn your early demise.
Think of your two children turned out on the cold
world to hunt their own bugs and-~berries. I am
naturally a peaceful man, but if aroused Iam a fiend
in disguise. I fain would have you pass by on the
other side. Either side will do, but please pass by.
My rifle is loaded to the hilt with projectiles of
molten lead, and at the pressure of my cali fore-
finger death will be in your midst. It grieves my
heart to have todo youor yours an injury. Night
draws on apace, and out beyond the green foliage of
yonder cedars, on the banks of a streamlet that
quenches your noonday thirst, is a lonely cabin occu-
pied by a companion who, in the event of my being
the party who should come out second best in my-
dispute with you, will camp on your track for ages,
ere than to permit you to escape death by his

and.

“Gentle madam, if by any chance you should suc-
ceed in killing me, you could not partake of ms, as I
smoke plug tobacco in a clay pipe. Time flies anon.
It would be better if you had a millstone placed upon
your caudal apendage than for me to touch this fatal
trigger. Now I will give youa short respite, and if
you are as wise a a serpent you will hie away.”

The reason I made this apace address was
that I had been repeatedly told by old hunters that
bears, as a whole, understood the English language.
My speech had no as effect on the bears, ex-
cept to make them a trifle sleepy.

I related this part of my experience to an old
hunter who. was trying to fill me with bearology. He
wanted to knew what time in the day the lecture
took place. I told him in the forenoon.

“That’s it!” says he; “that’s it! They took it for
the morning sermon and were waiting for the evening
services.”

But to resume the narative of my experience with
the bear. I had only one cartridge and how I was to
kill three bears with it I did not know. I finally gave
the old one a shot, more in the hopes of attracting
Hank’s attention than with the expectation of killing
her. She made a rush for the tree, but it was so
small she could not get up. She tried to make the
cubs climb, but they seemed afraid of me. She
cuffed and thrashed them, butit was no go. It was
getting dark when I saw Hank coming up through
the cedars. I perceived that he had his gun, so I said
nothing. Whenhe came outinto the opening the old
bear uttered a yell and started for him. I heard him
say “Fire and furies!”’" ;

Bang went the gun, over rolled the bear, but in an
instant she was up and advancing upon him. I saw
him drop the gun and strike for my tree.

You should see that man climb a tree! I would
give one hundred dollars if I could go up one equal
to him. When he saw me, he made a start down
again. He took me for one of the tribe.

“Where is your gun ?” said I.

“What's the reason you did not tell me there were
bears here ?” he exclaimed.

“T was afraid you would go away and leave me if I
told you.”

“That's likely! You wanted me treed so I could
not laugh at you.”

“Got any cartridge?” said I.

“You bet! Give me your gun and I wil! fix them
yet.”

It was so dark by this time that it was hard to
make out just the locality of the bear. Hank said he
could see her, but whether he did or not will always
remain a mystery; for at the erack of the gun the
limb broke and down we went.

We goton our feet about the same time, and started
for camp. Hank took the lead, with me a close
second. It was down hill and a fairly good track.
He never looked back, and I had no time to do the

 

looking for us both.

SS

He reached the cabin about twenty feet ahead, and
shut the door behind him, while I scrambled up the
corner and lay down on the roof.

After lying quiet for some time and not seeing any
bear, I began scratching around the chimney and
knocked some dirt down. I heard Hank run from the
door to the fire-place. About the time he looked up,
I threw my coat over the chimney. He shot four
times at it with his revolver before I got it away.

“How do you like it, my wooly friend?’ he glee-
fully asked. ‘*Why don’t you come down some more,
my dear beloved? Your loving Henry awaits your
arrival with anxious solicitude—you long-haired,
short-tailed hogshead of soap grease !”

I slipped down off the roof, and asked to come in.

“Ts supper ready ?” I asked. ~

“Nary supper. Where you been ?”’

“Hunting bear, and I am awfully hungry.”

He looked at me for a moment, and said:

“Tf [was sure you had been playing bear on me, I
would empty the balance of these cartridges into
you.’

“Please de not spoil my vest by shooting it full of
holes, as you did me coat; and remember that I saved
you from the clutches of a she-bear.”

“Saved nobody!”

“Henry, my friend, if I could run as fast and climb
as well as you, I would enter myself in the foot-race
and to climb the greased pole on the fourth of July.”

“Tf you would enter yourself for an idiot, you
would take first money anywhere,” was his ungrate-
ful reply.

Items of Interest,

The career of Miss Marie Howe, the young Ver-
mont vocalist, is in some respects like that of Edrie
Brown, the heroine of Mrs. Georgie Sheldon’s story, now
running in the NEW YORK WEEKLY. While still in her
teens, Miss Howe left her home in Bratuleboro, and took
up her abode in the German capital, where she studied
with such success that her first concert there elicited
from Director Engel, of the Berlin Opera-House, this
comment: “At the age of nineteen she shows more signs
of being a second Patti than any woman in the world.”
Miss Howe’s devoted admirer, preceptor, and manager is
her brother Lucien. When he took his sister to Berlin to
study, it was hard work to get even enough money for the
trip over, and once there the brother taught music and
worked in every possible way to secure his’ sister’s ad-
vancement.” After her tremendous success in Berlin, the
Howes returned at once to Vermont. The girl lived
quietly in her country home for a morth, and then the
brother took her on a concert tour. He gave eight con-
certs, and netted nearly as many thousand dollars. First
he paid off every penny that he had borrowed with the
utmost ¢are, and then, without losing a moment, he took
his sister to Paris. She has been inundated with offers,
but she refers everything to her far-seeing and shrewd
Yankee manager. Thus far none of the managers have
been able to get near the coming singer.

For some months the large number of squaws
coming from British Columbia to the United States has
been thought strange, and recently a Federal official took
a party of them to jail. Investigation proved that the
creatures were not squaws at all, but able-bodied China-
men, who had disguised themselves so as to resemble the
typical Indian squaw of the frontier, and thus smuggled
themselves into the United States. In one instance two

| young and rather comely Chinese women came across in

the garb of American women, but closely vailed, and
were en route to San Francisco.

A remarkable trick of the imagination was re-
cently experienced by Mrs. Jacob Greenup, of Bonne
Terre, Mo. She thought she heard her eldest son, @ man
of twenty-seven, singing a favorite song in his bedrvom,
although fully aware that he must be at work in a saw-
mill. Being somewhat nervous, she started out to see
him. As she stepped through thedront door, men were
carrying the lifeless remains of the son into the yard.
He had been killed by the bursting of a saw.

An English lady declares that a mustard-plaster on
the elbow will cure neuralgia in the face, and that one on
the back of the neck will cure neuralgia in the head; and
the reason given for this is that the mustard is said to
touch the nerves directly it begins to bite; while, if put
on a part where no nerve exists, itisof no use. The
writer states that she has cured hundreds by this simple
remedy.

Electricity is employed in India to prevent snakes
from entering dwellings. Before all the:doors and around -
the house two wires are laid, isolated from one another
ani connected with an induction apparatus. When the
snake attempts to enter the house or go under it he coim-
pletes the circuit as he crawls over. the two wires, and if
the shock he gets doesn’t kill him it is likely to effectually
frighten him away from the premises. :

The driver of a bob-tailed street car, in Hartford,
had his attention directed to a lusty three-year-old child
in his vehicle, who was loudly crying for its ‘‘mamma!”
He learned, after some inquiries among the passengers,
that the lady had stepped out a few streets below, utterly
oblivious that the child was with her. She thoaght of it
afew moments after, and came up, half distracted, on the
next car to claim her lost one.

A Buffalo suitor was paralyzed on discovering
how uniquely a belle of that city put an end to his atten-
tions. He proposed for her hand while they were eoming
from church, and she accepted him, but added that
she would not marry him till he gained the consent of
her father. The young man learned the next day that the
young lady’s father died several years ago.

While dressing for a wedding, a lady of Atlanta
broke off one of her front teeth, close to the root. She
stuck it on with wax, went to the wedding, and from the
church to the reception, and forgot all about her broken
tooth until she took a swallow of hot coffee, when, as the
tooth went down with the coffee, she remembered the ac-
cident.

For twenty-seven years Col. Gibbs, of San Antonio,
Texas, carried in the bone of his knee a bullet which
lodged there in 1862, when he was at the war. A slight

road platform, caused the colonel such intense pain that a
physician was summoned, and he successfully removed
the bullet the other day. “

Eight Territories are impatiently awaiting recog-
nition as States of the Union, with populations, in 1885, as
follows: Dakota, 415,610; Utah, 170,000; New Mexico, 135,-
000; Washington, 129,438; Montana, 100,000; Idaho, 75,000:
Arizona, 70,000; Wyoming, 65,000. It is very likely that at
least five of these Territories will become States in time
to vote at the Presidential election of 1892.

A scientific fact has been demonstrated in piping
natural gas. It has been shown that when pipes of one
size have been used, about eight ponnds per mile of the
pressure is lost; but by using the telescope system,
smaller pipes at the well and gradually increasing the
size toward the point of consumption, the loss of pressure
is reduced to three pounds per mile.

There is a waggish dog in Orlando, Florida. He
delights in fooling darkeys by dropping a piece of money
in front of them, and then, when a darkey stoops to lift it,
the dog pounces upon him as if to bite, frightens the
darkey, and then coolly tramps off with the coin, to play
the trick on some other fellow.

Cats are objects of such great affection in Egypt
that their death causes deep sorrow. Some ladies used to
go into mourning for their feline pets; and their mourn-
ing took a queer turn. The bereaved ladies shaved off
their eyebrows.

Nellie Bradley, aged nine, the daughter of Joseph
Bradley, of Albany, while playing with a toy balloon with
a whistle attached, permitted the balloon to slip down her
throat, and it lodged in the larynx. The balloon became
inflated by the child’s breathing, and caused her death.

Dr. Schultz, a Vienna physician, advises his fellow
citizens to drink their beer out of stone mugs, and not out
of glasses. He asserts that the rays of light, passing
through glass, have a deteriorating effect upon the bever-
age.

Sarah Bernhardt is willing to have her son enjoy
himself, as far as money can purchase enjeyment; she
therefore allows him $1,200 per week to squander in the
pursuit of pleasure,

A Minneapolis paper wisely hints that as Dakota is
an infant old enough to talk, she ought to be permitted to
name herself.

Swans, it is said, have an instructive forewarning
of floods. Before heavy rains they raise their nests, to
avoid damage from swamping. ;

Celluloid has reeently been experimented with asa
substitute for copper in sheathing vessels, and it is said
to answer the purpose well.

Duluth, Minn., erected 782 new buildings last year,
ata cost of $2,802,600. 5

 

 

 

 

 

injury to the wounded part, by knocking against a rail- -

 

 

PONIES. ye apg eee EMI gentile CMe es

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