Story of Great Power and Deep Interest, “FORCED APART,”

by Lieut. Murray

, Week After Next.

 

 

 

 

Vol. 44.

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

Rose St.

Entered According to Act of Congress, un the Year 1889. oy Street & Simith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

Eniered at the Post Office,

Three Dollars Per

Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

New York, April 27, 1889.

 

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RAKE WAS ENDEAVORING TO PRESS A KISS ON SUZANNE’S UNWILLING LIPS, WHEN HE WAS SEIZED BY A STRONG HAND AND DASHED TO THE GROUND.

 

A Titled Counterteiter;

THE AMERICAN DETECTIVE IN FRANCE.

By NICK CARTER,

Author of * THE CRIME OF A COUNTESS.”

CHAPTER I.
A COOL STRANGER.

There may be loyelier woods than those belonging
to the Chateau of Rouville, though that is doubtful;
but, of a certainty, there could not be found a fairer
maiden than was walking in those same woods one
bright summer afternoon.

It was evident enough that she was not there on
pleasure, for her rounded cheek bore traces of tears,
and in her liquid brown eyes there was a look of dis-
tress.

She walked rapidly, and seemed constantly on the
watch for some one, asif she had come there by ap-
pointment.

Presently she stopped and waited under a spread-
ing walnut tree, with an air at once of repugnance
and expectation.

A few seconds later a young man, approaching
from the opposite direction, stood before her, and
exclaimed, gayly :

“Ah, Suzanne, you have come then ?”

**Yes, Monsieur the Count.”

He was as handsome as she was beautiful, but in
every other respect the two were in decided contrast
to each other.

She was sad and he was gay.

She was attired as a well-to-do farmer’s daughter,
in a velvet bodice and short skirt, below which
showed two daintily shod little feet.

He was the elegant aristocrat fresh from Paris,
wearing his fine clothes as easily aud carelessly as
only a man can wear them who is well dressed all
the time.

His face was flushed with pleasure at the sight of
the girl, while she only kept her eyes cast sorrow-
fully down.

‘‘Monsieur the Count!” he repeated after her. “And
why such formality, my pretty Suzaune? It used to
be plain Victor.”

Suzanne still looked at the ground with sorrowful,
downcast eyes, and said, in a low voice:

“That was when we were playmates.”

‘And because we are no longer playmates can we
no longer be friends?”

“You know it is not that.”

“Mon Dieu! Andis it possible that gentle little
Suzanne can refuse to forgive an old friend because

when he was a little gay with wine he tried to make
love to her ?”

‘There was something almost queenly in Suzanne’s
air as she raised her head and looked the young man
fullin the face with her great brown eyes.

“When you came home here six months ago, I
greeted you as a sister would greet a brother. But
you had learned at Paris not to respect women, and
you—you insulted me.”

 

|

“T was wrong, Suzanne, and I would not have done
it if I had not been drinking.”

“You had not been drinking so much that you for-
got how to threaten Fernand because he interfered
to save me from you.”

‘And now that poor Fernand is in prison.”

A close observer could not have failed to notice
that there was a vindictive gleam in the young
count’s eye as he said this in a seemingly compas-
sionate tone.

“Yes, he is in prison, and I have come to you be-
cause in your letter you said you could help him.”

‘IT wonder,” said the count, with a vailed sneer,
“that you had the courage to come to such a lonely
place alone.”

Suzanne turned a little pale, butanswered, proudly :

“TI am not afraid; I can take care of myself.”

The count laughed, and exclaimed :

“That is more like the Suzanne of the old days.
You are not like yourself, so sad and sorrowful.
Why, I have been living on the hope of hearing again
your merry laugh.”

“Would you expect me to laugh with Fernand in
prison on such a charge?”

“Why did the foolish fellow go into such a danger-
ous business ?”

“He did not. You know as well as I that Fernand
would not do a dishonest action to save his life.”

“They tell me the proof is strong against him.”

“TI care nothing for that. I know he is innocent.”

“But your conviction will not save him from going
to the galleys for life.”

“Alas, no!’

And in eo of her efforts at self-control the tears
streamed down Suzanne’s cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Suzanne, dear,” said the young noble-
man, advancing and putting his arm around her
waist before she was aware of what he was going to
do. “I will do what I ean to save Fernand.”

Suzanne endeavored to release herself, but the
count held her firmly, saying, in the most coaxing
tone:

“Now, don’t be foolish, little Suzanne.
make a bargain.
saved if——”

“For shame, Monsieur the Count! For shame! Re-
lease me ?”’ cried Suzanne.

“Not until you have given me the kiss Fernand
robbed ine off the last time.”

And the young rake drew the struggling Suzanne
closer to him, and was endeavoring to press a kiss on
her unwilling lips, when he was caught by a strong
hand and whirled away till he spun like a teetotum,
and finally fell prostrate on the ground.

He at once sprang furiously to his feet, and looked
to see who had dared to treat him so.

A young man witha pink and white boyish face
stood between him and Suzanne, a quiet smile play-
ing on his beardless lip.

With an oath the count sprang at him.

“Better keep off. Monsieur the Count, or TI shall be
obliged to hurt you,” said the stranger, gently,

But the count was in no mood to heed such coun-
sel, and only rushed at the young man the more
fiercely.

1 Let us
I will promise to have Fernand

 

 

 

Suzanne shrank back, fully expecting her soft-
voiced protector to be punished for his kindness to
her.

But the fates had ruled otherwise.

With as much nonchalance as if he were eating his
dinner, he waited for the count to get within arm’s
length of him, and then, with a scientific blow be-
tween the eyes, knocked him down.

“Oh, come away, come away!” cried Suzanne, in
alarm.

“There is no hurry whatever, mademoiselle,” an-
swered the stranger, quietly. ‘‘He will not disturb
us aby more.”

“But he could have you arrested as a trespasser, if
no more.”

‘And is your only fear for me ?
fear for yourself ?”’

“Oh, I have nothing to fear.”

‘Perhaps, then,” said the stranger, with an almost
imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, “I was unwise
to interfere.”’

“Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed, with a blush. “I
thank you most heartily. I only meant that he would
not dare to publicly injure me, for that would expose
him to the scorn and contempt of everybody. But
you are a stranger.”

“Ay!” said the count, who had recovered conscious:
ness in time to hear the last words; ‘‘and you shall

Why do you not

suffer for this!”

“Very well.” answered the smiling stranger; “and

in the meantime you had better take yourself off, my
little count.”

The count did take himself off without any further
words, and Suzanne renewéd her efforts to induce the
stranger to leave the woods of Rouville.

“Since you wish it, I will go,” he said at last.
you stay here ?”

‘“‘Ah, monsieur, do not blame me or think ill of me,
but I must stay here.”

The young man looked at her in a kindly way, and
said with earnest courtesy, that was the more im-
pressive from the change from his usual boyish
gayety of manner:

“Do you stay because you have any hope of obtain-
ing hefy from the count?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“But can you not see that your lover’s—— Fernand
is your lover, I suppose ?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“That your lover’s misfortune is his opportunity ?”’

‘But, monsieur *

“TIsitnot even possible that the count may have
had a hand in putting Fernand where he is ?”’

“Oh, no, monsieur, that is impossible.”

“Why ?”

**Because Fernand was arrested on a charge of try-
nee pass counterfeit money.”

“So!”

“Do

 

 

ened, than to have you suing for him to such a one as
the Count de Rouville.”

“And so he would, for he is as suspicious as you.”

“And you, poor little woman—child I ought rather
say—you would trust your own pure heart to judge
of such a scoundrel as this count certainly is. ave
you no distrust of him at all?’

‘*Alas, yes, monsieur! But what would you have?
He can help Fernand if he will. And as for me, I am
not so helpless as I seem. See! This will tell how
much I trust him.”

She drew a tiny dagger from her bosom, and with
a@ despairing gesture showed it to the stranger.

He looked at her admiringly for a moment, and
then asked : q

“Do you go to the count, then, knowing that he
may insult you, but braving that chance in the hope
that he may help you ?”

‘Yes, monsieur.”

‘How do you know he can help you?”

‘“Heis a nobleman, and rich.”

“And do you suppose he can help you because of
those things? Not any more than if he were poor.”

‘What do you say? Are you sure?’

“Perfectly sure.”

Suzanne looked at him
ments, and then, as if reading in his face that he knew

of what he spoke, raised her beautiful eyes tearfully |

to heaven, as if her last hope were gone, and said,
mournfully:

“Then let us go. Let us go quickly, for he will
surely return, and he will have assistance.”

The stranger smiled at the thought of the count re-
turning with assistance, but nevertheless walked by
Suzanne’s side through the woods,

For some time they walked along in silence, Suz-
anne absorbed in her grief, and the stranger seem-
ingly absorbed in Suzanne.

Presently he spoke to her.

“Why do you think Fernand is not guilty?”

*T know he would not do a dishonest action.”

“That is a good enough reason for you, but hardly
for me, for I know how far a woman’s love will carry
her.”

“Ah, monsieur, if you did but know him, you would
believe him innocent too.”

She spoke with pleading eagerness, as if she were
afraid she would lose a friend for her lover.

And, indeed, for some unexplained reason, she
en to feel that this boyish stranger could help

er.

He gave her such a feeling of reserved strength
and knowledge, that, though he was an entire
stranger to her, she had begun to lean upon him.

He seemed aware of the sentiment he had excited
in her, for he said, gravely, and with the singular im-

| pressiveness that he so easily assumed :

“Tf I interest myself in this matter, and go see him,

And the young stranger pursed up his lips, and | will you both tell me everything you know about it ?”

whistled softly. ,
“But he is innocent, monsieur,” Suzanne hastened

to say.

“May I ask why you think the count will help

you, even in the face of what has just happened ?”’

“‘He wrote me that he would. See, here is his let-
ter. I would not have you think ill of me.”

The stranger took the letter and read it.
short, and ran as follows:

“DEAR SUZANNE: I have just returned to the chat-

It was

eau, and have only this moment learned of Fer-

nand’s trouble. Meet me under the old walnut, where
we played as children, and I will tell you how I

can help you.”

“And you believe,” asked the stranger, “that he
will help you? Can he help you ?”

“TI do not know if he will, but he can. And I would
humble myself to induce him.”

“Poor Suzanne! And do you not see the price you
will have to pay for his help?’

“T do not think he is as bad as he seems. I have

known him from childhood, and he is generous and
kind-hearted.
that he has acted so.’’

Itis only since he has been in Paris

“How like a woman!” The stranger shook his
head. ‘You will cling to a man whom you have once

trusted as if he could never betray your trust.”

“But what can I do, monsieur? All Fernand’s
friends have turned their backs on him since his mis-

fortune.”

“If Fernand is what he ought to be, he would

rather go to the galleys for life, as the count threat-

 

“Everything.” Eagerly.

“Then do you tellme now what you know, andI
will see him this evening.”

‘Alas, visitors are not allowed to see him now.”

“T can manage it somehow,” he said, with his quiet
smile.

She looked at him wonderingly, and then through
her despair hope crept out, and it was on her lips to
ask him who he was.

But she refrained, and only regarded him eagerly,
as if begging him to interest himself in Fernand.

He seemed to understand her thoughts, for he said,
smilingly:

“It doesn’t matter now who TI am. I will hear what
you have to say and then I will see Fernand and hear
what he has to say. IfI find he is innocent—and I
shall have no difficulty in finding out—I promise you
he shall be proven so.”

“Oh, monsieur, how good you are!”’

“But these are only words. I haven’t done
thing yet to prove that I can make them good.”

“But I know—my heart tells me that you can do all
that vou say.”

any-

 

CHAPTER II.
SUZANNE TELLS HER STORY.

“You say that Fernand was arrested for trying to

pass counterfeit money ?”’
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I only know that he had left the works—he is

steadily for several m0- |

| book-keesier at the iron works—on Saturday night,
with his week’s pay in his pocket.”

“Yes,”

“He stopped at the store in the village to buy some
things for his mother—he lives with her—and when
he offered the money in payment the storekeeper said
it was counterfeit.”

‘‘And what was done then ?”

“Fernand looked at the money himself, and saw
that it really was counterfeit. He putit back in his
pocket and took out a good bili and gave it te the
man,”

“And then?”

“Then he started for home, intending to look up the
way in which he had happened to take in such a bill,
for you see he handles most of the money at the
works.”

SIP)"

“Ah, monsieur, do not judge him yet.”

She saw that the stranger was impressed by thé
peculiar facilities her lover had for piacing counter-
feif money. ;

“F will not judge him until I have talked with him,
| Go on.”

“He had not gone far toward home when he was
overtaken by an agent of the government, who had
been sent here to look into the reason for so much
| counterfeit money coming from this section.”

“How had he heard so quickly that Fernand had
tried to pass some of the money ?”’

“He had been waiting in the store, expecting some
one to come there to spend some of it.”

‘Had Fernand been suspected, do you know ?”

“T think not, for the man only asked to see the bill.
Fernand took out his pocket-book and the agent took
it from him to select the bad bill himself.”

“H’m!” exclaimed the stranger.

Suzanne looked at him, but could not make out the
; Meaning of the exclamation, se went on:

*As soon as he had looked into the pocket-book he
tound a number of bad bills, and, what was worse fer
Fernand, more morey than his pay came to.”

“Fernand could not explain where the money came
from ?’

“No,”

*SE’' mt’?

“And then they searched him and found a great
mauy more bad bills sewed into the lining of his
coat.”

“That was a bad circumstance.”

“Some enemy must have done it.”

“Why do you say that? Had he so many bitter
enemies 2?’

“He had none that I know of before this.
alas! he has no friends but his mother and me.”

“Why should they all desert him now if they were
his friends before ?”’

“Because so many of the workmen had received
counterfeit money in their pay.”

‘*‘Why should he be held responsible for that?”

“Because he puts up ail the money in little envel-
opes, to be given to the men.”

“And the suspicion was, then, that he had been ex-
changing good money for bad?”

‘Yes, monsieur,”

‘‘Was any good money found in his house?”

“No, monsieur.”’

“H'm! Tell me, to change the subject for a mo-
ment, what was the trouble between you and the
Count de Rouville on that former oceasion of which
I heard you speak ?”’

Suzanne looked at the stranger as if she could not
comprehend why he should ask such a question at
this time, but her confidence in him was such that
she did not hesitate to answer him.

“The count, Fernand and I had been playmates
since childhood. The count was then poorer than I,
or even Fernand, for though there was the chateau
and all these noble grounds, they were mortgaged,
and had been in his grandfather’s time, so that it
took all the estate would bring in to pay the in-
terest.”

“And it is different now ?”’

“Oh, yes. The mortgage is paid off, and has been
these two years.”

‘‘Where did the money for it come from ?’

“Left to the count by some distant relative, I be-
ieve.”

“It must have been a large legacy.”

“Yes, for the count spends a great deal.

 

Now,

 

|
}
;
i

Besides

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

utting this place in such good order as you see, he

as a private steam-yacht.”

“Am!”

Suzanne looked quickly and wonderingly at the
stranger, but his face was a perfect blank, and she
went on:

“When the count was eighteen and I fourteen he

yas sent to Paris by some relative to be educated
Two years later he returned, very much changed, for
he was become very fashionable and gay, but still he
was in the main our old playmate. He then pro-
fessed to be in love with me; but when I told him
that I had given my affections to Fernald, he said no
more.” ;

“How long ago was that?’

“Two years.”

“So that he is now twenty-two?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well?”

“Six months ago he returned again, and this time
he was no longer the same.” '

“How was he different?” asked the stranger, show-
ing a singular interest in the life of the young aristo-
crat.

“Well, he was rieh now, and one could see that he
looked down on his former associates. But that was
not all. He was fast, and often drank too much.
And stories from Paris followed him which I cannot
repeat. And he was changed to me. He did not
look down on meas he did on Fernand, but he was
no longer afraid of me. He tried to kiss me several
times, and when I upbraided him he only laughed.”

Suzanne stopped and flushed with the recollection
of what was yet to be told.

The stranger, seeing it, said gently :

“Do not tell me if it troubles you.”

She looked up proudly and answered:

“T am not ashamed to tell, though I never told it
before, and nobody but Fernand and Victor know
of it.”

“You may regret telling a stranger.”

“No. I can trust you. And, besides, something
tells me that you are not asking me questions for
nothing.”

*“Go on, then.”

“T tried to avoid him without hurting his feelings,
but he did everything in his power to make occasions
to see me. One day he announced that he was going
back to Paris, and he did actually go on the cars.
That afterneon the housekeeper at the chateau.came
to mé and told me she had a lovely little Angora cat
for me at the chateau.” g

“Was she a creature of the young count?”

“No; and she was innocent of what followed. I
went to the chateau at onee, for I had always hada
desire for such a cat. She had told me where I would
find the cat, and as I knew the chateau as ! know my
own house, I went up to the room she had told me.”

“She was not there at the time?’

“No. She had some duties to perform, and I had
not waited for her. I went into the room, as [ have
told you, and no sooner was [in it than I heard the
door closed and locked after me. I turned quickly,
and there stood the count, laughing, and declaring I
should never go out of the room until Thad been
compromised by every body knowing I had been
there alone with him, or until I promised to love
him.”’

“The scoundrel!” ;

“The purpose of his trick I know not, but, luckily,
Fernand had by an accident learned where I had
gone, and he had also seen the count returning to the
chateau after pretending to go to Paris; so he had
hurried after me, and came in time to hear my
screams, and to break in the door and knock Victor
down. That is all.” :

“The base villain!” exclaimed the stranger, in a
tone of absolute loathing.

“He tried to excuse himself on the plea of being
intoxicated.”

“And probably was never more sober. But never
mind him now. Let us separate, or we will be seen
by the villagers, and I would rather they did not
know that you and I are acquainted.” :

“You will see Fernand ?” :

“This very night.”

CHAPTER III.
WAT VISITS FERNAND.

“Well, said the stranger to himself, as he walked
away from the beautiful Suzanne, ‘“‘here’s a nice thing
for me to do. To start out for a vacation, and the
very first thing to play knight-errant to a pretty face.
Well, I might do worse; and I can take my vacation
any time, while it doesn’t occur every day that I can
help a distressed damsel.”

He went straightway to the local telegraph office,
and wrote and sent the following telegram :

TO THE CHIEF OF POLICE, PARIs.—I’d like an au-
thorization to see Fernand Grandin, in prison here
on charge of passing counterfeit money. Personal
matter. WaT DENTON.”

Then Wat—for it was indeed the famous American
detective—walked about the little village, and, with-
out seeming the least interested in the matter, soon
had collected all the floating information there was
in the place.

Not that he expected to hear the true version of
the affair, but that he wished to gain some knowledge
of the man Fernand, as he was known to his friends
and neighbors.

The one thing he found most noticeable was that,
in spite of Fernand’s previous good record, there was
a universal feeling that he was guilty.

No one even suggested the possibility that there
might be some mistake.

And yet, to the moment of his arrest, he had been
a favorite in the village.

After spending some three hours in this way, Wat
returned to the telegraph office, and there found a
telegram which had just come for him.

It was in answer to his, and was such as to make
him frown impatiently.

“An official authorization will follow this at once.
Do meafavor. Look into this case, and take it up.
A reward of-fifty thousand franes has been offered for
the apprehension of the counterfeiters who have
flooded the whole of France with the ‘queer.’
will take it up I shall consider it a special favor, and
will reciprocate to the utmost of my power whenever
ITean. Lam personally interested, as I will explain
to you when I see you.”

“Now I have put my foot in it!’ said Wat to him-
self. “I can’t refuse, and yet I have no heart in such
acase. Well,” he sighed, *‘I’ll make it work in the
interest of Suzanne anyhow; that will give it an
interest.”

He went to the window again, and asked if another
telegram had come for him yet.

*One on the wires now, monsieur.”

Wat waited forit, and when it came, found it to be
the expected authorization.

He returned to his inn, and ordering a horse and
map erer, sat down to the latter as soon as it was
ready.

Then he mounted the waiting horse, and set out for
the neighboring town, not far distant.

When he reached the town, he rode at once to the
prison, and inquired for the sovernor.

That official had evidently been prepared for the
visit, for he did not keep Wat waiting long.

Wat handed him the telegraphic authorization,
and the governor extended his hand, saying:

“T am proud to meet so famous a detective. The
chief telegraphed me to afford you every facility,
and I hope you will call upon me for any assistance
you may need.”

“Thank you; I will not fail to do so.”

“That is,” sxid the governor, with a smile, “if you
need any aid. I have heard that you are equal to
any emergency alone.”

“That is sheer flattery. governor. I never hesitate
to accept any aid I can get. I have but one end in
view when [ take a case, and that is success,”

“But it was the chief himself who told me that he
considered you equal to any dozen men, and that you
always did work alone.”

“The chief has too good an opinion of me. IfI
work alone, it is only because I have learned to
trust myself more than I can trust anybody else.
Nevertheless, I am always glad of any help, and I
shall not hesitate to call upon you if you give me
permission.’’ A

“Tam at your service.
prisoner ?”

“Tf you please.”

The governor led the way to the cell, taking up a
lamp as he passed through the centrel guard-room,
and saying, as he opened the cell door:

“A visitor for you, Fernand Grandin.”

He ushered Wat in, put the lamp on the little table,
and left the visitor alone with the prisoner.

Fernand had been lying on his cot, but had risen
at the opening of the door.

Wat looked at him with a scrutiny that seemed to
penetrate to his very heart.

Fernand, believing that he was to be interrogated
on behalf of the government, bore the study silently.

“Well, Fernand,” said Wat at last, “I have come ‘to
hear what you have to say in regard to the accusa-
tion against you.”

“What more can I say than I have already said ten
times over ?” ;

“T am Hot stipposed to know what you have said.
Repeat it for my benefit.”

“T am inzocent.”

“That is a thing so easily said that it does not
amount to much in face of the unpleasant facts
against you.”

“} know that; but what else can I say?’

“You can at least say what you know. You say
you are innocent. How, then, does it happen that
you were found with bad money on your person,
under such suspicious circumstances?” _

“T cannot explain that, monsieur, I wish I could.”

“But you must suspect something if you are, as
you say, innocent. If you did not put the money
where it was found, somebody else must have.”

“That is true.”’ aa

“And have you no suspicion of that somebody ?”’

Fernand looked at him steadily for a few moments,
and then said, firmly: ‘

“T am an innocent man, monsieur; but even an
innocent man may not safely confide in everybody.
Tell me who you are, and why you ask me what you

Shall we go now to see the

If you |

 

you what I suspect and what. — know, or to keep my
own counsel for a fitter time.”

Fernand was not as handsome as the count, but he
was infinitely nobler lookmg, and there was to Wat
something extremely pleasing in his sad, but manly
way of expressing himself.

He answered him at onee.

“You ask me who I am, and why I ask
tions.
chief of police.
opie ine to mcg the real culprits, in case you
should prove to be, as you say, innocent.

Fernand reflected a few Wyautes. and then said,
deprecatingl

ese ques-

so powerful as you, but I think I am wiser not to

speak of my suspicions to any but my counsel, when_

such shall be allowed me.”

“Very well said, indeed; but do you not realize
that you are injuring yourself by displaying such
shrewdness? How much better it would be to be

perfectly open and frank with me.” |. k

“Ajas! monsieur, I see the force of what you say,
and yet to speak of my suspicions might only put me
in @ Worse plight.” . :

“T don’t see how that can be.”

“My suspicions are so wild and improbable.”

“H’m. [saw Suzanne Martel to-day.”’

“You did?’ eried the prisoner, eagerly.

“Yes. She had gone to meet the Count de Rouville,
under the big walnut in his woods.”

“What?” gasped Fernand, turning ghastly white.

“Tt seems he had written her a note, and she had
gone there alone to meet him.”

Fernand pressed his hands to his forehead, and
stared at Wat in agonized silence,

“fF happened to witness the meeting,” went on
Wat. “I was there quite by accident, of course.”

Wat said this in a manner to give Fernand the im-
pression that he had been at the place of meeting by
intention, instead of accident, as he declared.

“Why do you tell me this?” broke out Fernand.

“Tthought you might like to know something about
your sweetheart, and, perhaps, about your old friend,
too. He is said to feel very badly that you have
fallen to this.”

“Has he said so? Has he dared to pretend that
he—— But what does it matter?”

Fernand had.,begun in a tone of indignation and
contempt, but, as if seeing a trap in what Wat had
said, suddenly checked himself and stopped.

Wat laughed, and then changing his tone to one of
friendliness, said;

“Come, Fernand, trust me. You may as well, for
you have little to tell me that I do not know.”

“YT believe you, monsieur, and yet I had better
keep my own counsel. So many strange things have
happened to me of late that I believe silence to be
my only safety.”

“Do you not wonder that Suzanne should be willing
to meet Victor alone, after what happened at the
chateau last winter ?”’

SNS started in surprise, and then exclaimed,
sadly:

“Ah, monsieur, do not torture me. I know that
Suzanne would do nothing that could be construed
into a wrong act; and yet, when I am left here alone
with my thoughts, I shall think of what you have
said and wonder what dangers surround my poor
girl; and surely it cannot benefit the government to
make me suffer so.” ; : ;

“No, Fernand; and now I will be frank with you.
Ihave merely been testing you. I was inclined to
believe you innocent before I came here. I have
been studying you through your conduct and an-
swers, and I do not hesitate to say to you that I
believe you innocent,” i

“You do not say that to put me off my guard?” _

Wat laughed good-humoredly.

“Were you always so suspicious ?””

“Alas! no. I never suspected a human being be-
fore this thing happened to me.” ;

“Poor Fernand! Well, you must stop suspecting

me and tell me all that has happened to you, for I
| have promised Suzanne to help you.” ‘ 5

‘Promised Suzanne ?”’

. “Yes, As I told you, I happened, truly by accident,
to be near the walnut tree when she met Victor; and
when he tried to steal a kiss from her pretty lips, I
had the pleasure of knocking him down.”

“But why did she consent to meet him ?”’

“She thought he could help you, as he promised in
his letter.” ae

“But even so, she should have remembered last
winter.” es

“She had a dagger in her bosom. However. I told
her he could do nothing for you, and she will take
no more such risks.”

“Besides,” said Fernand, as if following up a
thought that was in his mind, ‘‘she does not know as
well as I what perfidy he is capable of.” ;

“And what perfidy is he capable of ?”’

Fernand started, and seemed to regret that he had
been betrayed into such a remark.

“You are not prepared to trust me yet?” said Wat.

. “T want to, but do not dare.”’

There was so much sincerity in his voice that Wat
studied the matter for several minutes before speak-
ing again. At last he said:

“Perhaps you think Iam not powerful enough to
really help you.”

Fernand did not answer, but his expression was a
betrayal of his thought.

Wat took out the telegram of the chief and handed
it to Fernand.

“Read that,” he said.

Fernand read it, and then said:

“Tt is plain from this that you are famous.”

“Ts it not also plain that Iam sutticiently powerful
to help you?”

“T do not know, monsieur,’” answered Fernand,
sadly. ‘But, at least, I will tell you what I suspect,
men er will be able to judge of its value better
han [.”

“That is right. No matter how wild your sus-
picions may seem to you, tell me them all.”

“To begin, then, the Count de Rouville——”

“A word with you, monsieur.”

It was the governor of the prison who spoke.

Wat stepped out into the corridor, and the governor,
taking the lamp, followed him, shutting and locking
the door as he did so.

Wat waited expectantly, and the governor, haying
finished locking the door, said:

“TY am sorry to cut short your interview, but I
have just received a telegram from the chief to that
effect.”

“What?’

“And here is a telegram for you.”

Wat hastily tore open the envelope and read the
telegram.

“Do nothing in the counterfeiting case. Have
nothing to say to the man Fernand Grandin. This is
imperative.”

Surprised and even indignant, Wat nevertheless
turned to the governor and said, with a smile:

“The chief is a good friend. By his prompt action
he has saved me a great deal.”

The governor looked surprised, and said:

“Oh, you understand it, then ?”’

“Certainly. Doesn’t your telegram explain ?”’

“No, it only says—but look at it yourself.”

This was precisely what Wat wanted to do.
took the telegram and read it.

He

“Immediately on receipt of this, stop communica-
tion between Fernand Grandin and the detective
Denton. Imperative.”’

“Tt is a signal between us,” said Wat, outwardly
smiling but inwardly saying, ‘‘I scent a mystery here,
my good chief, but if I have to fight against the
whole force of France I will solve it, and see that
pretty Suzanne and her lover get their rights.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

For Her Father's Honor:
A LAMB AMONG WOLVES.

By HARRIET SHERBURNE,

Author of ‘‘Willful Winnie,”’ ‘‘Love and Honor,”
etc., etc.

(“For HER FATHER’S HONOR” was commenced in No.
22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIII.
GENERAL ROYALLIEU’S TROUBLE.

After Philip so abruptly quitted his presence, on
the morning subsequent to Lena’s departure from
San Antonio, General Royallieu in vain sought to in-
terest himself in his newspapers.

Between him and the heavy political articles the
startled countenance of his youngest son kept

coming, and when he endeavored to forget it, by |.

turning to columns on the subject of the day, he
found the effort unavailing, till he, at last, threw

down the journals, and cried:

“Editors seem to be getting more stupid every day.
T actually can’t find anything in those papers worth
reading.”

But though he censured the literary fraternity, the
general knew the fault was with his own anxious
heart, and as he rose to pace the floor, he muttered :

“That boy looked utterly wretched. I wonder if
the girl can have refused him? He has not spoken
about her for several weeks. Let me see. He said

do, and I will then choose my éourse.’ Either to tell

I am a detective in the confidence of the |
I ask these questions in order to

write si

VOL, 44—No. 26.

 

Mr. Ramon had gone away, and would soon tell me
the secret of his early life. Since then [ have heard
nothing about any of them. I wonder what made
Phil look like that?”

While he thus soliloquized, the general stationed
himself at the window, and stared out in the street.
He had no intention of watching for Philip, and, in
fact, did not know his son had left the house, but,
as if seeking the solution of the mystery from the
passers-by, he muttered ;

“Why have both my boys chosen to give their love
to girls IT could not acceptin my family, hepense each
had a stained lineage ' Foor alter has been alie-
nated from mé,on account of Gwendolin Throck-

yi - ’ | morton, for ten years. How faithful both she and
“T realize the danger of making an enemy of one

he haye been. I wonder sometimes if I have not
done wrong to separate them for her father’s sin?
Yet to have had him marry a thief’s daughter—to
have had my descendents blush with shame—oh, no,
no. ; ‘ ea

The proud man shook his head vehemently as he
ended his sentence in this incoherent manner. —

“T could not consent to give my tather’s name to a
felon’s daughter, for what is bred in the bone will
come out in thé flesh. Walter thinks, me hard, butit
is for his honor that [have been tirm when I have
longed. to yield,” sadly declared the general.

A heavy sigh parted his lips ashe continued his
soliloquy:

“Tt seems almost like fatality that Phillp. my baby,
should desert me for the daughter of a man whois
under a clond. Oh, Linda, is it because I have made
him my idol since your death?”

As he pronounced: his second wife’s name, the old
man’s face greW almost womanly in its tenderness,
and there would have been no need to tell any one
who saw him that he had dearly loved Philip’s
“mother. :

Indeed, the fair girl who had died within the year
after her marriage had been dearer to him than his
own life; and from the hour of her death he had
never cared to enter a woman’s presence.

Wealthy, and still a handsome man, people had
preited that the widower,would soommarry again;

ut, though. courteons and kKind,,the fair sex had
found him cold and indifferent to their smiles, till, at
last, women decided that he would never take an-
other wife.

Society, having aimed at this conclusion, con-
cerned herself very little about the general, and his
fate had been both sad and lonely.

He had hoped to find great joy in the companion-
ship of his boys, but Walter had scarcely attained
manhood’s estate when he left his home; and now
Philip had followed in his brother’s footsteps by fall-
ing in love with a girl his father could not accept for
a daughter. . _ aa

No wonder a heavy sigh parted the old man’s pone
as ae leaned against the window and gazed down the
street.

Suddenly he started, and a low exclamation of fear
broke from him, for he beheld Philip hurrying up to
the house, his face ghastly white, and his eyes star-
ing with a shocked expression. O55 Sb Cg hy

“What can be the matter with the boy ?” wondered

door shut with a bang that jarred the dwelling, and
sounds of heavy footsteps were heard going up the
stairs. Again a door slammed, then a strange silence
fell over the house. ¢

There was something ominous in that quietude;
something which made the general tramp up and
down the floor, violently agitated as he muttered :

“T never knew my boy to look like that. I wonder
what can be the matter with him? Now, if his
mother were only alive. she could sympathize with
him and comfort him. I suppose I would only make
a boteh of it if I tried anything of the sort? Still, it
is not right to let the poor fellow remain there alone
when he is unhappy. I don’t bélieve he will thank
me, but l’ll just step up and ask him if IT can advise
him. Oh, no; I must not! Advise, indeed! What
an old fool F am! No, ll just say I came up fora
cigar, and then Pll talk a little and——” f

He paused abruptly, for he had ascended the
stairs while he was thinking, and had arrived at
Philip's door. ~ ote:

It was slightly ajar, and feeling very uneasy he
pushed the door and entered the room. As he did so
every drop of blood seemed to leave his face, and his.
eyes fairly started from his head. |

In the farther corner of the chamber,}with his back
to his father, Philip stood, holding in his right hand
a tiny object just above his heart. j

A small mirror hanging before the young man re-
vealed to the anxious parent that his son was cluteh-
ing a pistol. pe ke a)

There was not an instant to be lost in thought.

To save Philip it was necessary to reach his side
before he could pull the trigger; but to call to him,
or startle him, meant his immediate death, for his
fingers would involuntarily press that iron, which
would send a bullet clashing through his heart.

Heaven that his list slippers made no sound as he
walked. ae

He had almost reached Philip when he saw the
despairing man’s fingers itened on the trigger;
the old gentleman gave a bound and threw up his
son’s arm just as aloud report, followed by a blind-
ing mass of smoke, filled the room.
“Oh, Heaven! am [ too late?’ groaned the agon-
ized father when he saw Philip’s tall form waver and

all.

The almost distracted parent. knelt by his darling
boy, but it was impossible to tell till the smoke had
cleared whether the young man were wounded or
not.

The entire household had arrived on the spot by
the time General Royallieu discovered that a small
stream of blood was flowing from Philip’s shoulder.
Had the old gentleman come here one instant later
ne would not have been in time to save his son’s
ife. ‘

As it was, the army officer had_ sufficient surgical
skill to know that the bullet had not penetrated a
dangerous portion of the body, and. he was self-pos-
sessed enough to answer the servants’ inquiries as to
how this had happened in a manner which allayed
all suspicion that Philip had done it purposely.

Assuming his most dignified air hesaid:

“Mr. Philip was examining his pistol, when it sud-
denly went off. How the accident occurred I cannot
inform you, though I was present at the time. But
this is not a moment for conjectures. One of you
must hasten for a surgeon, and I wish the rest to
help me get Philip on the bed.”

An orderly hastened to bring a doctor, and the
other domestics lifted Philip on his couch, where he
remained, when he awoke to consciousness, about
one hour later.

The surgeon had ordered that his patient should
not talk, or be talked to; but General Royallieu
pressed his boy’s hand, and asked:

“How could you try to leave me all alone, Phil ?”

Meeting his reproachful eyes, his son replied,
earnestly : e

“To tell you the truth, father, I had not an idea of
firing when I took that pistol from the table; but
some evil spirit seemed to whisper: ‘It is an easy
way out of your trouble,’ and my fingers tightened
on the trigger as if to show how it might be done,
om without meaning to, [I nearly put an end to my

ife.” ° i

“Didn’t you knowif you had that I should not have
wished to live a day longer ?”’ asked his father.

“No, [ was thinking only of Lena just then.”

“What is the matter with her? My boy, confide in
your father, and rest assured that he will help youif
hecan, There! don’t say anything, for they told me
you must not speak a word, lest fever should set in.”

Philip sighed, and was silent; but, all the same, a
fever did come upon him, and for two weeks he
raved in delirium, while he hovered over the brink
of death.

His father nursed him as tenderly as a woman
could have done; but not till he was almost well
again, did either of the two men refer to Lena.

Then, one day, when Philip had sighed three times,
within as many minutes, the general kindly asked
him if he could not confide his secret to his loving
father? ;

The old gentleman’s sad voice struck a chord in
Philip’s heart, and. impulsiveiy he told him all his
story.

His voice quivered with pain when he said that
Tra’s note had caused him to believe that Lena had
left San Antonio with him, and that Hilda had con-
firmed the belief. f

“May Isee Ira’s letter?” asked the old man, and
when Philip consented, the general procured it, and
studied it well before he remarked:

“Philip, that fellow would not have written in this
way if your sweetheart had gone with him. Miss
Hilda is mistaken. Your little girl has traveled from
here alone.”

Poor Philip sighed in reply, for, with lover-like
jealousy, he feared the worst.

But the old general had taken his stand for the
gin. and he would not allow Philip to express a

oubt against her; and when Lena’s letter arrived
(about a fortnight after his boy had given him his
confidence), the old gentleman, who attended to
Philip’s mail matter during his illness, was very
triumphant. ’ :

He fairly glowed with delight, as he handed the
missive to the invalid, and said:

“Philip, you must read this epistle yourself, and
forgive me that I haye done so,”

The young man caught sight of Lena’s writing,
which he recognized, and he fairly devoured the
note. °

“Tt explains everything,” he said, glancing up at
his father, with a smile.

The general, however, regarded him gravely, and
murmured :

“My boy, here is an anonymous letter, which bids
you beware of Lena’s appeal to your affections. The
writer says that she loves Ira Chancellor, but that,
as she has failed to induce him to wed her, she will,
probably, endeavor to win her old lover back to his
allegiance.”

Philip regarded his father with such an alarméd
expression, that the old man hastened to add:

“This is one of the foulest pieces of infamy ever
perpetrated, and I fear that girl is the victim of some
vile plot. She has an enemy who is seeking to in-
jure her in your eyes.” ; 5 k

“Do you then think it is impossible that her failure

 

the general, shaking his head dubiously, as the hall

The general advanced noiselessly, and thanked |

to make Ira wed her caused her to write to me?’
ealously inquired Philip. .

“It is one of the cruelest libels ever uttered,’
firmly answered the olderman. ‘That girl’s letter is
all an affectionate, noble woman's should be. I know
she is worthy of you, but she has some enemy who
wishes to stab herin the dark. Without doubt the
same hand wrote that, which penned that sheet to
me, bidding) me ysearch her father’s past record.
Philip, [I will t stand by and see a woman persecu-
ted, and I advise you to go up to New York without
delay; for that girl needs your protection.”. . |. -

. Ab eve you are right, Someb - must ere her, |
to do all eas things against her, and I must settle’
with him. Do you think the surgeon will allow me
to start for New York to-morrow?” RA

“Indeed, I do not, considering that you cannot sit
up more than an hourata time,” answered his father,
With a smile. ety Gee oy, I'll tell him itis a mat-
a of life dae death that you should get off as soon

3 possible. Maat Fi ian

And the old gentleman did so insist that Philip
should starton his journey without delay, that  be-
fore a fortnight had elapsed, after the recei & of
Lena’s letter, the doctor was forced into giving a re-
or consent to the inyalid’s taking the long’ rail-
road trip. Fg ty) Seu

Philip did not write to Lena, because he believed
he would see her almost as soon as a letter could
reach her, but when he, at last, arrived in our great
metropolis he was too exhausted to proceed to Tarry-
town that day. ‘

He, however, telegraphed to the caretakers of.
“The Grange,” (his home on the Hudson), that he
might be expected there the next afternoon.

His dispatch was sent from the St. James, and that
evening a telegram was presented to him, as he sat
in the reading-room of the quiet hotel.

It had no signature, and merely said :

“MR. ROYALLIEU :—If you would’ prove Lena’s
faith to you, be onthe bank of the Hudson, below
Tarrytown, by the big chestnut, to-morrew night be-
tween eight and nine o’clock. She will walk there
with her lover, Ira. Your friend, a Kak ee

Philip put down the sheet, and, with a face deadly
white with fear, said:
“T will go.”

human life

{

CHAPTER XIV. ‘
AN UNEXPECTED TURN OF AFFAIRS.

“Yes I will go, forI can then prove her true or
false,” Philip decided. “If she should be on that
eliff to-morrow night, of course all that has been ut
tered against her is correct.”

So he went to that lonely river-bank, without the
faintestidea that he had fallen into a trap which
had been set for him.

For Ira had feared that Philip would respond to
Lena’s letter by coming here, and madam _ had
assisted her son to prepare a plan which Would de-
ceive the unhappy lover.
~ They had sent a servant, on one excuse or another,
to “The Grange,” every day forthe last week, in
order to learn if its master were expected home; and
it happened that Ira’s groom was there when Philip’s
telegram told the old housekeeper to prepare for his
arrival the next day.

Consequently Ira heard that Mr. Royallieu was at
the St. James the day he reached New York.

He was not disturbed by Philip’s appearance here,
for his plans were all formed ; and that afternoon he
went to New York and forwarded the telegram which
his dupe was to receive without a suspicion of its
-author. : ;

His errand in town accomplished, Ira returned
home. and the next night enticed poor Lena to that
lonely river-bank, in order to ruin her in the eyes of
the man she loved.

The reader without doubt has already divined that
it was Ira this girl had followed from the village of
Tarrytown, and that it was the unexpected sight of
ie ey face which had caused her to utter that pa-
thetieccry 2): : H.

“Are you about to end my doubts by killing me?”
She knew he sought to do her some deadly harm as
he flung his arms about her, and despite her struggles,
folded her to his breast. 4
_ Every moment she expected to be hurled down the
-pree oe into the water below, and her dazed senses
could searcely take in the meaning of the words he
uttered so passionately: — - aha 3

“My darling, as I could not see you in the house, I
brought you here. Forgive ie, little one, and raise

your face to mine.” 1S)
His loud voice rang through the night air, and was
perfectly audible to Philip, who was standing but a

| few rods distant.

Ira had beheld him when he paused here, but he
had skillfully contrived to keep Lena from doing so.

He also held the girl firmly, in spite of her strug-
gles to be free, and pressed kiss after kiss on her
brow, cheeks, and lips. ns :

Lena in vain tried to shriek, for Ira smothered her
cries by pressing her mouth against hisshoulder, dock
uttering, in aloud voice: ae

“My darling! my ownlove!” ee

Sickened by the sight of Lena being embraced by
this man, Philip sprang forward, and cried: . :

“My faithful triend, good-evening !” a

His harsh voice, and the sight ft hie steel-like eyes
glaring from his white face, caused Ira to release
Lena, and the girl staggered from him, wild with
ae and anger. e hi ie ; ; ont wa ole

ancing to see who her deliverer m , she
beheld a tall, fair man standing out against the sky,
looking so haughty thatshe could not believe it was
Philip Royallieu. — Ae Fe, jo

At this moment, Tra said: tele :

“So you have found us out, Mr. Royallieu ?’
. Very slowly came the.reply from Philip’s white

ips:

“Yes, I was warned that you—you and your victim
would be here to-night.”

He could not speak Lena’s name, but he glanced at
her with contemptuous pity, for he believed her Ira’s
love. .

‘You heard we would be here, and you came to |
protect me. Oh, Philip, I thank you!” cried Lena,
rushing up to him, and putting out her hand. P

To her surprise he put his hand behind his back,
and coldly said: 9 age

“T came here, madam, to prove that you loved this
man.”

“Love him!’ repeated Lena, in a bewildered tone.
“Why, Philip, I have never loved any one but you!
Do you not know it?” :

“No,” returned yes curtly. | ; ;

“Did you receive my letter?” asked Lena, staring
at the man’s ¢old, averted face. :

“Yes, madam.”

“Madam! Whyis it not Lena? Philip, you are
frightening me. Surely you are not angry because I
could not prevent yonder man from caressing me a
moment since! You must have seen how hateful it
was to me?”

“T did,” said Philip, with a sneer.

“Yet you regard me disdainfully! Oh, Philip, what
is the matter?”

He turned from her with a groan, and Ira saw her
words were beginning to affect her lover, despite his
jealousy.

All his schemes depended on Philip’s separation
from his sweetheart, so the villain hastened to say:

“Come, Lena, do not degrade yourself by pleading
further. It is easy to see that Philip’s love for you
is dead. Why should you try to revive it? I am
ready to devote mny life to you, and you must be con-
tented with one lover at a time.”

Ira’s speech had exactly the effect he wished.
Philip’s jealousy was so inflamed that he scarcely
heeded Lena’s angry words.

“How dare you say that tome, Ira Chancellor?
You know I have never encouraged you—or—or——"”

“Now, Lena,” Ira interrupted, with a deprecatory
air, “I only wanted to tell you that Philip would not
listen to anything you might Say.”

“But he should listen,” declared Lena. ‘Philip, if
you are angry with me on account of anything that I
have done, tell me how Ihave offended you and I
will never do itagain. I will promise to be guided
entirely by you in the future.”’

“When she is so humble and submissive, surely
you will forgive her though her situation may be
suspicious,’ sneered Ira, turning to Philip with a
gesture of disdain.

Philip stood with his head bent in thought, and Ira
continued, after a moment’s pause :

“Surely you see that she wishes to marry you, and
not me; and, such being the case, I waive my claim
to her affection and present her to you.”

‘The insinuation in his speech brought to Philip’s
mind the sentence in the anonymous letter which
had said that as Lena had failed to marry Ira she
would strive to bring her old lover back to his.
allegiance.

Jealousy and anger blinded him to reason for the
moment, and he said to Lena:

“If you wish to be guided by me, I beg of you to at
once marry the man standing beside you.”

“Philip!” she ejaculated, while her reproachful
eyes. were raised to his.

He ¢oldly averted his head, however, and she saw
his lip curl with contempt.

At this sight her pride revolted from any further
attempt at an explanation.

She was not one of those weak natures that could
fawn upon the hand which had wounded it, and to
have saved her life she could not have uttered an-
other word to induce Philip to believe in her.

“You have judged me,” she said, turning indig-
nantly from him. ‘I shall make no appeal to alter
your decision.” ‘ :

And then, without a glance at Ira, she moved away
toward the village, feeling that her life was darkened
forever. -

The two men faced each other sternly when they
were alone.

Ira felt he had triumphed beyond his wildest
hopes.

Philip told himself that he had been prepared for
the sorrow which had fallen on him, yet his heart
ached with a dull thrill of despair.

The silence had become wearisome, and Ira turned

®

 

Woug nef he had_ known his going would cost a

| an injured tone.

“One moment,” he said. “I have heard that you
refuse to marry that girl after inducing her to leave
San Antonio with you. Is this so?’

‘‘Why do you ask ?” queried Ira.

“Because,” said Philip, staring at him with a white,
set face, “if such be the case, I intend to force you
to do your duty.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Ira, with p

“Yes, I swear to you th Wi
this day month, you hay
ers me, you are bute
Justice, and yon shall die
; “Do you i an. hat you will murder me if I
do not marry her within thir rs?” asked Ira, in
a sta ltone, — in ff p

“I do,” came the erin ‘esp

“Heavens, man! Think—she
“tf you could induce he
come here, you can ma
yours, and you shall!” } ,
to rob me of my bride; pay } you one, or take

éin payment for her love.”
You ai an!” exclaimed ‘Tra
ion f

ay refuse me!”
her home and

ip. “You sought

i a, as he wiped
: his brow. —
: see bh [am uB

to marry her,” vowed Philip. pomagh)

“But I do consent § ertainly TI do,” said Ira,
ree away, alarmed by this unexpected turn of
affairs.

He knew that Philip was a man who would keep
his promise to shoot him if he did not obey his
command,

- you consent

(10, BE. CONTINUED.)

iad a Heal ¥
=> -o—

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

A FAMILY SEORET.

By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton.

(‘A FAMILY SECRET,’ was commenced in

No. 20.
ined of all Ne aT

-—~. rowed to the merest ledge and
an abrupt curve shut it out
N from sight. A scarcely re-
pressed triumph was lighting

his every feature,
; . » ‘AS good as won,” he said to
SIE himself, whisperingly. ‘As
good as won, Cecil to the contrary; and it’s worth
something to cuf him out if there were no other
considerations. She doesn’t take to me too kindly
even now, but for all that she’s as good as won. [
never failed with a woman yet—no!’—his brow
darkened, a look not pleasant to see went over that

handsome face—‘“‘and I never will.”

A point standing out boldly from the broken sur-
face above the ledge caught his eye. A few agile
bounds, and some scrambling over an almost perpen-
dicular gravely stretch, brought him to it. A huge
bowlder capped that eyrie; Athol puthis foot upon
it, but drew back as he felt the great stone totter.

“That won’t do. But I can see from here the way
is too steep for safe descent.”

He turned back, not as he had come, but aslant in
the direction of the wider cliff,and a dozen or so
steps brought him within view of itfrom above. He
stopped short and looked below, that frown of por-
tentous omen knitting his brows and transforming
his whole face.

Down on the shady plateau the time had dragged
itself to its fullest measure, and weariness overcame
the party.

“*You don’t suppose there’s a modern Joshua got his
finger in this pie, do you?’ queried Mr. Lelewel, in
“There’s a conspiracy somewhere,
and my watch is a fraud. Haven’t those two young
Pee’ back yet, Aglae?”’

‘Not yet. And there’ll not be an ice left inan hour
from now. There has not been a hotter day the sum-
mer through. Shall we have our refreshments served
or still wait, Uncle Harlaw.”

“T’ll look up the truants while you get things into
shape, Mrs. Rainstellar,” volunteered Earle, aud was
gone without waiting a reply: Es toe

- He went over the groun wit bie long strides, and
eens emerged at the tone the cliff, and came

‘bruptly upon Neva sitting there alone.

Somethingin her told him vaguely it had passed,
and presto! all the hopes which had been dying hard
for ten days past sprang up into new, vigo: ; life.
It is wonderful what a hardy plant is Hope. Crush
it, blight it, freeze it, or starve it, until no vestige
will appear to remain, and at a word, a smile, the
merest glance perhaps, it will rise phenix-like from
its own ashes.

. He stood watching her for a moment unperceived,
then went forward and was pees at her feet, his
eet bone bared in the sunshine, his blue eyes
e 7 wlighs. invents cae oo hae

Wt Wonder if I dare speak?” he said, “I wonder if
I dare tell you at last all I have in my heart to say to
only one woman in the world, and that one you?”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, with a sudden breathless
vehemence which startled him.

There was no, mistaking his meaning; and in the
light of his strong, honest love, that other offering
which had beem laid at her feet sé shortly before
paled to the merest reflex. If she only ¢ared for him
a little more, she thought; he was good, and true,
and noble in all things. She looked at him for a 1mo-
ment ‘steadily, thoughtfully, wistfully; looked as

[though she were mentally considering some. point.

Then she leaned forward impulsively, with her bright-
eft smile, her rarest grace.

“Not yet,”’ was all her lips said, but the promise he
read in that radiant face was all-sufficient for him.

It was that tableau Athol looked down upon and in-
terpre rightly, His hands clenched, and he set
his teeth close. _ eo'%

“She is called a_coquette and an arrant jilt,” went
his thoughts. ‘‘But let her take care how she tries
that game with me! I have never been thwarted yet,
I will not be now.”

There was one moment of delicious silence, then
Earle rose as Neya drew back from him.

“Tcame near forgetting my errand. I am to take
you and Athol back in all possible haste. By the by,
where is he?” 3

She explained.

“Remain here; I’ll look him up,” said Earle, and
walked away, wondering if that sudden burst of hap-
piness which had come to him was only a hopeful
a from dreamland, or sober abiding neonday
reality.

Athol had retreated to the point and sullenly flung
himself upon the ground. e heard a footstep ap-
proaching, but did not stir or glance over until it
cue d,and then Earle was standing directly be-
neath, peering down into the rocky cut where the
footpath wound.

The watcher above was not seen.

A red glow shone in his black eyes, out of which
every vestage of softness had vanished; hard, dull,
wicked eyes they looked; then the great bowlder
toppled and went crashing down the mountain-side,
impelled by his hand. .

Earle heard it and turned; he saw his danger and
sprang aside, stumbled and went over the narrow
ledge, and the heavy thud of that crashing weight
came back from the jagged rocks forty feet below.

A sudden sharp ery of horror was borne upon the
air, not uttered by him. Neva had followed and
stood in the path which rounded the curve. She had
seen Earle fall, nothing more, but as Athol came
hastily down the declivity she turned toward him.

“Did you do that?” she asked, with white lips.

“T, Miss Lelewel!’* Perfect master of himself,
nothing but indignation and reproach were apparent
now. But for one instant Roland Athol stood in-
wardly aghast. Did she suspect him? But no—there
was none of the shrinking horror and loathing which
must have marked, her manner toward supposed
guilt, and a thrill of fierce delight beat through his
evéry vein. :

She had certainly meant no accusation, but as she
looked at him all her vague dislike and distrust
rushed back in tenfold measure. But that was. no
moment for either hates or loves. With her hand
pressing hard over her heart, she stepped close to
the verge before he could prevent it, and looked
down. .A quick cry escaped her, she turned and flew
past him down the precipitous path he had lately.
condemned.

' What was it? With all his vaunted power of equi-
ise, Athol slowly drew nearer, but one glance suf-
ced. A bitter execration broke from his li No
mangled and bleeding shape was visible in the sun-
shine flooding the dark rocks, but half-way up the
perpendicular face of the cliff Earle was clinging to
a stunted pine. He had succeeded in clasping the
trunk where it shot out horizontally, the scrubby
prahe Bees only slightly checked the impetus of
is fall.

He was clinging by one arm, the other hanging
limp beside him. While Athol looked he drew up his
feet and caught with them over that horizontal sec-
tion, with an effort swung himself upon it and lay
there, all cramped as the space was, face downward
—motionless. e was dizzy and blind for a moment—
an hour it seemed to those watching him.

Neva, breathless and blanched, stood beneath,
afraid to speak lest it should precipitate his fall
thence; while Mr. Lelewel, who had witnessed the
accident from his distance. was coming at all speed,
followed by his nieces, with his stout coachman puff-

 

as if to depart, when Philip stopped him.

ing laboriously in the rear.

 

 

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ents

 

 

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oe tiag

tae

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 44—No. 26,

After a few moments, during which he collected

his faculties and his strength, Earle gathered himself
up to a sitting posture, his back to the tree, his feet
to the cliff, and spoke.

“Stand back, please. Don’t come below.”

Neva drew back mechanically, and the great dread
and fear upon her changed to sudden hope, to some-
thing like admiration, as she watched him. He
pulled off his boots cautiously and dropped them
down. Then working himself nearer and still hold-
ing by the tree, he sought and found a foothold in
the irregularities of the cliff. ‘

“For the Lord’s sake, don’t try that, Cecil: gasped
Mr. Lelewel, breaking upon the scene. ‘Wait there;
we'll find some way of getting you down.”

“I think I ean descend. Only—keep back all of
you,’’ b

The descent would have tried a practiced gymnast,
and Earle, with his helpless arm, made the slowest
progress. Cautiously he worked himself along the
zigzag fissure in which that scrubby pine was rooted
to its lowest point. Clinging there with his available
hand, every muscle strain to its utmost tension,
and seeking below for another foothold he found
nothing but the smoothest surface; and, worse still,
an overpowering attack of giddiness and nausea from
his pain and exertion seized him. And then——”

“Jess you drap right down, Marse Cecil, sah. Hi,
dar, marse; you hear ?”’ ; .

It is doubtful if he heard; certainly it was by no
volition of his own he reeled back and fell a dead
weight upon the brawny chest and outstretched arms
of Harrison waiting to receive him.

After that was a scene of hysterical rejoicing as
the other ladies reached the spot. Mr. Athol was
joud in his congratulations upon the escape, and
Harrison had his meed of glory allotted to him; but
Neva, who had no words while the suspense lasted,
had none now.

“Are you badly hurt?’ Mr. Lelewel asked, ‘Let
me have a look, Cecil.” fat

“Only a sprain, I think,’ Earle answered, smiling,
while the cold perspiration stood upon his forehead,
and he quivered involuntarily at the gliding touch of
the other’s slim white fingers. :

“Only a sprain! Why, man, your arm is fractured
in two places. Thank your lucky stars it was not

our neck broken instead. No more hysterics,
Mignon; if you want to be of use, bring a bottle of
wine as quickly as possible. Aglae, you_probably
know what lint is; strip up all the handkerchiefs
here. I'll do my best in the amateur surgeon line
until other attendance can be had.”

The broken arm was soon splintered, bunglingly
enough no doubt, and as there could be no thought of
lingering after that, even for lunch, the carriage and
horses were speedily put into order for the return.
Earle was given a place in the former, Mr. Lelewel
mounting his steed, and the little procession wound
down the mountain, fully more depressed than it had
come,

“Ten to one they will keep him at Rock Range and
make a hero of him,” thought Mr. Athol, gloomily,
and the event justified his misgiving.

Mr. Cecil was kept—Virginian hospitality could do
no less; and as to being made a hero—well, one at
least began to realize he had been that from the out-
set. But of this, more anon: aha!

The month wore itself out, and Roland Athol re-
ceived his answer. It was a rejection, clear and de-
cisive; a rejection which would admit of no ms

“T do not love you, and I will never marry without
love,” said Neva, quietly. ‘“‘No, Mr. Athol!” as he
protested. “I never bade you hope. If I was tempted
to think of you otherwise than a valued acquaint-
ance,”—she tried to say friend, but the word con-
veyed too much—“‘the thought is past and done with
now. forever. Your wife I never can be.”

“We shall see,” said Mr. Athol, between his set
teeth, as she left him.

“We shall see,” repeated Mr. Lelewel, grimly, when
the disappointed suitor carried the tale to him. “I
have pledged you my word that she shall marry you,
Roland, and I am not the man to break my word for
a girl’s eaprice. You’ve been talking of a trip North,
my boy. Go to-morrow, and I promise you a different
answer by the time of your return.”

CHAPTER XIII.
FABIAN TRENT.

“To-morrow, Brian?” said Mr. Rathford, in tones
of surprise. ‘‘You have made short work of getting
yourself into the harness. I believe you have chosen
rightly, sorry though I must be that we are to lose
your near neighborship. You go in with a good man,
and a noted one, for Lawyer Braden has accom-
plished what few do— gained distinction without one
shadow of reproach ever connecting itself with his
name. I congratulate you upon having been re-
ceived by him.”

“T am indebted to your intervention for it, I think,
sir. Mr. Braden told the as much; and we know that
aman in his position is always overwhelmed with
applications. I had one other proposal, however,
not of my own seeking. You have heard of Fabian
Trent?’

Ir. Rathford signified his assent.

“T met him with Sterling at the club night before
last, and chanced to mention my business in the City.
He did me the honor, upon the spot, of offering me a
place with him, He intended to compliment me by
saying he believed I had good capabilities for his
branch of the business.”

“And you declined the offer ?”’

“T declined, of course. I had not then seen Mr.
Braden; but on no consideration would. I have con-
nected myself with the firm of Trent & Co.”

: Mo it not a reputable firm?’ asked Syria, care-
essly.

They were seated, a family party of five, about the
dinner-table. Irene was there, with a face as white
as the dress she wore, with dark hollows about her
blue eyes, a wan, worn shadow of her brighter self
in this little more than a month which had elapsed
since the sorrow came upon her. Mrs, Angell meekly
and thankfully kept silence on her side, while her
brother’s wife occupied the head of the table with
ee ease which became the mistress of Rathford

ell.

“Professionally reputable, yes; but, morally, I
am convinced quite the reverse. Trent is the head
and managing member of the firm, while the Co.
embraces half a dozen lawyers, most of whom haye
been in business on their own account and failed,
who do all the dirty work behind the scenes. They
are in reality a well-drilled lot of amateur detectives,
and well up in all the minor law-points which will
bear twisting to their own uses; a hard worked lot,
but, contrary I believe to the usual custom, well
paid. It is that which keeps them wading through
the worst filth and mire of the courts, and it was as
a member of that corps I was offered distinction. [
do not object to the hard work, but. with the law on
their side they will undertake any case, no matter
where the right may lie, a course which I pray I may
avoid. Heaven pity the poor wretch who once has
Trent set on his track; he is as untiring and perstst-
ent as a blood-hound, and as merciless when his prey
isrundown. Their system is nothing more nor less
than pettifoggery on a large scale; but success has
won them recognition and outside respectability.
Not to bore you with that subject, can I do anything
for you in the city? You ladies must have some
commissions.”

“I think if you are going by the boat to-morrow, I
shall trouble you to be our escort on the way. I
have been putting off a shopping expedition for a
week, and this opportunity is too good to be neg-
lected. Willit suit youand Irene, Mrs. Angell?’ —

“Your pleasure always suits us,’ answered Mrs.
Angell, sincerely.

Irene glanced across, startled and deprecating, but
Syria smiled back brightly, her imperial will.

“You are to have no yoice in the matter, my dear.
Hereafter I intend to take you in charge and change
the hermitess sort of life you haye been leading of
late.”

“I am to have no voice either, apparently,” smiled
Mr. Rathford. ‘*But I will hold myself in readiness
to accompany you all the same. Then Brian can use
his own discretion as to what share of the very
onerous duties of escort shalldevolve upon him.”

“I beg you will not. There is no necessity, I do
assure you. Three ladies, on shopping thoughts in-
tent, may be interesting company for each other,
but a gentleman, as a permanent attachment for the
day, would be as much out of his element as a mar-
plot to ourfeminine occupation. Brian shall not be
inconvenienced by us, I promise. Once more, Miss
Irene, you need not exclaim against any of the plots
and plans I haye been laying. I intend you shall
have a new outfit at the shortest notice, and be sent
to the springs for a fortnight, now that the fashion-
able element has deserted them. No use of appeal-
ing to mamma; I have her approval beforehand.”

She spoke laughingly, but with an air of decision
which poor little Irene would never dare to dispute,
and alinost: immediately gave the signal to rétire.
Brian started up to open the door, and returned to
his place to find his host’s face clouded, his manner
for a moment unnaturally absent and constrained.

“Do ian remain at the Dell during the winter?’
asked Brian, filling his glass with the lightest wine
the table afforded. He was always very abstemious.

“That will be left to Mrs. Rathford’s inclination,
and she has not fully decided. I think I may venture
to say we will be in New York before the season is
at its height. Some change is very desirable on
Trene’s account. What is it, Brian? You look as
though you had something to say.”

“T wish to ask a question or two regarding Hurl-
bert. I understand from Syria that—that the en-
gagement still continues.”

“Tt does, at Irene’s and his own desire. But there
is no probability that it will be fulfilled for years to)
come, if ever. You understand, of course, that this |
terrible affliction which has come upon us all through
him is a family secret not to be breathed outside.”

“You may rely upon my silence regarding it. Has
Hurlbert been here openly? Has Irene seen him?’

‘She has not. He has been at the Dell only twice,
and then unseen, at least unrecognized by any mem-
sky of the household except myself and Mrs. Rath-

ord.”’

He looked fixedly into his glass as he made the ad-
mission, a curious, hard expression on his face, the
os of which was vaguely inferred by the
other.

 

 

 

 

“T have made the whole affair as clear as I dare to
Trene; you can see for yourself how she bears it. A
harsher revelation would have killed her outright.
My hope is that she may learn forgetfulness by de-
grees. They have yielded to my desire that there
shall be no interview between them until some fur-
ther developments in Austin’s malady, or his cure.
The curse of insanity may not have fixed upon him
further than that one fevered aberration of the brain.
He comes of good, healthy stock, and there is every-
thing to be hoped.” |

ee meanwhile he remains under medical ad-
vice

“He does, under Dr. Kale. If we vacate the Dell,
I shall ask him to take up his quarters here.”

‘Pardon me, Mr. Rathtord, for saying this. If you
wish him here at any time, during Irene’s absence
for instance, you may trust my sister.”

At times there comes to us a semi-supernatural
me ce of evil overhanging ourselves or those

ear to us, and a glimmering of the very way in
which it is to fall. It was some such prescience that
now impelled Brian Dedham to say what he did.

Mr. Rathford spilled some of his claret upon the
table-cloth and put down his second glass untasted,
as he shot his young brother-in-law one piercing
glance. Did Brian know anything of that twilight
interview on the terrace-walk at the Dell, when him-
self and those of his household who knew anything
of the matter believed Hurlbert had returned to
strictest seclusion in his New York lodgings? That
parting, as he had seen it, lingered before his men-
tal vision and tortured him with undefinable fears.
He'had waited for Syria to tell him of the meeting,
and waited in vain. If he cherished a hope for one
moment that she had given her evntidence to her
brother, it was banished with his next. words.

“Syria is naturally bitter against him. I think she
judges him more harshly even than he deserves. I
think if she were convinced he is not playing a part
now-—she believes that—her own life might be made
the happier. You know it is a characteristic of our
race to cherish bitter hate, undying resentment. If
anything can disarm her anger against him it will be
the knowledge that he has suffered in terrible reality,
and once brought face to face with him she must be
assured of the truth.”

The elder man made some evasive reply, scarcely
knowing what. Brought face to face with him!
Austin playing a part! A hard, unyielding scorn
rose up and possessed him. He hated hypocrisy as
only a strong, generous, passionate nature can hate
it. At an earlier period of his life he had been im-
pulsive and hot-headed, given to fierce outbursts of
rage, terrible while they lasted, dreaded by all upon
whom his wrath might fall. He was as much to be
dreaded now that he had learned outward control of
the strong passions which possessed him still.

*

* x * * * a *

“Must I go?’ asked Irene, helplessly, in the draw-
ing-room. ‘If you knew how I dread it, Syria!”

“You must go, indeed. Because you are so foolish
as to dread it is the very reason I insist. It is only
the es to any number of similar surprises I
shall hold in store for you.”

A reproachful mist was dimming the blue eyes, the
child-like mouth quivered, and Syria was quick to
detect these signs of a protest stronger than words.
She was as quick to escape it, catching up a silky
little Skye terrier that had been basking indolently
upon a pillow, all musical with tiny silver bells, and
frolicking with him to the opposite end of the apart-
ment, seeming as free of heart, as light of care in
that moment as a child. From the distance she stood
looking back with resolute eyes.

“The lily maid of Astolat fell sick for love of Sir
Lancelot, and pined and died, but that shall not be
Terk fate for your unworthy knight, my sweet

rene.

*““My dear,” Mrs. Angell was advising in her usual
tranquil tone, “the least return we can make is to
favor Syria’s views in all matters. It was very good
of her to ask us to remain here, I am sure.’ .

The early boat next day took down the [little party
from the Dell. Brian lingered only long enough at
the wharf to select a carriage, put them into it, and
give the direction to the driver. It was to one of the
great fashion emporiums on Broadway. There is a
kind of subtile fascination in dainty fabries, and deli-
cate shades, and glowing colors, which it is not in
woman’s nature to resist. Even Irene manifested
some slight interest after a time. They had lunch at
a quiet ladies’ restaurant, and afterward drove to
Tiffany's, that blazing palace which itooks like the
realization of an Eastern tale of the genii.

“T am going to leave you,” said Syria, then. ‘“‘I have
a list to fill here, and I want you to select for me
while I tinish my other shopping. I will be through
soon.’

She watched them within before she gave her order
to the driver, “No. 71 Broadway,” a building chiefly
occupied as lawyers’ offices.

There she was ushered into an outer office, full of
life and a suppressed confusion. After a very brief
delay she was given admittance to the sanctum of
the power reigning there—Lawyer Fabian Trent.
She had just time to note that the sanctum was ele-
gant and luxurious, when there rose to meet her a
bland, soft-toned gentleman, a model of refinement
from top to toe.

‘“‘Mrs. Rathford!’ said the suave personage, glane-
ing at the card he held still. ‘I got your note of the
morning specifying your call at this hour, and ar-
ranged to receive you accordingly.”

“Then I have only to state my business,” said
Syria, her eyes fixed steadily upon that face which
was like a smiling mask.

Her business was rather peculiar, and not easy to
state, but she told all the facts she had come to lay
before him, without reservation, and Mr. Fabian
Trent took brief notes as she went along.

“You believe the story of this young gentleman,
Mr. Austin Hurlbert, a fabrication meant simply to
deceive his uncle, whose presumptive heir he is.
You wish the matter of that month’s absence thor-
oughly sifted, and anything equivocal behind it
brought forward in its true light. You must be
aware, Mrs. Rathford, that this business is rather
aside from our usual line.”

“Tam aware the duty calls fora detective rather
than a lawyer, but it was my preference to come to
you. The matter is strictly private, as well as all
considerations involved, and I do not wish to be per-
sonally identified with it. If you will become my
agent in prosecuting this inquiry, by whatever
means you nay think proper, you will find my ap-
preciation of the service in more than words. I am
prepared to place a sum sufficient to cover attending
expenses in your hands.”

After that a satisfactory understanding was swiftly
arrived at. Lawyer Trent was retained in the pri-
vate service of Mrs. Rathford, and the lady, request-
ing thatallreports shonld be sent to her address,
took her departure.

There was never much time to spare in that office
of the law which Brian Dedham had refused to enter,
but notwithstanding the fact that other clients
awaited admission, Mr. Trent lay back in his chair,
not changed from his blandness in so much as a
muscle, but with eyelids dropped, some far away
consciousness evolving itself out of chaos in his re-
tentive mind.

That evening the eminent lawyer allowed himself
to be button-holed in the club-room by Mr. Sterling,
who was the servile hanger-on of all available celeb-
rity. His lion of this occasion was very tame and
condescendingly familiar.

“By the by, Sterling, you never let meinto your
confidence regarding your use of the information
you procured from me.a year or so ago. ur specu-
lation should have amounted to something in that
affair.”

“It did. Not in the way you mean, though. T
haven't realized so much as a dollar from the cash
investment—and you sold at steep rates, as I took
occasion to tell you then, Trent; but I’ve had what
~ better—revenge full and complete on a man I

ate.’

The lawyer gave his shoulders an expressive shrug.

“Bah, my good fellow! Hate is always an unprofit-
able property to hold, and revenge the poorest cur-
renecy going. Apropos of nothing, you are not a
marrying man, are you ?”’

“You know I am not.” A sudden shade fell over
his face, a sudden constraint came into his tone.
However bad this man might be, there was one ele-
ment of constancy in his life, which, taken by itself,
was touching.

“Then, @ matrimonial scheme was no part of your
plan. But Mr. Austin Hurlbert is not such a misan-
thrope as yourself. What do you suppose he is up to
in this latest dodge of his ?”’

The eyes of the two nien met as
query. 2

“What do you mean?” asked Sterling, in a sup-
pressed, excited way.

“That you have been taking a trifle too much for
granted. That thé secret of Mr. Hurlbert’s mysterious
disappearance upon his wedding-day has its key-note
in the disastrous tidings you very probally broke to
him about that critical juncture. In short, my dear
friend, that there is more work for you to accom-
plish, if you will do it under my guidance.”

he propounded the

CHAPTER XIV.
ON THE WRONG TRACK.

A brooding silence lay upon the Dell. Outside the
October sunshine flooded the still velvety lawn, the
gorgeous autuit foliage, and glinted back from the
broad, blue river. In the library, a lofty, spacious,
stately apartment, Mr. Rathford was slowly pacing
back and forth, that shadow of dark thought, which
had been upon his brow often of late, there at its
darkest, as he wrestled with the vague ibisgivings
that haunted him. .

Syria had fulfilled her laughing threat, Irene and
her mother had gone to the Springs for a fortnight.
Ordinarily, with the honey-moon barely over, a hus-

band and wife will feel no lack of other society ; but;

a constraint, felt rather than observed, had arisen
between these two.

“Was I wrong in tempting her to this marriage?’
Mr. Rathford was mentally pondering that question
for the hundredth time. “I did not think so then, but,
Heaven pity ne! I could not foresee this emergency
which has risen since. I only saw Austin wedded to
his latest choice, while she would remain wronged
and deserted. I never foresaw this.”

opened and Syria came into the room.

She held a folded paper in her hand, and half-

aused, half-turned, as if to retreat at sight of her

usband.

“T did not know you were here,” she said. “I will
not intrude upon you.”’

“Tt is no intrusion. I shall be goingin five minutes,
as soon as my horse is brought around. You know IL
ride out to Colonel Howitt’s this morning.”

With a gesture, she declined the chair he placed for
her, and walked across to seat herself at a little rose-
wood desk occupying a sunny niche.

“T only came in to write a letter. I have ample
time to send it in for the morning mail to the city.”

‘Half an hour,’’-he answered, consulting his watch,
“Tf you have it ready. I will mail it as I pass through
the village, and spare you the trouble of sending.”

The letter was ready before his five minutes had
elapsed. It was only a brief note hastily dashed off
to her brother: Mr. Rathford glanced at the full,
free inscription as it lay on his palin, round and clear,
and singularly unlike the usual sloping, illegible,
Italian style of feminine penmanship.

“Tt would never do for you to attempt a forgery,”
he remarked, with asmile. ‘‘There is too much in-
dividuality in your writing. I should know it from
all others if I were to meet with it unexpectedly in
Siberia.”

He did know it half an hour later, as he stood on
the steps before the village post-office, talking with
an acquaintance he had met there. A thin, freckle-
visaged youngster, whom he recognized as his gar-
dener’s son, tore down the dusty road-way, and
brushed past into the building, without observing
who it was he jostled in his haste. One grimy hand,
upraised, dropped a white missive into the slip.

“That’s to go inter the New York wail, that is,”
piped his thin trebble through the orifice. “I say,
nister, you hain’t got it locked up yet, have you?’

*T have, though. Tell your folks it’ll go out this
eee One mail won’t make any difference to
them.’

“°Tain’t for them,” asserted the young messenger,
shrilly. ‘It’s from Mrs, Rathford, that is, and you’d
better put it inter the mail, I tell you. ’Cause why,
you’re ahead of time, you are—a whole half a minute
ahead of lockin’-up time—an’ I’m to have a dollar if
it goes this mornin’. Say, now—you'll be obligin’ for
once, won’t you?” :

“Oh, in that case, I don’t mind,” assented the good-
natured postmaster. ‘‘No trouble at all, Mr. Rath-
ford,’ as he caught sight of that gentleman beyond.
“T was a trifle ahead of time, I believe.”

“The note to Brian was only a blind,” thought Mr.
Rathford, as he turned away,

He had not distinguished the address upon the
other—had not tried to do so; but he would have
known the hand, as he bad said, in Siberia. His face
set hard and dark as he vaultedintv his saddle and
rode away.

He was returning by the same route, about an hour
before sunset, when that tvivial incident of the morn-
ing was brought back vividly by the passing glimpse
of a face that looked out from an upper window of
the Silver Bells, and was instantly withdrawn. It
was his nephew’s face, beyond a doubt. And his
nephew had unmistakably drawn back at sight of
him. There was a dapper-looking young gentleman
standing upon the veranda, with very blonde side-
whiskers, very languid, pale blue eyes, and attired in
a nobby suit; but the passer-by vouchsafed him only
the merest casual glance.

Had that letter of the morning anything to do with
Austin’s coming? He hated himself for the thought,
but the demon of jealousy was astir within him, and
would not be crushed out. , %

“Tf he comes to me openly, T will know I have been
misjudging them both,” thought Mr. Rathford, as he
turned into the elm-bordered avenue, half-carpeted
with the drifting yellow leaves.

Through the interstices of the trees he caught sight
of a little group loitering upon the lawn. They were
Mr. Hale, the village clergyman, his wife and daugh-
ter, and beside them Syria was looking gorgeous in
trailing ruby silk, with flouncings of black lace, with
diamonds sparkling in her ears, in the snowy film at
her throat, on her hands, and a single diamond star
vibrated tremulously in the mass of blue-black hair
which she wore like acrown. Money had always run
through her hands free as water; she had never
known stint in anything it would buy; and her rich,
handsome toilets seemed always as much a part of
herself as her vivid bloom, or the black eyes flashing
beneath their long lashes.

The clergyman and his wife were very good, prosy
people, but Miss Ermina Hale was a sharp-featured,
sallow, gray-eyed young lady, of a vigorously chari-
table constitution, who had always some active
scheme afoot, from a contribution to the building of
a church or hospital down to the buying of flannels
and distributing of coals and lectures on uneleanli-
ness and ungodliness, which she inflicted upon the
poorer villagers when other objects failed her. And
with all her own good works, she had plenty of time
to devote to the shortcomings of her neighbors.

Mr. Rathford had only time to make some changes
in his attire and join this group, when the figure of a
man sauntering up through the grounds arrested_ his
attention. It was the same fair-haired, dandified
young gentleman who had lounged upon the hotel
piazza as he passed. He made his way straight on to
the broad front entrance, and presently a servant
came out bearing a card. It was inscribed with the
naine “Walter Fordyce.” Lightly penciled under-
neath were the words From Trent. The gentleman
wished to see Mrs. Rathford on particular business.

She excused herself to her guests and went in
through the sunlit vestibule to the dark, half-circular
hall where the gentleman awaited her; a vision so
radiant even there that Mr. Walter Fordyce made
reverential obeisanee and lost a trifle of the sang
Sroid which usually distinguished him.

“Come into the library, please,’ she said, and led
the way. ‘Be seated, Mr. Fordyce. Your card says
that you come from Mr. Trent. Has hesenta report?”

“T beg pardon,” said Mr. Fordyce, speaking for the
firsttime. ‘‘Mr. Trent mailed you a written report,
to which your answer was received to-day. He has
sent a note by me which will probably explain.”

He deftly abstracted the missive from his pocket-
book and presented it. Syria, with a word, retreated
to a window and perused its contents. It was very
brief, very much to the point.

“No. Tl BROADWAY, NEW YORK,
**Oct. 18, 188
“DEAR MADAM:—Your pearane response containing
eheck for $5,000, being price of Dr, K.’s communica-
tion, duly received. Bought him unreservedly. Mr.
A. H. was an inmate of his institution for precisely
one hour on the afternoon of September 3d, during
which time the current story was concocted. There
is no shadow of truth init from first to last. He left
on the same evening, via Philadelphia and Balti-
more, for Washington. Have put a detective on his
track. 2 “Respectfully yours,
“FABIAN TRENT.”

A soft cough from Mr. Fordyce broke the silence.

“There is nv answer,” said Syria, returning to him.
She touched the bell, and spoke to the servant who
appeared. ‘Show this gentleman into the breakfast-
parlor, and give him some lunch,” she ordered. “I
will setid the housekeeper to attend you there, Mr.
Fordyce.”

Mrs. Rathford went back to her company, an added
brilliance in her face, if that might be.

“Who was your caller at such a barbarous hour?”
asked Miss Hale, with that total absence of conven-
tional restraint which marked her surveillance over
the affairs of others.

“An agent for a city firm with which I have deal-
ings,’ answered Syria, quietly. b

“Dry-goods?” pushed the inquisitor. “I wish I had
known. I want to bargain for blankets the first
chance that presents; and that reminds me, Mrs.
Rathford, fT haven't got your subscription to the fund
yet. What shall [ put you down for?’

In the last important query the former one was
swallowed up, and before it could be reverted to
again the dinner-bell rang. Syria went in on the
elderly clergyman’s arm, but while the heavy meal
progressed, that vivid flush burned in her cheeks,
and her eyes sparkled with a sort of repressed excite-
ment, which her husband did not fail to observe.

Was the blonde whiskered gentleman an ambassa-
dor from Austin? He erushed back the unworthy
thought, and set his teeth hard.

““T will not doubt her!” was the passionate cry of
his inmost soul.

“You trustedin a woman once, and were deceived,”
taunted Memory. ‘Such a lesson as that past one of
yours would last most men for a life-time. The
greater fool you to again place belief in one of the
sex.”

«I will not doubt her,” reasserted the inner man.
“] will believe her good, and generous, and true.
‘I promised to stand by her, and save her from all re-
proach, and [ will be true to my word.”

All this with Mr. Hale’s monotonous drone re-
garding pastoral work going’ on in his ear. The
greatest depths of feeling are the most undemonstra-
tive. Despite his calmer reason, almost against his
will, Noble Rathford found himself very much in
love with his young bride. He had had the fever
once before in his life, and the second attack was
scarcely less severe than the first. Despite that other
bitter experience, be could find excuse for himself as
he glanced toward Syria sitting at the head of his
table, with the crimson glow surrounding her, the
diamond scintillating like a star of light amid her
raven hair, looking like a queen.

She chanced to glance toward him and met the
rapt, intent look with which he was regarding her,
If that look had been a stab the change that came
over her face could hardly have been more marked.
She blanched to her very lips, but from that time un-
til she gave the sign and swept with the other ladies
from the apartment, she did not let her gaze wander
in his direction again.
| Mrs. Hale settled in one of the puffy great chairs,
and gradually dropped her eyelids in complacent
j}slumber. Miss Ermina waxed eloquent over a forth-
{ coming church fair; she interrupted herself abruptly
a s comfortable looking figure passed in the lighted
' hall.
| ‘Was that Mrs. Bishop? Would you mind, dear Mrs.
Rathford, if I just run out to her a moment and ask
if she has any more of her very excellent cordial to

 

He abruptly stopped in his walk, as the door

 

spare? Such a blessing as it proved to my poor sick

people !” .

“JT will send her in to you,” answered Syria, and a
moment after Mrs. Bishop, privileged housekeeper
at the Dell, made her smiling appearance in the par-
lor. Syria did not return. She had gone out into the
massive portico and stood there watching the early
stars twinkling in the steel-blue night sky, the soft
lapping of the water, the noiseless waving of the
trees, the faint spicy odor of the drifting leaves, all
tempting her to the peaceful solitude without.

“They will never miss me,” she thought, as Miss
Hale’s high-pitched voice came floating to her ear.
“T will have one free breath at least.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

‘Dead

Crime of & COUNLESS:

American Detective al the Russian Nihilist,

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 LI.
INSIDE A LUNATIC ASYLUM.

In pursuance of his determination to get in the
asylum if he had to break the gates, Wat picked up a
large stone from the road-sideand began pounding on
the gates so vigorously that the man in charge of the
lodge evidently came to the conclusion that he had
better have at least a word more to say to thi3 man
who would get in.

He threw up his window, and cried out:

“Stop that, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Better talk first,” answered Wat, calmly. “I have
an order from your magistrate to see one of the pa-
tients here, and see him | am going to this night.”

“Wait till I have spoken to Dr. Martin.”

“Go ahead; only don’t keep me waiting too long,
or I’ll begin at the gates again.”

Presently another voice was heard at the window:

“Now, then, what does all this mean ?”’

“It means that I have a magisterial order to see
one of your patients to-night.”

“What patient?”

“Tvan Horwitz.”

“No such person here.”

“He is a young man with blue eyes and fair skin,
tall, and powerfully built.”

“Not here.”

‘“‘He is here, you old fool! I know he is here, and I
warn you thatif you don’t open your gates and let
me talk to him that I will return with a squad of
gendarmes and force your old nest.”

“T tell you,” repeated the man, much less firmly,
“that he is not here.”

“And I tell you heis here. You old idiot, do you
suppose I would come all the way out here only on
the chance that he might be here? I know heis here.
And Lalso know that if you don’t open to me I will
have every penalty of the law exercised on you.”

“You are very violent. When was he brought
here ?”

“Two nights ago.”

“Who brought him %”

“None of your business. It is for me to ask ques-
tions, not you. Are you going to open this gate?”

“Tf anybody is here who ought not to,be here, it is
not my fault.”

“Who said anything about it being yours or any-
body’s fault? Open the door.”

The man evidently thought he had delayed long
enough, for in a moment Wat could hear him hush-
ing the dogs, and then he began to undo the fasten-
ings of the doors.

“Let mesee your authority for this extraordinary
visit,’ was his first word to Wat on opening the
rates.

“Wat handed him the order from the magistrate. .

“Tt is unusual, but I suppose I must submit.”

“iT 7 had been a wise man you would have sub-
mitted long ago. Show me to Monsieur Horwitz at
once.”

“T am not sure that any such person is here, but I
will let you see the latest patients, and you may see
if the person you inquire for is here.”

“You needn’t waste Spd time or mine by any such
nonsense. Show me the man I mean if you know
when you are well off.”

“You are so decided, and it is so late, that perhaps
I am not as clear as Imight be. A young man, you
said, tall, and—oh, I think I know the one you
mean. A very quiet, well disposed patient. Yes,
yes. His would be a very quick cure.”

“Yes, [ think it would be. In fact, I think it will
be. Indeed I am not sure he is not well even now.”

“Tt may be as you say,” agreed the man; “we do
make some quick cures here.’

“Just so. Now, then, Monsieur Horwitz, if you
please.”

Doctor Martin; seeing he could not put off the evil
moment any longer, yielded as gracefully as he
could, and asked Wat to step into the parlor while he
went to get the patient.

“I'll go with you,” said Wat.”

“We don’t allow visitorsin the wards except at
certain times.”

“We'll consider this a certain time then. For, as
sure as you live, lam going to follow you. Now no
more nonsense, if you value your liberty.”

“How violent you are,” expostulated the doctor.

. “You'll find mea great deal worse if you don’t
urry.”

Evidently the doctor took him at his word, for with
asigh he led the way to a wing of the house and
there unlocked an iron door.

He had taken up a lap as he went along, and this
threw a light into the room disclosed by the opening
of the door.

‘Who is that?” demanded a voice, which Wat joy-
fully recognized as Ivan’s.

“It is I, Wat Denton,” he answered. in English.

“Thank God! ButI knew you would cume,’ was
the fervant exclamation from Ivan as he sprang
from his bed.

“Dress yourself as quickly as possible—or, no, do
not until I have had a talk with you. Doctor, leave
us alone for a while.”

The doctor uneasily retired, wondering what the
man who ordered so brusquely would do to him for
his part in the affair.

Wat, after assuring himself that Ivan had not suf-
fered any bodily injury, proceeded to tell him as
rapidly as possible what had taken place.

“Vera is safe, then !’’ was Ivan’s first cry.

“Perfectly safe.”

“Then let me get out of this place as quickly as
possible.”

“Pardon me, but I want you to stay here one night
longer.”’

“But why ?’

“Because I am not ready to let Sofia know that her
plans have gone awry.”

‘But what good will it do for me to stay in this
vile ag Se ”

“She will come here to-morrow to let you out.”

“The wretched creature !” .

“Don’t say that to her when you see her.”
| why not? Must I keep up the dreadful farce any

onger ?” ‘

“Kor to-morrow only. Pretend to be very grateful
to her for saving you, and keep it up for a short time
and I promise you not to ask anything like it of you
again.

“Well, I will,” sighed Ivan.

“Doctor, come here !”’ called out Wat.

The doctor came, and Wat addressed him in severe

tones:
“T could have you putin prison for ten years for
this, as you know very well. Now don’t interrupt
me. I was going to say that if you will lend your-
self to a little plan of mine to catch the principal
culprit, 1 will agree to let you off.”

“T assure you——”

“Don’t waste your breath assuring me anything.
Will you do as I bid you, or not? You may take your
choice.”

“T shall be glad to do anything for you, but-——”

“Never mind the ‘but.’ This gentleman will re-
main here until a lady comes here to-morrow to have
him set at liberty.”

“But if you say he is not insane, he is at liberty
now.”

“You old hypocrite! But I see that you are quite
equal to playing your part creditably.”

“Thank you. I will do my best.”

“You are to pretend that the gentleman has seen
nobody, and that he has been almost frantic for his
liberty. Do you understand ?”’

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Very well, then; see that you do not play me
oat for you will find me an ugly customer if you

oO ’

“T will do my best.”
“Good-by, Ivan, and keep up your spirits, for you
will be united to Vera to-morrow without fail.”

CHAPTER LII.
SOFIA HAS A SURPRISE PARTY.
From the asylum Wat hastened back to Paris,

sleeping on the way with all the soundness of a man
who has done a good piece of work.

 

And when he reached his bed he took more sleep,
a thing he had not had in any comfort for a great
many nights.

In the morning he went to Sofia’s palace, and
there took up a position where he could see all that
went on at the front.

At about ten o’clock Sofia’s carriage drove up to
the door, and soon afterward the Countess came
forth, looking rather as if she had done many good
“aang the day before than like a murderess at
Leart.

She was radiant with the hope of the accomplish-
ment of her purpose.

Wat did not hear nor try to hear her order to the
coachman, for he knew she would be going nowhere
but to the asylum.

As soon as she was gone he hurried to the chief,
and inquired if the demand for Sofia’s extradition
had been received.

It had, and the papers for her arrest would soon be
made out.

“T will stop here to take up the officer as I come
back with the Countess Radolinski,”’ said Wat.

‘“‘He will be ready.”

Wat then had himself driven to the wine-shop,
where-he found Vera.

He told her what had happened and what he in-
tended to do.

“And now,” he said, smilingly, “I will guarantee
that you are not only willing, but anxious to get to
your room first, so that you can doa little beautify-
ing before seeing Ivan.”

_Vera affected a pretty little dignity at this, but
signified her wish, nevertheless; to be taken to her
room.

From there, Wat took her to the palace of the
Countess Almazoff, stopping on the way, as he had
arranged, for the officer with the warrant for the
arrest of Sofia.

At the palace he asked to see the butler, and taking
that functionary aside he told him that he had
arranged a little surprise for the countess, and wished
te hide himself and companions in the room adjoin-
ing the drawing-room.

The butler eyed both Wat and the officer with a
peculiar glance, and seemed to recognize the fact
that it would be useless to combat them.

“Not a word to the countess about this,” said Wat.

“No, monsieur.”

“And send me a trusty servant, will you ?’

The butler went away, and a footman presently
came in answer to Wat’s wish.

Wat puta piece of silver in the man’s hand, and
then said:

“That is part payment for something I want you
to do for me.”

‘*Yes, monsieur.”

Wat then described the position of the telegraph
office where he received messages trom Gresser, and
asked the man to go there and wait for a message
for Wat Denton.

“And as soon as the message comes, bring it here,
and hand it to me.”

“Yes, monsieur.”’

They now settled themselves as comfortably as
they could to await the return of Sofia.

So far as the officer was concerned, this was no
difficult task; and for Wat, it seemed to be easy
enough, though he afterward confessed that he was
in an inward fever all the time. ‘

But for Vera, there was no such thing as pretend-
ing to anything but burning impatience.

The hours dragged along with leaden feet; but, as
Wat told Vera, the distance to the asylum was con-
siderable.

The end came at last, however, and they heard the
carriage stop in front of the palace.

Presently they heard Sofia’s dress rustling in the
halls, and then the manly voice of Ivan.

Vera looked as if she would jump forward and
claim Ivan for hers at once; but Wat, seeing her
desire in her eyes, laid a restraining hand upon her,
and she subsided, with a sigh.

Sofia led Ivan into the drawing-room, and said, in
her most honeyed accents:

“Welcome, Ivan, to my home after your cruel con-
finement. I am happy to have been the instrument
of your deliverance.”’

“And I am grateful in proportion to the service
rendered. Ah, if Vera were only here now, I should
have nothing to wish for.”

Sofia ground her pretty teeth, but smiled as sweetly
as she could, and answered:

i ie am afraid you will have to do witnout Vera

o-day.” *

Wat saw that he would be unable.to restrain Vera
any longer, so he nodded to her, and she dashed aside
the portiere, and stood before the astonished Sofia.

“No,” she cried, “he will not have to do without his
Vera, for here she is! Ivan, my dear love!”

She opened her arms, and he opened his, and before
the defeated woman knew what had happened to her,
they were locked in a close embrace.

Sofia stared at them ina sort of stupor of rage and
astonishment, and then it seemed to gradually come
over her that she had been duped.

Wat, who had not taken his eyes from her, saw her
put her hand to her bosom and draw something out.

In another instant she had leaped forward dike a
Herons, with the glistening blade of a knife held
aloft.

Before she couid do the injury she contemplated,
Wat had her wrists in his vise-like grasp, and was
saying:

“You have had your turn. It is ours now.”

She recognized his voice even then, and seeing him
in the garb of Gaspard, hissed at him:

“So itis you again ?”"

“Tt is I again. Officer, do your duty.”

“You are my prisoner, madam.”

And before the wretched woman could suspect
what was going to be done she had been handcuffed.

At this point the footman returned with the tele-
gram pee Wat had been expecting, and handed it

o Wat.

“Ah! what have we here?’ exclaimed Wat, tear-
ing open the envelope and rapidly translating the
contents.

‘Good news, countess!” he cried. “(I mean Countess
Radolinski,” he added.

Vera was too happy to speak; she merely looked
with a smile at him. ;

“You are declared innocent, and the estates of your
brother and yourself are to be returned to you.”

Sotia said not one word.

She realized that she had been beaten at all points,
and she would not give her enemies the satisfaction
of hearing her moan. ;

CHAPTER LIII.
CONCLUSION,

Neither Vera nor Ivan would returh to Russia to
on the estates, notwithstanding ‘their immense
value.

Wat had no such feeling, and being given full
powers, went there, and having gained recognition,
through the good offices of Gresser, converted the
property into money and sent it on to America, where
the two lovers had gone at once.

If Wat had asked for the proceeds of the two
estates, he might have had it, for the gratitude of
Vera and Ivan knew no bounds.

But he laughingly made what he thought was a fair
charge, and said he would take the rest of his pay in
a kiss from the bride.

He was the only one content with such an arrange-
ment, however, and he was forced to accept a much
larger sum than he would have dreamed of charging;
and Vera said he should have two kisses. or, if that
were not enough, he should have more.

As for Sofia, she was taken to Russia, where she
made strenuous efforts to procure a pardon.

And she might have been successful through the
grand duke’s good offices if Gresser had not quietly
suggested that he had certain documents which the
grand duke would not like to have seen by the Czar.

Failing at the last, the wretched woman, rather
than suffer death at the hands of the executioner,
poisoned herself.

Chernigoff lived a life of vain plotting the rest of
his short life.

He was found dead in a garret in London, the’cir-
cumstances of his taking off being shrouded in
mystery.

It was said he had fallen a victim to the betrayed
nihilists.

Gresser attained the object of his ambition and
was created Minister of the Interior,

[THE END,]

BeAuTY

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All letters shonld be addressed to

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

THAT BOY.

BY

 

 

 

KATE THORN.

 

The very freckles on his face were like so many
interrogation points.

Why ? ¢ ? stuck out all over him in bas relief.

He was about nine years old; his nose was turned
up, and his front teeth were set wide apart, and
were scolloped at the edges like a piece of Hamburg
embroidery.

His hair was cropped close, and fairly stood on end
with the bristling curiosity of the brain beneath it.

His clothes were a size too small for him, and he
gave one the impression of having a form which had
swelled after they were put on.

His pa was with him. He was a small, mild-tem-
pered looking man, with whitish eyes and a com-
plexion like a rather weak milk punch. He looked as
if he had been run through a laundry establishment
and hadin’t ‘‘done up” well.

The pair boarded a street-car in Boston. The boy
was on his first visit to the city. He held to his pa’s
two first fingers with one hand, and with the other

he was engaged in forcing a wide chunk of molasses
candy into his mouth and holding it there, evidently
greatly against its will. There is a sort of a slippery
perverseness about molasses candy that it requires
skill and experience to manage it successfully.

The boy stood still and looked at the passengers.
His Ee made a feeble attempt to have him sit down,
but he declined. He swept the horizon of the car
with his inquisitive os Then he looked at the
zenith, where placards advising the reader to try
Perkins’ Bitters, and to go to Europe by the In-
caremerrery Excelsior Line, gleamed in staring capi-
tals.

Then his eye lighted on the conductor. He shifted
the molasses candy into his left cheek, and bulging
out on that side, he opened his small battery from
the right side of his face.

“Pa, is that a policeman? He’s got on a badge.
Does he lock folks up? Did he ever hang anybody
for killing folks that tad money? What has he got
in that thing that rings the bell? Is them Sunday-
school cards that he’s got tied to him and punched
with holes? Can’t I have one? Pa, what’s the leather
round his pockets for? What makes the folks pull
the string overhead? Pa, who’s that man that’s
a-going to get offt—him with light trousers? Say,
pa, won’t his trousers burst if he sits down? I should
be afraid they would, if I was his ma.”

Then he swapped sides with his mouth and the
candy, and his pa wiped oft the loose molasses from
his chin, and the boy was ready for business again.

He climbed up on the seat, put his muddy boots on
a plush bag painted with yellow daisies and a calla
lily, which the lady next him had placed there for
safe-keeping, and ran his sticky mouth along the top
of the window, which was let down.

“Oh, pa, pa!” he cried, with animation, “is the poor
woman blind ?—is she? Was she born so, or did the
lightning strike her, as it did Mr. Peters?’

His small body was quivering with excitement, and
he let the wad of candy drop out of his mouth and
fall on the seat, where in due time it glued an ancient
and warm-natured dowager fast to the cushion, and
made the horse-car company liable for damages.

His eyes were fixed on a young lady who sailed se-
renély down the street, her soul absorbed in the con-
templation of the ““Whatsoever of the Which and
Wherefore,” the glory of a twenty-dollar heliotrope-
colored bonnet around her head, and a Skye terrier
tied to her with a golden cord.

“Oh, pa!’ cried the boy, “give mea cent. I’ll give
it to her. Why don’t she have a board on her back,
with ‘I AM BLIND’ printed on it? Say, pa, does the
dog know where she wants to go? How does he
know? Which is his head end? Has he got heads
all round? Oh, pa, pa! who’s that standing by that
store where the pipes and tobacco is? It’s an Injun.
Itis, pa! Is heone of Buffalo Bill’s Injuns? Is he
Sitting Bull? Is them cigars he’s got in his hand?
Does he give ’em away? What for? I want one!
Pa, Tsay! I wantone! Did he ever skulp anybody?
Pa, was ever you skulped? Was that bald-headed
man that sits beside you ever skulped? He looks
like it—don’t he, pa?

“Say, pa! should you as lief kiss that curly haired
girl that’s just got out, as to kiss our cook? Why
don’t you do it, instead of kissing her? Would ma
be any madder if you should ?”’

Two gentlemen within ear-shot of the boy were dis-
cussing the recent city election, and the registration
of women. The boy listened, and nudged his pa.

“Say, pa, what makes the women register? What
is it to register? Is it anything like bya vaccinated,
or joining the Masons, or being baptized? What are
they going to do after they are registered? Is voting
bossing things? Don’t they boss things now? Is
ina registered? She needn’t be, need she, pa? She’s
the boss and all hands now, ain’t she, pa?

“Say, pa-a-a!” as the sorely harassed parent pulled
the bell-rope, and dragged the boy from the car,
anid the audible smiles of the passengers, ‘‘why
don’t you tell me if ma ain’t the boss?”

——___—__>- e-<__

NO FENCES.

HARKLEY

 

 

pie HARKER.

 

“Will you take down your fence if I will mine ?”

“No! My English blood rebels against this living
on a common !”

It was in a pretty New England village. My host
had as fair a cottage and plot of ground as the town
could show. It was a loyely avenue, indeed. Some
three years ago the modern craze of ‘‘no fences’’ in-
vaded the charming vill. Slowly my friend saw
fence after fence go down, the new fashion creeping
nearer and nearer to him, till finally his indlosure
stood alone. His next door neighbor had been at

length commissioned to see him and put the abové }

question te him, to which the good man received the
above reply.

Lagree with him, though I want to protest in a
more amiable manner, as befits the column of a
polite journal. And I think of better reasons. What
he meant by his English blood rebelling was more
fully expressed, as he afterward explained, by the
old English saying, ‘‘My house is my castle,” with
allthatitimplies. Butif you will allow me, gentle
reader, you who have taste and give some theught
to adornment of, home, just think of it. A grass-plot
is in constant peril without a fence. Dogs, cropping
mouths of passing brindles coming up from the
meadow pastures under the elms at milking-time
and loitering in the rosy sunset; the physician’s
honest nag at your door for even the briefest call—
all these despoil your border without afence. The
busy heels of the children’s shoes puncture your
lawn as the pretty troop pass up and down, the
school-house being just beyond, and you cannot de-
fend yourself except by carping calls to the little
dears as they learn thereby to hate you. You will
protect your grass by a wire? You drive down un-

 

2
sightly sticks and stretch twisted wire that rusts,

and kinks, and is the occasion of many an unwary
man’s fallin the twilight, with savage cuts to show
for it and more savage words to answer forit. And,
after all, your wire trap is practically a fence. Not
a graceful and becoming thing, to be sure, which sets
the dwelling off with a proper finish and perspective;
no,a@ mere goat snare, a make-shift that does not
protect, after all’s said and done.

Near me is a handsome church. It is bordered
with a beautiful lawn. The trustees caught this
foolish notion, and dispensed with the elegant adorn-
ment of an ornamental iron fence. They proposed
a granite curb or coping stone. Result—a worn path
is cut into the velvet sod diagonally more than forty
feet across the corner, where all weary-footed work-
men stream over to save the distance round the
granite-coped angle. Then what, for that unsightly
gash would never do to leave? Then a barbed-wire
barricade—will you believe it?—leading across this
path at right angles! Architecturally a hideous
thing; it inclosed nothing, as itran from the church
to the coping only. The indignant passer-by, probably
in the night having half-broken his neck and nose
over it, has put his heel into it, and there the festoon

| of barbed-wire hangsin tangle. The busy sexton re-

 

 

 

 

pairs it periodically.

What xsthetic taste is this that fights for no fences,
in obedience to a new fashion’s dictate, and contrary
to reason? Meanwhile that otherwise .beautiful
lawn is always garnished by a dog congress in one
corner of the stately tower, by the waste wrapping-
papers, newspapers, dishonored fragments of wind-
swept play-bills, and what not, which use the church-
yard as a constant haven from the storm. Besides
all, our Anglo-Saxon eyes are, by long education, so
accustomed to the finish of a fencing that the struc-
ture seems to lack something. The eye searches for
the relief of the fence. To use a colloquialism that
we all understand, the builaing would “show off”
immeasurably more to advantage by a tasty, ex-
pensive railing of ornamental iron, on which the
giauce of the beholder should first rest. To my mind
the church of God seems to stand exposed in the
common street.

And this is my criticism for dwellings also. It is
very rarely that a residence is so situated as to be
able, from an architectural point of view, to dispense
with an inclosure fence. The unfinished, unpro-
tected sensation would constantly annoy us, éxcept
for the gradual vulgarizing which good taste has
been subjected to of late years, so that habitude has
blunted our perceptions. I am willing to assail the
old-fashioned, high, conspicuous, white and staring
picket fence. I say let the hard-to-unfasten and sag-
ging, because badly hung, gate go. I am sure that
an unkept fencing, with drunken posts and out-of-
line top rail, is a blot along the village street. Paint
must be renewed occasionally on a fence as much as
on aporch. Ido not care to suspect motives, but I
have my own idea why my lazy or parsimonious
neighbor concluded to join the “no fence” party.
Yet this suggestion by no means applies to many to
whom the sparing of expense or care in repairs for
household adornment would be the very last motive
consulted.

The fact may be that a good fencing is an idea.
Ideas are never too plenty, whether you consult
your village carpenter or your own busy brain. More
taste can be exhibited in the design of an inclosure
fence than in any other thing about your grounds.
There is a big chance for indulgence and display of
characteristics of the occupant; the individualizing,
indeed, of the dwelling in the fencing. Gewgaw
work is poor; a too ornate thing is of course vulgar.
In some plots a high fence is in excellent taste; but,
as a rule, the low is superior. The pitch of the land,
the facing of the house. the position of adjacent
shrubbery or trees, all demand consideration. But I
dare assert that an architect worthy of the name can

make fencing add to the appearance of any dwelling
by adaptation. Let him try, you who have torn

yours down in a fit of despair over repeated failures.
Though you have been attempting to persuade your-
self that you like this new fashion of living in the
street, [am sure you would look out on your yard, as
you smoked your veranda cigar, and realized again
the privacy of your own lot with a sigh of relief that
the fence of your fathers had come again.

I miss the old fence on the New England village
street. Itused to climb around the elm tree’s spread-
ing roots so caressingly. It used to afford my boyish
form such an Arthur’s seat from which to see the
sun godown. It was such a regal notion, the gate
that swung with its chain and weight before my
grandma’s cottage. The fond old fence over which
we lovers used to lean and say our tardy and repeat-
ed good-nights while the moon hung silvery above
our young heads. What is it to go courtingand have
no fence by the maple on which to rest an arm,
while another arm—well, that would be otherwise en-
gaged.

Give us the fences once more. Let us organize a
rebellion against the new fashion and in the name of
the days of yore. Only build with more care and
use modern taste in construction.

 

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs.

 

 

Helen Wood.

 

FASHION’S FANCIES.

 

Dancing dresses just touch the floor.

Grecian styles are growing in favor.

Surah silk is quite popular for blouses.

Ladies’ gold rings, with three large stones, are popular.
Black brocaded silk is combined with tan-colored cloth.

Three single pearl studs are fashionable for evening
dress.

Accordion-plaited fronts are fancied for wrappers and
simple tea gowns.

A gentleman’s dress suit should always be accompanied
by a silk hat.

Tan-colored shoes will be more popular the coming
season than ever before.

Silver-mounted Easter eggs, of decorated porcelain
make fashionable sugar, salt, and pepper shakers.

An engraved silver shaving cup, gold lined, with brush
to match, makes a handsome present.

The fancy for straight lines in dress is now at its
height, and even wraps for spring are shown in long gar-
ments which cover the figure, and do not make a break in
the effect as the shorter jacket or coat does. One thing
seems to be accepted on all sides, the day of the silk wrap
has gone by for the time. All outside garments shown

for spring are of cloth richly embroidered or braided, in
self-color or black, and fawn, silver-gray, and other so-
called natural shades of cloth, find special favor this
season. Camel’s-hair cloths and smooth-faced cloths com-
prise the majority of the fabrics used, and the long wraps
are usually loose in front, and fitted to the figure at the
back, while the Connemara cloak is suggested rather
than copied in the long wrap fitted to the figure at the
back and loose in front, falling from a yoke. All sleeves
in outside wraps show a tendency to expansion in angel
wings, extending to the foot of the wrap or gown of the
wearer; or in long, pointed sleeves.

The reign of the small bonnet continues, and it will, no
doubt, be popular for all dress occasions, while black lace
hats have lost none of their popularity, but those shown
this season are more severe in their simplicity than those
of last summer, being tiny, simple capotes, shirred on
wires or run with narrow satin or gros grain ribbon in
number 1 width, and trimmed with crushed roses or an
other flower the wearer may select; or with very full
close rosettes of the narrowest ribbon in two or three con-
trasting colors. A charming little capote of black lace is
shirred in close puffs on an open frame, and wound around
the crown with the thorned stem of a rose vine with close
buds and leaves, and under the brim a wreath of full-
blown crushed roses rests on the hair of the wearer.
There are little bonnets of red crepe-lisse, shirred on an
open frame, making a bonnet that is clear enough to
show the hair through, and such ‘bonnets are trimmed
with field poppies, wheat, or some wild flower, or left

; quite plain, with no trimming but full rosettes of narrow
} ribbon.

There are flower and leaf bonnets shown of fine
blossoms like violets or forget-me-nots, or of rose leaves
or wheat ears, and these may compose the whole bonnet,
but usually form the crown only, the brim being com-
posed of net, crape, or some sheer material with velvet.
Insects of various kinds are found on the new French
bonnets, such as butterflies, bees, dragon-flies, and ugly
spiders. It seems to be conceded that bonnets made of
sheer material will be the daintiest choice, and that such
bonnets will be worn as early as Easter, much earlier
than they have been heretofore, while the Directoire poke
bonnets, which project out over the forehead and are
piquant and becoming to certain fair young faces, will be
more popular than last year, and extremely flat hats, in

| which the crown is crushed down to nearly a level with

a brim, will find favor with those who like extreme
styles.

Eimer, Springfield, Ill.—White bunting, vailing, cash-
mere, or serge gowns for young girl graduates are made
with an accordion-plaited skirt, trimmed above its hem
with ten or twelve rows of the narrowest feather-edge
white ribbon, while a sash of white ribbon is twisted
around the belt of the skirt, with ends and loops drooping

behind, or on the left side, and this sash is permanently
fixed on the belt so that when the skirt is put on after the
waist has been fastened, the join between the skirt and
waist is hidden. The waist may bein empire style, in
full bias tucks, with a plaiting around the neck, and full
sleeves; or it may have a pointed yoke, striped with the
narrow ribbon in diagonal rows; or it may have a jacket
front, with revers and a jabot of plaiting, while the round
back is finely tucked all over in rows, from the neck to
the belt.

Tom Lee.—ist. The proper shirt for evening dress has a
bosom of plain white linen, with a single line of embroid-
ery, also white, down the front. The pique bosoms that
have so long been fashionable are no longer worn by good
dressers, as they are considered'too heavy, stiff, and warm
for spring and summer use. Two buttons are still worn,

and the fancy for elaborately embroidered bosoms in pink
and pale blue has died out. For every-day wear, the colored

 

aim THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

VOL. 44—No, 26,

 

 

shirt, with white collar and cuffs, is stylish, and is now
made in an endless variety of colors. 2d. The collar most
in demand this season is nearly straight, and when but-
toned leaves a V-shaped opening at the throat, the points
being about half an inch apart, while short-necked men
will continue to wear turn-down collars, with the points
a little longer than those worn last year.

Edrie Brown.—Short jackets and wraps for general
wear are of cloth, embroidered in braid or finished
straight around the hips with very little or no trimming,
save stitchings on the edge, while only a few jackets are

shown this season with vests, but these have vests in
contrasting colors. The favorite jacket for a young sy.
is a sailor coat, with loose ‘‘reefing” front, low sailor col-
lar, gilt buttons, and a black silk sailor tie, these jackets
being shown in dark navy-blue and other colors, while
there are also eee of white cloth. finished with
trimmings of fay ersian embroidery. Long wraps are
made up over black satin, and in combination with black
satin brocades.

Louise, Philadelphia, Pa.—Black and colored silks are
made up with full backs, plaited sides, and Spanish
flounce fronts. The back hooks up over the slightly

pointed basque, which is shirred or draped from the
shoulders in empire fashion, the fullness sisnapeeries
under a wide empire sash, which is sewed in the right
under-arm seam, crossed over the front, and knotted once
on the left side, where it hangs in two long eS ee
ped ends, two and a half yards of silk, of the ordinary
width, being required for this purpose.

Miss Dollie C.—1st. The price of the shortrubber gloves
is $1.25, and the long ones $1.50 a pair. 2d. They are worn
when doing rough work, such as washing dishes, garden-
ing, etc., to protect the hands, and keep them smooth and
white.

Helen C.—Smocked silk blouses, in white, pink, pale

blue, green, and scarlet, are worn under heavy cloaks to
the theater, and give quite a fancy appearance to the
dress when the wraps are removed.

Mrs. Clara B., Elizabeth, N. J.—‘‘The Usages of the
Best Society” contains full information on matters of
etiquette, and can be furnished for fifty cents.

Etfie S., Brooklyn, N. Y.—We will mail you ‘Vella Ver-
nell,” in book-form, on receipt of twenty-five cents.

BROTHER JOHN’S FATE.

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS,

 

 

 

While we were living at our little country-seat. we
had off and on a good many visitors. Among them
was our fifty-second cousin, Miss Celestine Aubrey.
She was an only child, pretty, and very much
spoiled, and as romantic and sentimental as——well,
as her name. Itis rather indiscreet to allude to a
lady’s age, but I suppose Cousin Celestine was about
sixteen years old.

She arrived one bright afternoon, accompanied by
any quantity of white dresses, a tremendous leghorn.
flat, and a guitar.

Brother John had gone down to the boatin a little
four-wheeled concern of ours, which the children
called the “carriage,” for the purpose of escorting
her to the house. The moment I set eyes on him as
he returned, with his legs very much incommoded
by a large trunk marked “‘C. A.,” and a great band-
box bobbing up and down on his knees, and hitting
against his chin every now and then, while he
guided the horse and ‘‘beamed” (I can’t express my-
self in any other manner, for he was one big smile),
on Miss Celestine, I turned to Mr. Psalter, my hus-
band, who stood beside me on the veranda, and
said:

“My dear, John is in love again.”

“Of course, he is,” Psalter replied.
would be when he started.”

“She is the most glorious creature!’ whispered
John in my ear, after the first greetings were over,
and Miss Celestine was changing her traveling dress
in her own apartment—‘‘the most glorious creature,
I assure you!—an angel in disposition; and as for
her mental qualities—oh, Emma! I didn’t mind the
trunk, though it squeezed me terribly, for it had her
initials on it. And as for the bandbox, every time it
hit against my chin I thought that it contained her
bonnet, and I was well content, though it did give me
the toothache! Indeed, I was, Emma.”

I was about to answer, when Cousin Celestine
made her appearance, dressed in white, with her
glossy black hair bound in braids about her head.
She really lookéd very pretty, indeed. And then,
such a time as they had over that guitar—such solici-
tude as to its strings—such careful tuning and
examining! And John insisted that Celestine must
play something, just to make sure that the precious
guitar was uninjured. Celestine did play, and sing,
too, while John sat, with adoration expressed in
every feature, listening to her.

There was very little said or done that evening,
aside from the singing and love-making, and as
Celestine was weary with her long journey, we all
retired early. I caughtalast glimpse of poor John,
as I went out to fasten the garden gate, sitting at
his window with his eyes cast upward toward the
moon.

Goodness gracious! of all flirtations (and I have
witnessed a good many in my time), that which
Celestine carried on with poor John was the most
extensive! One day she was all softness and sweet-
ness; the next, haughty and reserved; the day after
that, perhaps in a laughing mood, teasing him, draw-
ing caricatures of him, refusing to sing, to take a
walk, or to do anything he wished, in fact, and again
relapsing into the sentimental mood, and smiling,
and sighing, and singing like a very Juliet; while
poor John, most terribly in earnest, for the time, was
in a flutter of despair or delight from one week’s end
to the other. How long this state of things would
have lasted I can’t undertake to say, for it was inter-
rupted by an unexpected occurrence.

John and Celestine had been out for a walk, and
had staid quite a long while, when, just as Psalter
declared that he wouldn’t wait for tea one moment
longer, the gate opened and they entered.

John appeared to be exceedingly injuréd and in-
dignant about something or other.

a puppy!” were the first words he ut-
tered.

“Now, Cousin Emma,” interrupted Celestine, “don’t
believe one word he says. He was a very nice young
gentleman—indeed he was. He only bowed to me,
and that is country fashion, I know—isn’t it, Cousin
Emma ?”’

“Tmpertinence is impertinence in the country as
well as in the city, Miss Celestine,” replied John, with
great emphasis.

“Yes, of course,’ assented Cousin Celestine, ‘‘of
course; but the gentleman wasn’t at all impertinent;
on the contrary, he was very polite.”

“Of whom are you speaking ?” I inquired.

“Why, you see, Cousin Emma,” replied Celestine,
“vou see, we were walking along the road, I and
Cousin John, when I noticed a young gentleman on
the opposite side walking in the same direction. I
pointed him out to Cousin John. He was quite
striking in his appearance, really remarkable, I
assure you, Cousin Emma.’, ;

“Td have made him moreso if I had had my cane
with me,” remarked John, in a stage ‘“‘aside.”’

“Well,” continued Celestine, “by and by my hat
came untied and blew away; and very naturally and
politely this young gentleman ran after it and
brought it to me.” .

“Impertinent coxcomb!” said John. ‘‘He should
have left that task for me. I was your companion.”

“But you know, John,’ remonstrated Celestine,
‘‘ you know that your foot slipped and you fell down
in the mud; and the hat would have blown into the
river if it hadn’t been for the strange young gentle-
man. You oughtto feel very much obliged to him,
Cousin John, instead of talking so.”

John colored to the roots of his hair.

“Ah! and what did the fellow have the impudence
to say?” he interposed, “that ‘if he had been that
hat, the strongest wind couldn’t have stirred him,’ or
some other rubbish. I heard him.”

“Well, whatif he did?’ replied Celestine, blushing
in herturn. “What great harm was there in that?’

“And then,” said John, ‘‘ihen, to crown ail, he fol-
lowed us home, and bowed to Cousin Celestine at the
gate. I’ll cowhide the rascal!” Y

“Kat your supper first, John,” said Psalter, ‘and
perhaps that will alter your mind on the subject.”

John replied that he “had no appetite,” and betook
himself to his own room in high dudgeon. Celestine
ate very heartily. i

After tea, old farmer Jones, our nearest neighbor,
stepped in to pay mea visit. When he had finished
the subject of ‘‘the crops” and “‘the weather,” he re-
marked: ,

“We've got a boarder from the city down to our
house, the city-fidest, girlishest lookin’ chap I ever did
see. He came with a letter from my old friend. Cap-
tain Brown, sol agreed to take him. My wife says
he’s nota bit of trouble, but he’s tryin’ to look at—
his hands and feet and waist are so small, and his
face so pink and white—— I’m goin’ to bring him
round tosee you. See’n you’re from the city, praps
you wouldn’t mind him so muchas we do, and you've
got young folks,” :

Accordingly, next evening, just as John was re-
stored to good humor, and while we were all chatting
merrily together, farmer Jones entered, bringing
with him his “city company.”

Celestine smiled sweetly as the stranger bowed,
and John, muttering, ‘‘It is the same impertinent
puppy!” banged the door after him as he left the
room.

Tt was all over with poor John now. After the first
introduction, Mr. Montague—that was his name—
came continually. Hewas avery effeminate-looking
fellow, with pretty features and bright black eyes—a
mere boy ‘1 appearance—but Miss Celestine consid-
ered him old enough to fallin love with him, and ex-
ceedingly enchanting to boot; consequently, John was

“T knew he

 

 

decidedly in the minority, aud contented himself by

making sardonic observations in my ears when Mr.
Montague was present, and he continued to be present
every evening.

Cousin Celestine quite enjoyed herself. Between
Montague’s adoration and John’s jealousy, she had
occupation after her own heart.

Days passed on. One evening, after sunset, but
while it was still quite light, Psalter and Celestine
and myself were sitting in the parlor alone, Celestine
anxiously awaiting the arrival of her captives, when
Hepsiba, our new servant, came tothe door. ‘Mr.
and Mrs, Psalter,” said Hepsiba, “I want to speak to
you, if you please.”

“What is 1t, Hepsiba?’’ Isaid, much astonished at
her manner, as we followed her into the kitchen.

“It’s murder!” answered Hepsiba, ‘“‘or it’s goin’ to
be, anyway.”

“Murder! Whot where? how?’ I gasped.

“You know as well as I do what has been a-goin’
on,” said Hepsiba. “How that city gal’s been tor-
mentin’ Mister John, and flirtin’ with that mean little
whip Cc enanpey I know’d somethin’ desperate
would come of it. And I’ve watched! Well, to-day,
I see Mister John a cleaning them two old pistols
that hung on the chimbly piece, and to-night he’s
took ’em down, and gone to the woods to meet that
dandyish chap and shoot him, I’ll bet a dollar.”

A loud shriek interrupted her. It was Cousin Celes-
tine—who had been listening in the hall—in strong
hysterics.

“Oh, Psalter! what shall we do?’ I said. “Surely
John never would kill him! Do follow him at once,
my dear; I never was so frightened in all my life.”

Psalter, with an expression half comical and half
anxious, turned toward the gate; and just as he
opened it a gig dashed up to the house, and out
jumped farmer Jones and a stout, elderly, military-
looking gentleman.

“Mr. Psalter, Captain Brown,” said Mr. Jones.
“We've come after that young Montague, as he calls
himself. Where is he?’ :

‘In the woods yonder,” np og Hepsiba from the
kitchen window, ‘“‘getting shot with a pistol, most
likely, at this identical minute.”’

“Oh, don’t say so!” shrieked Celestine; “dont! TI
will prevent it at the risk of my life!” And away she
flew toward the woods.

We followed.

Down a narrow path we rushed to asort of circular
clearing, celebrated in the village asthe scene of a
duel many years before.

John stood with bold defiant front, holding a pistol
in either hand, while Montague leaned against a tree
nearly suffocated with laughter.

“Take your choice,” were the first words which we
heard John utter. ‘‘Take your choice! One of us
must fall.’

“Ha! ha! ha!” rang a clear, girlish laugh through
the trees. “Ha! ha! ha! I can’t firea pistol. Just
wait until 1 can stop laughing and I’ll explain.”

“T want no explanations,” cried John. ‘I——”

“But Ido!” shouted Captain Brown; “Ide! You
jade,” he continued, shaking the soi-disant Montague
roughly. “You jade, what do you mean by this
ridiculous escapade? Ladies and gentlemen, I’m
ashamed to own it, but this is my niece, Hetty Brown,
and this is her brother’s Sunday suit she ran away
from my house with, her head full of woman’s rights
—and she shall go back with a flea in herear. Mrs.
Psalter, please to leni her something decent to wear,
and I’ll take her home directly.”

I looked around for Celestine.

She had disappeared.

Mr. Montague was soon, by the aid of a gingham
dress, a straw bonnet, and black silk wrap, metamor-
phosed into avery pretty young woman, blushing,
but saucy still, as the inquiries she made regarding
Celestine, her lady-love, sufficiently proved. And in
less than an hour Captain Brown, already quite re-
lenting to his pretty niece, departed in the gig which
brought him.

“Oh, good gracious!" said Hepsiba, looking after
the vehicle as it disappeared; “what an impudent,
bold thing! Did you ever hear tell of the like? What
are women coming to ?”

“Well, the field is clear for you at last, John,” said
Psalter. ‘‘You have no rivalin Cousin Celestine’s
affections now. You can go ahead now, old fellow,
as fast as you like.”

“Celestine !” sneered John. “Bah! a lisping, sim-
pering schoolgirl! Give me a dashing, bright-eyed
woman like Hetty Brown. What a form she has, and
what a step! Emma,” he added, in a whisper,
“Emma, I feel that Hetty Brown is my fate!”

Cousin Celestine went home next day. disgusted
with the country.

- & <+——____——_

A GOOD COMPLEXION.

 

Would you have a good skin? Then you must be
up and doing. Be active; throw away the useless
crochet-work ; break the plaque about to be
sicklied o’er with the pale cast of impossible birds,
beasts, or flowers; snatch the broom from Betty’s
astonished hands, and sweep, sweep for your com-
plexion’s sake—sweep, and perspire! Begin not too
vigorously—say a quarter of a room at first, then
half, then all; make the beds, and clean the silver.
Sitting still spoils the complexion. It is almost as
bad in its results as painting the face. Tear round a
little, and leave off dreaming. Quit the jog-trot of
domestic stagnation and go out into the open air,
taking in large draughts of life-sustaining fresh air.
Two marvelous cosmetics can be had for the asking,
or rather for the managing—air and exercise. With-
out money and without price these gifts of the gods
are bestowed irrespective of persons. Housework is
always with us, and the air is just outside, at our
gates, so to speak.

To secure good coloring and a skin of fine texture,
the American girl must make up her mind to perspire
daily from brisk exercise. The sweat of one’s brow
is more than a figure of speech—it is a cosmetic of
almost priceless value, warranted to improve even
the ugliest of girls. When the skin attends proper]
to its duty, which it shares with the lungs and kid-
neys—that of throwing off impurities—and is suffi-
ciently aided by these organs, law and order reign
in the complex human machinery.

Whoever ignores the necessity of active exercise
within doors and without, and the value of fresh air
as a beautifier, is in a precarious condition as to com-
plexion. Ignorance of the law is no excuse. Nature
takes that young woman in hand in the most ruthless
manner, absolutely without sentiment, and brands
her, so that the wise ones who run may read the true
meaning of pimple or patch. Talk about the sins of
the fathers! Why, even the virtues of the moth+rs
will not save the inert modern girl in good circum-
stances who sits listlessly among the dead air, the
dead wool, the dead silk, the dead wood, the dead
everything of a home wherein the simplest laws of
health are either unknown or recklessly ignored.

ee
COSTLY LACE.

There are two kinds of Venetian laces—that made
with needles and that made with bobbins, only one
person being engaged in the former to twelve per-
sons engaged in the latter. The laces made with the
needle are far more elegant and costly than those
made with the bobbin. The difference is almost as
marked as the difference between a steel engraving
and an engraving on wood. One is an elevated and
difficult art, the other is an industrial one and serves
the ordinary uses.

The costliness ot what is known as point d’Alencon
lace is owing to the fact that it is worked with the
finest needles on parchment patterns, the pieces
afterward united by invisible seams. Twelve dif-
ferent hands are required to produce a single piece
of the lace. The design is engraved upon copper-

plate, and is then printed upon slips of parchment
ten inches long, each slip numbered in a given order.
The pattern is pricked upon the parchment by the
marker; then the tracer traces the pattern of the
parchment with thread upon a piece of coarse linen
attached to the parchment. The ground netting of
the lace is then worked in,’ andit thus passes from
hand to hand until completed, when it is cut from the
pattern with a sharp razor.

A point d’Alencon shawl has been known to sell
for $10,000. One of the most marvelous laces owned
by the Empress Eugenie was a point de Brouxelles
shawl. No less than eighty experts were employed for
one year in making it, and it cost $22,000in gold. Itis
in imitation of Royal Venice point, in its magnificent
web, in its tracery of the Renaissance period and its
devices of antique figures and Moorish conceits.
Heavy ferns droop over the almost invisible mesh,
there are groups of medallions set in exquisite gar-
lands of foliage, and the borders are worked around
concealed horsehair to give it greater stiffness, and
to offer a striking contrast to the airy grace of the
Brussels manufacture. Queen Isabella’s laces are
valued at $1,000,000, and represent all kinds, epochs,
and nationalities; in her collection are Spanish man-
tilla vails worth $6,000, dresses in point d’Alencon,
and antique guipure valued at $20,000 each.

——_ > @<+———————————_

Men who have no principles themselves, and who
never act without some interested motive, cannot un-
derstand how other people can have principles and act
with disinterested motives. So when a man of principle
does something an unprincipled man does not like, he
at once begins to imagine the motive that would have
influenced him had he acted thus, and proceeds to
charge that motive on the other party. Never acting
from principle himself, it never occurs to him that the
other man might have acted from principle.

 

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

te Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers,

 

W., Alexandria, Va.—lst Salts of tartar (carbonate of
potassa) is the principal article used by barbers for sham-
pooing the hair. One recipe is this: Dissolve one ounce
of salts of tartar in one quart of soft water; sprinkle
freely on the head, and rub well until a lather is formed;
wash off with clear water, and then apply bay rum. An-
other recipe is the following: Salts of tartar, four
ounces; powdered borax, four ounces; soft water, one
gallon. Mix, and bottle for use. A shampoo liquor,

which contains no salts of tartar, is made by dissolving
half an onnce of carbonate of ammonia and one ounce of
borax in one quart of water, and adding thereto two
ounces of glycerine, three quarts of New England rum,
and one que of bayrum. The hair having been moist-
ened with this liquor, is to be shampooed with the hands
until a slight lather isformed; and the lather being then
washed out with clean water, leaves the head clean and
the hair moist and glossy. 2d. A fine ane cream or
soap is made as follows: Take of clarified lard, seven
pounds; potash lye (twenty-six per cent. of caustic pot-
ash), three and three-quarter pounds; rectified spirits,
three ounces ; oil of bitter almonds, twodrams. Melt the
lard in a porcelain vessel, by a salt-water bath; then run
in the lye, ee slowly, agitating the whole time. When
about half the lye is in, the mixture begins to curdle; it
will, however, become so firm thatit cannot be stirred.
It will assume a pearl ey ance by triturating in a
mortar, and slowly adding the alcohol, holding the oil of
almonds in solution.

L. §8.—Winchester, Ky.—Most canary birds shed their
feathers in the months of September and October. The op-
eration, though a natural one, is accompanied with a slight
disease, They should be fed on a paste made from a hard-
boiled egg and one pulverized cracker, thoroughly mixed
Somsenee using no water in the mixing, the egg supplying
sufficient moisture. Great care should be taken to Leon
them in a comfortably warm place, out of all draughts of
air. With these precautions a bird will generally moult
in from four to six weeks. Should a bird not shed its
wing and tail feathers readily, it is said to be well to pull
them out—pulling, however, only one ata time. The case
you refer to 1s an extraordinary one, and it may be that
only a bird-fancier will be able to suggest a remedy.

Wm. K., Cincinnati, Ohio.—1st. Moles were once
thought to be totally destitute of eyes, because, as organs
of sight, if highly developed, they would not only be use-
less to a burrowing animal, but a hindrance to its mining
operations. They are so hidden in the fur that we can
well understand why their existence was for a long time
doubted. Hence the saying, “Blind asa mole.” 2d. But
though not destitute of sight, moles are nearly so, and
hence they are gifted with a fine sense of touch, which
compensates for the loss of the visual faculty, and enables
them to find their food in the darkness under the earth’s
surface. 3d. The collar-bone of the mole is stated to be
of extraordinary thickness and length, in order to facili-
tate i progress when mining its way through the
ground. \

J. K.L., Portsmouth.—The “Pilgrim’s Progress” was
written by John Bunyan during his twelve years’ im-
prisonment in jail at Bedford, England, to which he was
sent for preaching in disagreement with the views of the
Established Church. His book, as is well known, has had
an immense sale. He wrote other works; among them,
“One Thing is Needful” and “Grace Abounding to the
Chief of Sinners.” He was brought up in the trade of his
father, who was a brazier or tinker. tthe age of nine-
teen he married a religious wife, and at twenty-five joined
the Baptist church at Bedford. On his discharge from
jail he renewed his preaching with marked success. He
died in 1688, in the sixty-first year of his age.

Cecil Graves, Portland, Me.—1st. The climate of Manitoba,
Canada, is very cold in winter, but is occasionally hot in
summer. The severity of the winter weather is miti-

gated by a clear, dry atmosphere. 2d. Winnipeg is the
— of the province, which is well pn annoy with edu-
cational institutions. It has three colleges—St. John’s
(Church of England), St. Boniface (Roman Catholic), and
Kildonan (Presbyterian)—a convent, and many common
and parish schools. Every bona fide settler receives
a homestead or a free grant of 160 acres of land.
kinds of garden vegetables, as well as cereals, are
easily raised.

Knowledge Seeker, Louisville, Ky.—ist. The “Little
Man of Galilee” was Zaccheus, a rich Jew, a resident of
Jericho, and chief officer of the tax or tribute collector in
that place. He was very small in stature, hence the name
given him. In an interview with Christ he was brought
under the influence of his teachings, and heand his fam-
ily were converted to Christianity. It was Zaccheus who
said, after his conversion, ‘Behold, Lord, the half of my
pure I give to the poor; and if I have taken anything
eat = man by talse accusation, I restore him four-

old.” 2d.

Petroleum, Zeno, Pa.—ist. The Portuguese language is
generally spoken in Brazil, it is the language of the
court, but outside of the towns the lingoa geral, a modi-
fication of the language of the Tupi-Guarani Indians is
very prevalent. 2d. Write to the South American Steam-
ship Company, foot of Canal street, North River, this

city. The passage can be made more expeditiously and
at less cost than from the other city named.

D. W. J., Buffalo, N. Y.—Daniel O’Connell, the Irish
statesman, was born at Carhen, County Kerry, Aug. 6,
1775. He died in Genoa, on his way to Rome, May 15, 1847.
His heart was embalmed and carried to Rome, and his
body taken back to.reland. The object of his pilgrim-
age to Rome was to die there with the blessing of the
Pope, being in ill-health, but he sank too rapidly to
reach his destination.

B. A., Albany, N, Y.—“‘Barry Cornwall” was Bryan
Waller Procter, his nom de plume being an imperfect
anagram, adopted by him when he first entered the field
of literature. He was a lawyer by profession. He is best
known by his “English Songs and Other Small Poems,”
though he was the author of other works of merit. He
was the father of Adelaide. Anne Procter, the gifted
writer of sacred lyrics.

Railroad Traveler, Long Island.—The air brakes are
held against the wheels of the railroad cars by springs,
and the air is turned into the cylinders to push the brakes
away from the wheels as long as the train is in motion.
When it is desired to stop the train the air is let out, and
thus the springs apply the brakes and stop the train.

W.W.W., New Orleans.—The bronze statue of Lafayette
in Union square, this ei was presented to the city by
the French Government. The pedestal was a gift from the
French citizens of New York. It was unvailed with ap-
propriate ceremonies on Sept. 6, 1876. The work was
executed by M. Bartholdi.

Old Reader, Brooklyn, N. Y.—The granite obelisk at the
intersection of Broadway, Fifth avenue, and Twenty-
fifth street was erected by the corporation of this city, in
1857, 1n honor of Major-General Worth, who died in Texas
in 1849. Gen. Worth was one of the heroes of the Mexican
war.

Chas. L. C., New Haven, Conn.—ist. The Hague street
explosion in this city occurred on Feb. 4, 1850. Sixty-three
persons were killed and a number wounded. 2d. It was
atwo-hundred horse-power boiler that exploded, and the
accident happened in the machine-shop of T. B. Taylor,
Nos. 5 and 7 Hague street.

Inquisitive Annie L., Vicksburg.—ist. An excellent
dentifrice is prepared chalk. 2d. Exercise in the open
airand the use of dumb-bells will help to develop the
form. 3d. No knowledge of the origin of the expression re-
cae to. 4th. Daily practice will improve the voice.
5th. No. ;

Constant Reader, Michigan.— Write to the Commissioner
of Pensions, Washington, D. C., stating the object of your
inquiry, and you will receive full information and instruc-
tions upon the subject. There are various exceptions,
which the Department will explain.

Constant Reader.—The ass’ milk is regarded as good
for invalids because it contains much saccharine matter
and but little butter, and hence is more readily digested
by weak stomachs.

B.C. D.—Jackson square, this city, is a small triangular

opening at the junction of Hudson and Thirteenth streets
and Greenwich avenue. It has a small green in the cen-
ter inclosed by an iron railing.

B. A. F., Camden, N. J.—The Battle of New Orleans
(Jan. 8, 1815), was fought, by Gen. Jackson, on the plains
of Chalmette, about four miles from the city.

L. B., Grand Rapids, Mich.—ist. Goethe is pronounced
go-teh, the accent on the first syllable. 2d. Olivia is pro-
nounced o-lee-ve-a, the accent on the second syllable.

L. E. L., New London, Conn.—Azrael is an angel in the
Jewish and Mohammedan mythology who watches over
the dying and separates the soul from the body.

Exz-Californian, Brooklyn, N. Y.— The duel between
Judge J. 8. Terry and David Broderick, near n Fran-
cisco, took place on Sept. 13, 1859.

Admirer, Fremont, Ohio.—Roscoe Conklin, the lawyer
and statesman, died in this city on April 17, 1888.

Old Vet.—A letter addressed to the person named will
reach its destination through the general post-office.

R. W.O0—The American Bank Note Company prints
the United States postage stamps.

M.A., Melrose, Mass.—Your queries were answered in
No. 22 of the present volume.

L. M. B., Rochester, N. Y.—William M. Tweed died in
Ludlow street jail, April 12, 1878.

R. W., Petersburgh. Va.—New Jersey furnished 79,511
troops during the civil war.

E. S., Carthage, N. Y.—The customs duty on spirits is
so much per gallon ($2).

B. W. A.—Henry Bergh, the philanthropist, died on
March 11, 1888.

M. A. D., Mount Stewart, Canada, and Emma Y.—No
record of them.

Edrie B.—No recipe.

See Luke, chapter xix., verse 3.

 

 

 

   

     

 

iintoenitsieigues

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

 

 

VOL, 44—No, 26,

HOPE,
BY CAMILLA CROSSLAND.

Oh, chide not Hope, though she deceives
The trusting heart so often ;

The music of her whisper leaves
A spell our woes to soften.

She is not false! Her mission rare
Is this, to cheer by smiling;

For naught like Hope can hghten Care,
Whatever her beguiling.

Oh, paint her still the maid we know,
Upon her anchor leaning, ;

With sunshine on her lips, and brow
Aglow with joyous meaning.

Rebuke her not, lest with a sigh
She leave you in your sorrow,

And dread Despair, still hovering nigh,
Usurp her sway to-morrow.

THE LADY OF HARR
FOR DEAR LIFE.

By ANNIE ASHMORE,

. Author of “Faithful Forever,” “Jennie Vail’s Mis-
sion,” Waiting for Him,” ‘*The Bride-
Elect,” “Half a Secret,” etc.

 

(“THE LADY OF HARROW” was commenced last week.)

—_——

CHAPTER V.
A LADY’S STRANGE QUESTIONS.

When the Law sent its representatives, in constables’
guise, to take possession of the remains of Tom
Ryder, they found his three friends silently mourn-
ing over him.

Ellice Fleming, with her cheek to his, caressed
him with a crazy smile; and Nell and her lover,
kneeling at his feet, mingled their salt tears lovingly
together.

The Law, having ‘first ejected these unfortunates,
called in the assistance of Medicine, and set itself to
discover the reason why the champion of the Raith
lay there in such woeful plight.

Meantime the town rang with conflicting opinions;
some said he died of fatigue: some that a ruined bet-
ter had shot him in the crowd; some that his rivals
had poisoned him to make him lose the race.

The hotel in which the body lay was besieged the
whole of that day by excited newsmongers, and had
to be cleared by the police lest the death-chamber
might be invaded, and the remains disturbed, before
the Law could cast its eye judicially upon them.

The coroner’s ee was fixed for the following
morning at ten o’clock, and Doctors Starr and Har-
vey, attending physicians, held solemn counsel over
their late patient.

Nell Ryder took Ellice Fleming away from the
“Acorn” to her own humble lodgings, and Ellice
was so bewildered with sorrow that she did not seek
to resist.

Ellice had been on a visit to Nell at Fairport, the
native place of the latter, and had accompanied her
to Ewshot to witness Tom’s victory, and so it came
that they lodged together at the house of an old
widow in the town for a few days.

Nell was so busy attending the hapless Ellice that
she had no time for her lover, and had to dismiss
him for that gs without another word having passed
between them than what Cephyse had overheard.

Nell had at length gone to bed, worn out with ex-
citement, and Ellice was lying in the dark, ex-
hausted too, but more collected in mind than she

been.

It was nine o’clock ; the bustle in the streets was
subsiding, the widow was dozing in her arm-chair by
the kitchen fire, in readiness to jump up at any cail
7 the luckless lass whese handsome lover was lying

ead.

Suddenly. a tap came to the door, a murmur of
voices sounded in the widow’s kitchen, and soon a
light flickered into Ellice’s bed-chamber ; and open-
ing her blood-shot eyes, she beheld a vision that quite
dazzled her.

A large, fair, wonderful woman was standing by
her ide, with a candle in her hand; and a dress
of black velvet, like a queen’s, robed her body
from the milky throat down. Her hand, all crusted
with gems, shook; and her teeth, as white as milk,
chattered.

“T could not sleep, Ellice Fleming, until I had seen
you,” said she, as softly and low as the chiming of
fairy bells. ‘May I sit down beside you, and talk to
you about this terrible thing that has happened ?”

Ellice, sitting bolt wrens in bed, stared at her
lovely visitant from head to foot, with a gleam of
kindling fury in her eye.

“IT know ye now, madam,” said she, hoarsely. ‘I
saw ye with him, spying on his death. What did ye
want with my Tom, young madam? Are ye one of
them that stake their money on him as if he were a
brute-beast? Well, then, did he not win you money
for ye—ay, with his blood ?”

e y trembled so that the candlestick clattered
from her hand upon the little deal table, by which
she sat down to conceal the weakness of her knees.

“Do not rebuke me for his death. Whathave I to
do with it?” she faintly sighed.

“Ts not your name Miss King, of Harrow?’ de-
manded the girl, doggedly.

“ee bd

“You, Jezebel!” burst out Ellice, leaping from her
bed, and towering over her with grand indignation.
“It was you that wiled him away from his honest
work at Fairport three years ago, and set him to this
woeful training, and forced him to kill himself—and
all to furnish you and the likes of you with amuse-
ment. Ay, my lady. it may seem a small thing to

ou gentlefolk, to spoil a brave, kind, happy tisher
t, , and make him a mere race-horse, to bet your
gold upon; but, well-a-day, he was all I had in the
world, an’ he’s cold clay now !”

With a choking sigh, the Scotch girl turned her
back upon the object of her resentment, and, flinging
herself on her knees on the floor, rocked to and fro,
dumbly wailing.

“Grief has its privileges; I will not limit them to
justice,” said Miss King, after a dead pause. ‘Only

et me say that, deep as is your sorrow for your
lover’s ane teak t cannot be greater than mine.
In him I saw the perfection of nature, and in his
death I mourn the ruin of Perfection. Whatis your
unreasoning affection to the appreciation with which
I worshi the Beautifulin him? A fisher lad, for-
sooth! € was a being who deserved to be im-
mortal !”

With extraordina’
words, casting a bi
ward. i

Ellice turned sharp, and took her up.

““My lady, your tongue is as sweet as silver, an’ no
doubt you know more of this world’s law than all
the fishwives that e’er carried creel; but I fear you
are but a fool after all. Do you not believe that my
Tom’s immortal, an’ that he’s more perfect now than
ever he was here ?”

The lady murmured a gentle deprecation of her
oe accompanied with a superior, pitying
smile.

“Never mind my peculiar opinions, my good girl,”
said she. ‘‘Cherish your own, since you are blessed
with such. Can I do anything for you?”

“Can you put breath into his nostrils and light into
his frozen Stat It’s nothing less that’ll help poor,
stricken Ellice Fleming!”

“Let me do something for you. Think—is there
nothing you want done?’

“Begone, you and your cruel kindness! I want
peace to die.”

“Your friend, Nell Ryder, will soon be getting mar-
ried, and what will become of you, then?”

“T don’t know, nor dol care. Alack! alack! If she
marries with Ned Browning she’ll be « heartless

“Why should she not?”

“Why, indeed! The breath’s out of his body that
would stand between them. They may have their
way now.”

‘ pom Ryder was not friendly with Browning, was

e ,

vehemence she uttered the last
r and hopeless look heaven-

“A treacherous and bitter foe was Ned Browning
from first to last. He put between Nell an’ her
brother with the craft of Satan.”

“In what way ?”’

“My Tom was proud, as well he might be, for the
Ryders are no small folk in Fairport; an’ when the
laird, or squire as they called him there, Master Ball,
wanted Nell for his wife, Tom was well pleased with
the match. But this sailor was cast ashore one
stormy night when his ship was wrecked, and was

icked up and carried to Tom’s house, and nursed by

ell, who was promised to the laird ; and so he stole
her heart away.”

“Then the match was broken off?’

“That was it. And then Tom, being master, warned
the sailor off, and he had to go. 80 he soon after-
ward sailed for India in a merchantman, and Nell
would not look at man for his sake. But now he’s
more, and Tom’s gone, so there will soon be a wed-

ng.’

“‘And of course the sailor hated Ryder as the ob-
stacle between him and the girl ?”

when he came home again. Ay! ay! and his curse
lighted on poor Tom, afterall. May mine light on
him ere long!”
* “What sort of a character is he?’

“T do not know. I never saw him in my life until
I saw him come into the death-chamber to look after
Nell. But Tom told me of the trouble between him
and Ned.”

“Tf Ryder was so ambitious for his sister, why was
he not as ambitious for himself?”

The girl lifted her massive form with a gesture of
inexpressible dignity, and, flushing darkly, replied :

“Madam, though [ am but a poor girl, and more
used to carry the creel andto mend the deep-sea
nets than to thrum on the piano, and knock painted
balls through bits of hoops, Tom Ryder thought me
no beggar; nor, proud as he was, did he think it be-
neath him when he wooed me for his lass. I’m not
of such low degree that a Ryderof Fairport should

look down on me. But what matters it now? He’s

gone to his last home, where I would gladly be!”

cold smile on her lips. y

At length she rose, and mechanically making a for-
mal adieu to the girl, swept from the room without
another word. : ;

Cephyse, the handsome waiting-maid, joined her in
the widow’s kitchen, respectfully wrapped her ina
great shrouding vail, and put her into a close car-
riage which waited at the door.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WITNESS WHO OVERHEARD HIGH
WORDS.

In the meanwhile poor Tom slept soundly, heedless
of the agony, the doubts, the tears of those he had
loved or hated; heedless, too, of the judicial eyes
that scanned the splendid casket which once had
held a something that nobody had ever taken into
the smallest account.

And now the splendid casket they had praised and
deemed so fine was crumbling into ruins, while the
Soul they had overlooked was solving the dread mys-
tery of Immortality, and learning why it had been

sent on earth.

But of that pathless nen nobody talked; the
all were more impressed by the wonderful joints an
sinews of the, anatomy under inspection, and
plunged so deeply into learned discourse upon the
enthralling theme of the athletic sports of England,
and their use in creating giants, that time flew by
quite swiftly, and brought the hour tor the inquest
ere they were aware. ’

At ten o’clock of the morning succeeding the race
the large apartment apportioned by mine host of the
“Acorn” to hold the inquest in was duly occupied.

In the coroner’s chair sat Mr. Mulock, a stout Ew-
shot magistrate. Near him sat Drs. Starr and Har-
vey, fresh from anatomical dissection; here were
grou the three survivors of the Ewshot crew,
Bill Price, Sam Gurney and Jack Charters, each de-
cently wearing a band of crape on his arm; yonder
drooped Nell Ryder and Ellice Fleming, parted al-
ready by a ruddy sailor dressed in his shore “togs”—
namely, a rough, dark-blue coat, claret velvet vest,
bursting, snowy shirt-front, and gay necktie.

Thus, in his innocence, Ned Browning attended his
et wishful to prove the goodness of her

aste.

Otherwise, the room was thronged by all the
backers of Tom Ryder who could jam themselves in;
by the waiters of the hotel who had come in con-
tact with him; by a general gathering of the curious,
brimful of interest. ~

One stood apart, with his silver locks weaving a
bright halo round his noble face. It was Engelhardt
Zeiber, the friend of Violet King.

Ten o’clock struck, and the following questions
were askea and answered.

To Nell Ryder, upon oath.

‘How old was the deceased ?”’

“Twenty-two years old last February” (with a gulp
of sorrow to think of the next).

“Where is he from ?”’

“Fairport.”

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THE OFFICERS FOUND TOM RYDER’S FRIENDS MOURN-
ING OVER HIS REMAINS.

“What was his occupation ?”’

“Shore fisherman.”

‘“‘When did he turn professional racer ?”’

“Three years ago.”

or he ill any part of the time during these three
years 7

“T never heard him complain.”

“How many races has he run ?”’

“Five—six now. Heigh-ho!”

“How many did he lose ?”

“Not one. Oh, Tom!”

Murmurs of admiration from bereaved backers.

Nell was allowed to crouch back on her seat and
bury her face in her striped skirts.

To Ellice Fleming:

“Where do you come from ?”’

“Don’t trouble yourself about me. It’s him I’m
here to speak of.”

“T must hear first who you are.”

“Sirs, I’m a broken-hearted lassie, and you have
taken my love from me.”

“How long have you known the deceased ?”

“Three happy years, an’ I never heard Tom Ryder
call diseased till now, sir. I don’t believe it; he was
fresh and hearty till they raced him to death.”

‘Where did you see him first?”

“At my own town, Musselborough, where he rowed
his first race, an’ won the golden medal and Ellice
Fleming’s heart at once.”

“Have you seen him frequently since then?’

“Yes. He came North now an’ then, and I went
South now an’ then; and—oh! we were to be married
in a week!”

‘‘And you never heard him say he was sick, or saw
him suffer 4 pain ?’

“No, no. ere’s not a lad in the county could put
the stone like.-Tom Ryder, nor pull the double oar.
My own lad was better than them all, and now he’s
dead and gone—dead and gone!”

Misery overcoming her here, she flung her tartan
an over her head, and uttered a wild wail that
rowned the remonstrances of the coroner an
silenced all for a time.

When she had been quietly removed, the proceed-
ings were resumed.

i ee trainer of the Ewshot crew was next ques-
ioned.

“How long have you known the deceased, Mr.
Chirks ?”

“Five months.”

“How many races have

“Two, the Menteith an
here, sir.”

“Did you ever see him unduly exhausted after
practice ?”’

“Never; that I’ll take my oathon. The toughest
chap of the lot.”

“Did you ever see him ill?”

“Him! I tell ye he was made of steel and leather.
Couldn’t blow him. Ihave seen him ina duse of a
temper betimes.”

‘When aroused by anything he did not like?”

“For no mortal reason in the universe. Most un-
certain in his temper, sir.”

The physicians nodded significantly and whispered
to the coroner, who thereupon asked :

“Did he fly into a violent passion upon these oc-
casions ?”’

“Nota bit. Got sulky, d’ye see? Wouldn’t budge
for no man, but used to turn tail on us all and shut
hisself up in the most aggravatin’ way and let’em
train without him.”

Doctor Harvey wrote a few words to the coroner
et pares them to him, upon which Mr. Mulock
asked :

“Were these stubborn fits er. causeless ?”

“Danged if I ever could smell out rhyme or reason
out of ’em. He were a downright cantankerous young
’un. Yer see, if it wor that he’d ever got sick, ’da
knowed that he was tryin’ to husband his strength.”

“Are you sure that he never had cause for dis-
pleasure ?”’

‘‘No more cause than a baby on its mother’s breast.
I always attended Ryder as if he were my own baby,
dang me if I didn’t! I was proud of the young

you trained him for ?”%
Sternway race, and this

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

Miss King sat for some time in silence, a strange,

“Hated him, and vowed to take her over his neck |

 

 

 

hanimal—— Well, well, dang it! the best muscle in
England lies a lump of gristle now.”

r. Mulock released the amiable Mr. Chirks, who
stepped among the admirers of the defunct cham-
pion and somberly mingled his oath-bespangled elegy
with theirs.

“Subject to fits of causeless irritation,” commented
Dr. Harvey to Dr. Starr.

Dr. Starr bowed.

Bill Price, Number 2 of the Ewshott crew, called
forward.

“Where did the deceased sleep during the night be-
fore the race ?’

“In Number Fourteen, third floor of this here hotel,
an’ me in t’other bed,” answered he, determined to
be concise.

“You and he slept in one room ?”’

“Yes, yer honor; an’ Sam an’ Jack next door.”

**Was deceased restless in his sleep that night?”

“Dunno. yer honor. He were sound as a nut when
Iris in the mornin’. I gev him a shake, an’ he got
up as good-tempered as ye please, an’ began a-chaffin’
about the race.’

Did you see anything unusual about him—languor,
or excitement, or any such appearance ?”’

“Never see him in better condition, yer honor.”’

“Where did the deceased breakfast?”

‘‘We all hed our grub together in our own parlor,
with Chirks.”

Be
que

au i
«\\

a

TR “ N
\)

A LARGE, FAIR, WONDERFUL WOMAN WAS STANDING
BY HER BEDSIDE, WITH A CANDLE IN HER HAND.

Did you all partake of the same food ?”’

“Every man-jack of us. An’ poor Ryder seemed on
his feed particular well, and had to be reminded by
Chirks not to load too heavy.”

oer? you. all together until you went to the
race ?”’

“N—no; Ican’t jest say as we were. Chirks
wouldn't hev us scroudged by the folks as was comin’
to look at us, an’ sent us up at nine o’clock to our
rooms, for to put on our togs. Ryder, he went down
agin about a quarter-past nine, bein’ fust dressed,
an to see his sister, Nell, if she came to ask for

mm.”

“When did you see him again ?”’

“About twenty minutes to ten, he come up stairs,
an’ the minute he come into our crib, I see he were
in one of his rages. I feared that he were a-goin’ to
throw up the job, like he used to throw up the
trainin’, and sl pe into Sam’s room, where Chirks
was, an’ got himin, He made believe as though he
didn’t twig, and by and by Ryder calmed down, and
got 5 sone

“What was the cause of his anger?”

“For nothin’ in the world. It was only a way he
7“ poor chap. We all have our faults, an’ that was

8. ”

“What happened afterward ?”

“At a quarter to ten, we all went out at the back
door (for to steer clear of the folks), an’ went in our
boat to the startin’-place.”

“Did the deceased eat or drink anything of which
the rest of you did not partake?”

“No, yer honor. Chirks, he gev us the bottle of
water, for torense out our throats afore the start,
an’ we allu it.” Any

A waiter belonging to the hotel was next called.

“Were any visitors admitted to the parlor occupied
by the Ewshot crew, on the morning of the race?’

“T—rather—think—not!” said the waiter, with
dignified emphasis. ‘‘We had Mr. Chirks’ horders,
an’ I think we kep’ ’em pret—ty well, considerin’
that the lobbies was full of visitors from seven till
three minutes afore the race, bribin’ an’ botherin’ us
to give ’em a me at the men. Not one, sir. No,
sir; don’t go for to blame anythink on the ’ouse, for
the ’ouse has nothink whatever to do with deceased
or his quarrels.” ;

“Why do you say ‘his quarrels’ ?”

“Well, ’'m-not sayin’ anythink agen anybody; but
mayhap Mr. Chirks hisself can tell you wot quarrel
I mean.”

“Explain your meaning yourself.”

“Allright, if I must I must. Mr. Chirks was heard
by a person havin’ a row with Ryder in their parlor,
eae the rest was in their rooms puttin’ on their
suits.”

“What person ?”

“Well—it was Sally, the second-flat chambermaid.”

Sally was immediately called for, and pushed to
the front.

“Did you hear Mr. Chirks quarreling with the de-
ceased before the race?’

“Oh, eroiaga sir, don’t swallow anything that dread-
ful Jenkins says, for he couldn’t tell you the truth,
not if you were to make him King of England for it.
As if I had ever said anything about Mr. Chirks!”

“What did you say ?”’

“T merely mentioned faving heard high words be-
tween Mr. Ryder and another man; but to say it was
Mr. Chirks—I’m sure the babe unborr-——”

“Did you not mention Mr. Chirks at all ?”’

“Why, sir—I—I—may have said Mr. Chirks, but not
in connection with that subject, believe me——”

“She said Chirks an’ Ryder hed been hevin’ a jolly
row while she was makin’ the beds in Number Eight,
ne to their parlor,’ roared the waiter, indig-
nantly.

Sees

SY

 

 

 

“YOU, JEZEBEL! IT WAS YOU THAT WILED HIM
AWAY FROM HIS HONEST WORK!”

“Did ao or did you not make use of these words ?”
demanded the coroner, sternly.

“Well, I—I’m sorry to see the day when I should be
accused of—of eavesdropping——’

“Did you?’

" “Oh, I suppose I did, but Imeant no harm, I-——”

“Mr. Chirks !”’

Up comes Mr. Chirks, as red as a lobster.

“Is it possible that you haye concealed this impor-
tant circumstance from us ?”’

“Danged if I’ll stand it! Me as always was his best
friend! Vll—— No, matter, though; you’ve only to
ask Sam Gurney an’ Jack Charters where I was all
the mornin’, to cast the lie in her teeth, the——”

“Thank you, Mr. Chirks, that’s enough. Men, I sup-
pose you are willing to testify that Mr. Chirks was in

mt ae until summoned by Price to go into

y er’s 9

“T can take oath on that!” cried both.

Chirks subsided, mollified.

“Now, woman, why did you fix your suspicions
upon Mr, Chirks as the man who had been quarreling
with the deceased ?”’

“Why—I—I merely thought that as the other men
were in their rooms, and he was the only one that
was allowed in their parlor, it must be him; but as
tor intending to lie about it——”

“Please relate what you overheard.”

“Well, sir, it isn’t a very pleasant thing for a well-
brought-up girl to do,”

 

aS se

“Come! come! you are wasting the time of this
court. Stick to facts. What did you hear?’

“T heard a row.”

‘Where were you id

“At my work.”

“Be explicit. Where were you?’

“In Number Eight.”

“Did you hear loud voices in the parlor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else.”

“How did you know it was the deceased who was
there ?”’

“T saw him.”

“Where ?”

“Going up stairs.”

“Where were you when you saw him going up
stairs ?”

“At my work.”

‘What work ?”

“Sweeping the dust out of Number Eight.”

“How did the deceased look ?”’

‘*Yellow.”

“Did you not see who had been with him ?”

“Tf think I’ve said | did not.”

“How was that, when you saw the deceased? Did
the other man remain in the parlor ?”’

‘‘He went down stairs afore I opened the door of
Nuinber Eight.” ,

‘Why do you say the deceased looked yellow? Do
you mean pale?”

“T mean yellow, like a corpse. I don’t mean pale.”

Doctor Harvey looked at Doctor Starr.

“Yellow, like a corpse!” whispered he.

Sally was permitted to retire into obscurity,

The doctors in attendance were now requested to
deliver their medical opinion.

Said Doctor Harvey:

“We have made a careful examination of the state
of the brain of the deceased, and having found it
gorged with blood, we unhesitatingly pronounce his

eath to have been caused by apoplexy, brought on
by excessive muscular exertions, too long and too
frequently indulged in. The sudden exhibition of
temper, without apparent cause, the yellow pallor,
spoken of, were each well-known premonitory symp-
toms of the disease; and all the symptoms which
attended his death were signs of apoplexy. The man
raced himself to death.”

“Gentlemen,” said the coroner to the jury, ‘“‘your
verdict is not far to find. Deceased was predisposed
to apoplexy. He imprudently fell into a passion
with some unknown person, excited himself unduly,
engaged in violent muscular exertion, and fell a pre
to the disease which his habits had engendered.
What do you find ?”

CHAPTER VII.
THE CONTENTS OF A GLASS.

A man in rich livery stepped from hehind Dr. Zei-
pet put placed a sealed envelope in the coroner’s

and.

Having opened the inclosed paper and read down
its page, the coroner lifted his hand to the twelve
jurors, saying impressively :

“Wait! There is something yet!” and went on de-
vouring the page with absorbing interest.

Having finished, he looked round the room with
flashing eyes. ‘

“Ts there a person present of the name of Edward
Browning?” :

The coroner’s voice was pitched a key lower than
usual. Everybody felt a queer sensation of excite-
ment stealing over him.

A movement was made in the corner where Nell
Ryder sat huddled up on her chair, and the sailor
was pushed forward.

Every one privately noted that Ned Browning
looked uncomfortable; but, for all that, he took the
oath like a man.

“Edward Browning,’ wrote the clerk, and looked
up for information.

“Your age, birthplace and occupation, if you
please,” said the coroner.

“TI know neither age nor birthplace,” said Ned;
‘but I’ve followed the sea ever since I was that
aes putting his hand a couple of feet from the

oor.

“What is the name of your present ship?”

 

 

y

6) XS . ~
\X ONY
THE DOCTORS BOTH ANSWERED WITH ONE VOICE:
‘* HYDRATE OF CHLORAL!”

“The Argosy, an Indiainan.”’

‘‘When did you arrive from India?”

“Three days ago we anchored in Liverpool, after
a@ year’s absence.”

“Did you know the deceased?”

“T did.’

“How long?’

“Three years. I was washed ashore at Fairport
from the wreck of the Memphis, as went down on
Fairport bar, an’ Tom Ryder, he gave me house-
rssh pe aoe seven weeks, till my broken bones were
spliced.”

Mc Were you on friendly terms with the deceased ?’’

Silence.

“Answer me!”

“Td rather not.” ;

“You will be wise to tell the exact truth.”

“Well, cap’n, I wasn’t. But he wasn’t quite to
blame for’t, neither.”

“What was the subject of dispute?”

“Belay there! Family secrets isn’t to be blowed
upon by Ned Browning.”

“You decline to say ?’ ;

“T do, commander—no offense to you.”

‘Upon arriving in Liverpool three days ago where
did you go?”’

“T ran down to Fairport to see my—a friend of
mine.”

“What next?”

“T heard they were all up at Ewshot to see the race,
an’ I set sail for Ewshot direct.”

‘*When did you arrive in Ewshot?”’

“Night afore last.”

‘“‘Where did you lodge ?””

“At the ‘Jolly Neptune,’ Clover street.”

‘How did you employ your time ?’

*“T searched about for my friend, an’ found Tom
Ryder at the ‘Acorn.’ ”

“Had yay an interview with him that night?’

‘No; I didn’t want to see him then. I wanted to
see her first, to know if she’d forgot me yet. I couldn’t
find her.”

ae you see the deceased on the] morning of the
race ?””

Nell Ryder lifts an uneasy glance to her lover, and
makes a sign.

Unheeding it, after a slight pause, he answered,
ee, :

“es es 99

A whisper shoots through the audience.

“Did ye hear that ?”

“What hour did your interview take

Still with that troubled, downward
luctant manner, the sailor replies:

“About twenty minutes past nine.”

‘“Where ?””

“In the parlor they were speakin’ about.”

“What was the subject of your conversation ?”

“Family concerns.”

“Do you decline to communicate them ?’

*T told him as I had come to be second mate of the
Argosy, an’ asked the favor from him that he’d re-
fused me last time.”

“Did he refuse you again ?’

Troubled silence.

*“You must answer.”

“Yes; he refused me after all. I told him of the
many dangers I’d gone through, an’ the many hopes
I’d nursed for her sake, an’ it were no use.”

“Did he quarrel with you?”

The sailor lifted a bright blue eye, which shone like
steel through a big tear, and firmly answered :

“Commander, you're far enough on that tack. I
can tell you no more.”

‘Remember, it has already been testified that you
were engaged in an altercation with the deceased, so
you oy better not attempt any useless conceal-
ment.”

“Let them testify; it shall never be said that Ned
Browning could blow the gaff on a dead mate.”

“You utterly refuse to relate the circumstances of
that interview?’

“Allers meanin’ no offense to you, cap’n, I do.”

oo aside. Gentlemen, recall the chamber-
maid.” :

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

lace ?”
ook, and re-

 

most THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==

 

 

bwewiwesie 6 Some mines

Sally was reproduced, under strong protest.

‘Did you enter the parlor after the deceased had
gone up stairs ?”

“What else could I do, sir? I’m paid to enter par-
lors and clear up things. I’m sure [ did no harm.
She knows, she saw me there,” pointing to Nell.

“Was she in the room? You omitted that state-
ment in your former deposition.”

“Tt hope you don’t suppose I intended to deceive
you! The Lord forbid! You didn’t, if you remem-
ber, ask me whether she was or not.”

“Was she?”

“Yes. Atleast she came in by one door as I came
in by the other.”

“After the deceased had gone up stairs ?”

“Oh, long after. Well, not so long, either; per-
haps five minutes. She asked me if she could see
her brother, and I told her she couldn’t, because he
was in his room with the trainer.”

**‘What did she do then ?’

“She went out to the pier to get a good stand to see
the race from.”

“And what did you do?’

“T cleared up.”

“Did you see anything unusualin the appearance
of the room ?”

“T saw a disgraceful pack of cards on the table.”

“Any traces of a scuffle ?”’

“There was a chair knocked over, but, la! that
weren’t done when they were scuffling.”

“Oh, there was a scuffle, then ?”’

“Oh, my! please sir, I don’t know anything at all
aboutit. Only it sounded like it.”

“Did they come to blows?”

“They just did. Ugh! the brutes!”

‘““How do you know ?’

“T heard Ryder jumping up and tearing across the
floor at the other man.”

“How do you know it was Ryder?’

“By the voice. He was swearing.”

‘What was the other man doing?”

“He seemed to be soothing him down.”

“Not striking him ?”’

“No.”

“Why did you say the chair was not knocked over
while they were scuffling?”’

‘Because in the middle of the row Ryder suddenly
left the other man and staggered across the room for
a glass of beer. He knocked over the chair then.”

“How can you know either that it was Ryder, or
that he went for a glass of beer?’

‘Why the partition between that parlor and Num-
ber Eight is no thicker than a thin board, and [ heard
Ryder’s voice as he crossed the floor cursing the
other man, and then I heard the clatter of the bottle
against the glass, and the other man talking while he
drank it; and afterward I found the bottle and glass
on the table.”

“What did you do with that bottle and glass?”

“T locked them upin the sideboard, and missis she
took the key away when Ryder died, cause she said
everything was to be left as it was till after the in-
quest.

“Very good. Jobson, go and get the bottle and
glass, and bring them here.”

seer went the sanctimonious Sally, escorted by an
officer.

Ned Browning recalled.

ot the deceased drink a glass of beer in your pres-
ence ?”’

“Yes, he did. The gal must be mighty sharp, for
Heaven knows I forgot all about it.”

“Did you drink any?’

“No. I don’t drink with a shipmate as won’t drink
with me.”

“Tell me, upon your oath—and remember that there
are two physicians here who will analyze the liquor
—did you tamper with it?’

“Blamed if I know what you’re drivin’ at!”

“Did you touch the beer?”

A broad, direct stare, and a slight, incredulous
smile of scorn.

“D’ye mean, did I hocus it? Ha! ha! Nell, d’ye
hear that?’ turning, with a sudden warming of the
whole face, toward her. “They ask me if I could
harm youR Tom! No, cap’n:” drawing up his strong
frame like a tower; ‘I didn’t hocus poor Tom’s beer;
I wasn’t anigh it.”

At this moment Jobson returned, carrying a bottle
and an empty glass, and set them down upon the
coroner’s table.

The coroner beckoned to the two medical gentle-
men, who advanced to the table.

Then Nell Ryder rose like a wraith, and stole to
her lover’s side, and seized his great horny hand, and
held it tight, and trembled.

Ellice Fleming also glided in from the door, glitter-
ing-eyed, having been excitedly summoned by a gos-
siping maid to hear the new turn of the affair; and
working her way round till she faced Ned Browning,
she bored him through and through with her burning
gaze.

Doctor Zeiber, too, awoke for the first time from a
somber reverie, and flashed a lightning glance at the
sailor, and a sly smile crept about the corners of his
gracious mouth.

Doctor Starr took up the bottle, poured a little into
the palm of his hand, smelled it, tasted it, snorted
contemptuously, and passed the bottle to Doctor
Harvey, who in his turn tested it.

“Nothing wrong with the contents of the bottle,”
announced they.

“‘Now the glass,” said the coroner.

Doctor Starr took up the glass, approached it to his
nose, held it down to the light, stared at it, pushed it
under Doctor Harvey’s nose, and watched him
breathlessly.

In a trice Doctor Harvey had snatched it from him,
dug his finger into the sediment, tasted the tip of his
finger, and was nodding at the other.

Then both glared at the glass.

‘“‘What do you discover?” clanged the stern voice
of the coroner in the pulsating silence.

And the doctors both answered, with one voice:

“HYDRATE OF CHLORAL!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
o<+__-__—_

Denman Thompson’s

QLD HOMESTEAD,

Written from the Celebrated Play,

"The Old Homestead,”

By Special Arrangement.

(DENMAN THOMPSON’S “OLD HOMESTEAD” was com-
menced in No. 17. Back numbers can be obtained of all
News Agents.]

CHAPTER XIX.
SUE AND RUBE TALK.

Sue was tired enough to sleep, but her thoughts
would not let her. Until she had had atalk with
Reuben, she could not compose herself to anything.
She would go to his bedside, and watch his almost
imperceptible breathing ; she would move noiselessly
about the room, re-arranging the furniture, putting
fresh water on the flowers, and trying to think of
any device whereby she could give the room a cozier
appearance.

Then she would stand and look out of the window
on the dreary prospect of dingy roofs, until a flood
of sudden, unbidden thought would overwhelm her,
and she would throw herself into a chair, moaning.

But at last a grateful occupation suggested itself.
She looked at Reuben’s clothing, and saw that it
sadly needed mending. Glad to be busy, and doubly
glad to be working on something for Reuben, she got
out her little sewing-bag, and was soon almost happy
in her task.

Not in a prying spirit, but tenderly she emptied his
pockets, and the tears started to her eyes as the
contents betrayed the sad passes to which Reuben
had been forced—a crust of bread and an unsavory
piece of meat, wrapped in a piece of greasy news-
paper.

Not a cent of money, not a line from any of the
loving hearts at home, nothing save the food, which
made her turn sick, only to look at it, and in the
inner pocket of his vest the old, worn Testament
which had been his mother’s.

Tears dropped from Sue’s eyes as she looked at
these things, and they were not all tears for Reuben.
Some of them were for herself, as she thought of
what she had done, and what might be her fate. She
had cast herself out from the home of her friends;
would Reuben wake from his deep sleep only to tell
her that her sacrifice had been useless ?

She threw the bread and meat away, and rever-
ently put the Testament back in the pocket from
which she had taken it. She did not open it. It
seemed as if she dreaded even to hold it in her hand.

She leaned her head on her hand, and looked at
Reuben as he lay there so still and death-like. She
tried to imagine what sort of a life he had led during
the months she had not heard from him, and, with a
shudder, she wondered if she would ever have a like
experience,

Jhat must Reuben have come to, that he had treas-
ured a stale crust and a dry shred of meat? Witha
quick movement, she opened the bosom of her gown,
and ripped the threads that held her money. She
separated a ten-dollar bill from the rest, and placed
it in the watch-pocket of the vest. She remembered
the handsome gold watch Reuben used to carry, and
wondered where it had gone.

* He need never know I put it there,’ she mut-
tered.

At noon the woman down stairs brought her some
dinner, the eating of which suggested to her the ad-
visability of cooking herself some of the dainty home
things for Reuben. She knew of many tempting
sick-room dishes, and she asked the woman if she
would buy her the materials.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

Early in the afternoon the doctor came again, and
was pleased that Reuben still slept. He was pleased,
too, at the way Sue had tidied up the place, and told
her so, This emboldened her to tell him thatshe was
from Rueben's home, and to ask himif there would
be any harm in talking to Reuben when he should
wake up,

“None at all. Do him good,” said the doctor.

“He is really better then?’

“Almost well. Doesn’t need much more than your
nursing now. We'll let him go home in a few days.”

Sue said nothing to that. She let the doctor go
without asking any more questions than such as re-
lated to the medicine and treatment; but with a sick-
ening sense of dread she waited for the awakening.

lt Came at last, but it was not as she had expected.
He lay for some time on his back, indifferent to any-
thing, though she moved about to attract his atten-
tion, and did everything but speak to him, And by
and by, when he did turn his head, he showed no sur-
prise at seeing her there,

“Rube,” she cried, ‘don’t yeou know me?’

‘Is that you, Sue?” he asked, dully.

But that was only because the effects of the drug
were slow in wearing off. He seemed to realize the
strangeness later on, and asked all sorts of questions.
He wanted to know how she came to be there, and
how long she had been there, and many other things,
though he said nothing yet avout home or his father.

She dreaded to hear him ask about Ruth, tlie first
one, but he did not, and she refused to. answer his
other questions until he should have eaten some of
the dishes she had cooked for him.

The sight of them affected him as if he had been a
child. He laughed and talked about them, and ate
them with a relish, and her spirits rose to see how he
seemed to depend upon her for everything. He lay
for some time after eating without saying a word.

His wits were clearer now, and the strangeness of
having Sue there, waiting on him, roused a curiosity
in his breast that would not be appeased, and yet he
dreaded to ask her any questions. He followed her
movements about the room, his eyes, very large be-
cause of his emaciation, so full of the longing to ask
that she could not bear it any longer.

She had made up her mind what to say to him, and
she was afraid lest he should ask such questions as
would embarrass her. She hastened to putthe dishes
aaa) and then drew a chair to the bedside and sat

own.

“T know you want to hear all about home,’ she
said. ‘And why I am here, and a great deal more,
Let me tell yeou, and do yeou listen, It will be better
if yeou don’t talk too much,”

“Tt makes me better to see you, Sue,” he said. “You
don’t know what I’ve gone through. How I have
wanted to see a home face !”

He was too weak to control himself, and the tears
rolled down his cheeks. She wiped the tears away,
feeling a secret joy in doing it, and answered :

“Yeou know the gentleman who has been so kind to
yeou ?”

‘Mr. Hazzard, yes.”

“T saw him aout to Swanzey and I asked him to look
yeou up here. He did and found yeou, and that’s how
I come to be here. He wrote me. I thought mebbe
yeou would be glad if I didn’t tell yeour father, an’
so he don’t know.”

“Thank you. Il’d like to see him, but I’m glad he
can’t see me like this. How is he?’

“Jest as well as can be. Nobody knows I came,”
she said, looking furtively at him to see if he would
comprehend.

He did not. for amoment, but then he seemed to,
for he turned suddenly toward her, and asked :

“Nobody at all? Not Ben, nor anybody ?”’

“Nobody. Lleft home to come nurse yeou. Ran
away, I s’pose yeou’d e¢all it.”

“Ran away! For me?’ said he, slowly.

“Yes, and I can never go back now.”

The rich blood ebbed and flowed to and from her
cheeks, making them now a vivid crimson and now an
ashen gray. It was in her mind to tell the wretchedest
falsehood of her life, but her courage would hardly
bear her out in it.

“Never go back!” he repeated after her. “But what
will you do?’

“TI do not care. Are yeou strong enough to bear all
I have to tell yeou?”’

He sank back on his pillow with a little gasp of
apprehension, and she pitied him for the blow she
was to strike him in his moment of weakness; but
she must do it or give up her cherished plan of win-
ning him. She bent over him and stroked his hand
pitifully.

“Tell me, what is it?” he asked.

“You have not asked me about Ruth,” she said,

“No, [did not dare. Goon.”

“Well, she is to marry Ben.”

“T was afraid so,” he whispered. “Well, it is right.
I did not deserve her, and he did. Sue, I have had
time to think since I have been here. I was a fool.
She loved me then, I always loved her. I would have
written, asking her parden, but Icame to be such a
wretch—drunk most of the time, Sue.”

He looked at her, as if expecting to see her shrink
away from him, but she did not. She only caressed
his hand softly. He looked gratefully at her, and
she went on:

“T did what I could to prevent the match, but it
was not possible.”

“No, no; Tecan see. It was natural they should
come together. But, oh, [loved her, Sue!”

“Ben discovered after a time that yeou and I cor-
responded. He threatened to turn me aout of the
house if I didn’t stop writin’ to yeou.”

“T wouldn’t have thought that of Ben,’ said
Reuben.

“Well, he did, an’ he would ’a stopped my coming
to yeou if he’d known it. He will know where I am,
an’ by this time I s’ pose all the Swanzey folks ’ll be
saying hard things bout me; but, Rube, I couldn’t
let yeou, the best friend I ever had, lie here sick an’
friendless an’ not come to yeou, even if I did lose my
good name by it.”

“Lose your good name?”

She blushed, but, went on:

“Yes; no one knows yeou’re sick, an’ everybody ’ll
say the worst they can. I can never go back there
again.” :

“You were willing to do this for me, Sue? I wish
you hadn’t.”

“I’m sorry if yeou don’t like it, Rube, but I did it
for the best.”

“Don’t think I’m not grateful, Sue. Iam. ButI
can’t bear to have you suffer for a kindness to me.
Go back now.” ; ;

“And be the by-word of the whole. county ?) Never!
I shall never go there again as Sue Eastman !”

Rube turned on his side, with his face to the wall,
and lay there, a prey to misery. He thought he saw
Sue’s case better than she did. She had come to him
out of pure kindness of heart, and in so doing had
sacrificed her good name—a woman’s dearest pos-
session.

During the months of wretchedness in the great
city he had, as he had told Sue, thought a great deal.
He had come to look upon himself as the most un-
worthy and despicable of wretches. His shame had
indeed been so great that he would not even
write to his good old father to help him. It seemed
to him thataman who had wasted his opportuni-
ties as he had wasunworthy of help. He had become
as humble as he once had been proud.

And now it bore upon him heavily that Sue, who
had always been a steadfast friend, should become
an outeast for his sake. Then, too, there was the
added misery of knowing that Ruth was forever lost
to him.

A suddeén idea! He turned to where Sue sat, with
drawn face, waiting for him to speak.

“Sue, why are you so good a friend to me?’ he
asked.

The blood rushed to her face, and she faltered as
she answered :

“How can I tell?
friend ?”’ ;

“But to be willing to sacrifice your reputation for
me?!’’

“J would have sacrificed more if it could have
helped yeou.”

“Then if I asked you to marry me, would you
do it?”

“Are yeou in earnest, Rube ?”’

Yes,”

“Then I say yes. It would be the happiest day of
my life that saw me yeour wife.”

“Let us be married, Sue. J can’t talk any more.
You know Ilovg Ruth. I am not fit for any good
woman, but if you will save your good name by mar-
rying me, I will try——_ Oh, I feel so faint, Sue!”

He had exhausted himself with the excitement of
the talk, and would have fainted but for Sue’s exer-
tions. She bathed his head with cologne, and fanned
him, and presently the gray look passed out of his
face, and he said, faintly:

“The sooner the better, Sue. I don’t seem to be very
strong.” ’ j

“You mean to be married ?’ she whispered.

YES."

“Do yeou mean right away ?”’

*Yes.””

‘Shall I get a minister ?”’

yes

Why should I not be yeour

“J will go now,” she said. “I will ask the woman
down stairs where to find one. And do not be dis-
couraged, Rube. Yeou will be well and strong soon,
and, with me to help yeou, we will get along.”

He sniiled faintly, and shut his eyes, sinking into a
sort of slumber almost at once. She leaned over him
and kissed him, and then hurried on her hat and
shawl, with a singular air of frightened exultation.
With another light kiss on his lips, she hastened
away.

He slept on for sometime, but at last awoke, and
looked wildly around him. :

“T thought Ruth was here,” he whispered. ‘Oh,
yes, we are to be married—that is it. I must get up,
or I shall be too late.” ce ;

He struggled to an upright position, and passed his
hand over his head as he scowled in an effort of
memory.

“Oh, Vie. I was to meet her on the road by
Hameses’. [ must hurry.” ‘

He could scarcely stand on his feet, but the urgency
of his delirium would not let him rest until he had
drawn his clothes on. He steadied himself now and
then by a chair or other object, and stared feebly

tered seuses.

wedding. : :
anxious search, and he left the room without it.

and swaying.
drunken man.

missiles, i
as his strength would take him,

coat and jerked him to his feet.

to ring for an ambulance.

carried off to the hospital.

CHAPTER XX.
THE WOMAN’S STORY.
The officer who led Ben to Oliver street wasted

beat, and asked him if he knew anything of such a
person as Sue, describing her.

“Dark eyes, pretty, from the country?” asked the
officer.

“Yes.’’

“See her twice this mornin’,” said the officer.

“Anybody with her?”

“No. Alone.”

“Know what house she came out of ?”

‘Not for certain. Som’eres near the other end of
this block.”

It seemed to Ben marvelous that it should be so
easy to trace a person in such a bewildering city.
He did not reckon as the police did on the fact that
Sue had two strongly marked peculiarities—she was
plainly from the country, and she was very pretty.

They went to the other end of the block and in-
quired from house to house until they came to No.
33. After making inquiries there, the officer said to
Ben:

: “If she’s anywhere, if it’s the right party, she’s
ere.

Ben turned very pale, and trembled.

“And he’s with her?” he answered.

“Tf he’s the sick man, yes,”

Ben started to run up the stairs.
his hand restrainingly on his arm,

“Hold ona minute. Whatare you going to do?’

Ben turned, and there was a fierce light in his eyes,
but he answered : ;

“T don’t know.”

“No, said the officer, slowly, “I don’t think you
aire doknow. Do you even know what your rights
are?”

“My rights ?”

“Yes. You want the girl to go home with you,
don’t you?”

“Ya-as,” answered Ben, slowly.

“She’s over age, ain’t she? Over eighteen, you
said, didn’t you?”

“Ya-as.”’

“Well, then, if she wants to stay here you can’t
force her to go with you.”

“T couldn’t force her anyhow,” said Ben, sadly.
“But,’’ he added, with a sort of fierce scorn, ‘I ean
make him marry her.” ‘

“Don’t know as you can; but we can try to scare
him into it,” said the officer. ‘And, mind now! no
violence. You’d better let me go first, and do the
talking with him. Come, now, be reasonable, or I
won't help you at all.”

Ben seemed inclined to be rebellious, but his better
sense asserted itself, and he yielded, and followed
the officer up the stairs.

The officer, without the least indecision, and as if
he had been in the house fifty times, instead of never
before, went up to the room which had been Reuben’s,
and knocked. Receiving no answer after several
times knocking, he opine the door, and went in. He
glanced around it, and then said, sententiously :
“The man’s skipped! The girl's some’eres about.”
Ben looked at him anxiously, but said nothing.
The officer went on with the pride of a professional
to a novice:

“Man’s clothes gone. Girl’s gripsack here; comb
and brush on bureau, and room tidy. We'llgo down
to the next floor and see if anybody there knows any-
thing about the matter.”

He knocked at the door on the floor beneath.
“Know anything about folks on top floor back?”
he asked, at the same time throwing back the lapel
of his coat to show his badge.

In that quarter of the city the sight of an officer in
citizen’s clothing is always alarming. The woman
who opened the door was guilty only of the crime of
poverty, but she turned pale and stammered as she
tried to answer.

“The top flure, is it?’ she asked.

“That's what I said. Top floor back. Come, speak
up.’

“Sure, sir, I don’t know anything about it, only the
sick man’s gone an’ the poor girl’s most crazy.”
“Skipped, eh? I thought so,” and the officer turned
with a smile that begged Ben to bear witness to his
acuteness.

But Ben was very little interested in that now, and
he turned to the woman and anxiously asked:
“Where is she?”

“Tf she ain’t up stairs she’s out lookin’ for him,
poor thing.”

“He ran away from her, did he?” demanded Ben.
“He did, an’- him that sick he couldn’t git out o’
bed.”

Ben’s presence and manner reassured the woman,
who seemed to instinctively know his errand to be
one in favor of Sue.

‘“‘How do you know he was so sick ?” demanded the
officer, turning to Ben to give him to understand that
he would turn the woman’s intelligence inside out.
“Sure, I was his nurse till she kem, an’ a sick man
he was, as the doctor’ll tell ye if ye ask him.”

“Had a doctor, did he? Couldn’t have been so very
sick if he could walk off so suddenly. Who is the doc-
tor? Where does he live?’

“Sure I don’t know. The gintleman brought him
here.”

“Aha! There was another gentleman, was there ?”’
and the officer again attracted Ben’s attention to the
fact of his acuteness in bringing this out. ‘*Who was
this other gentleman? What is his name ?”’

“Mr. Hazzard, an’ a fine gintleman, too.”

“And what’s become of him?’

“Sure, I don’t know that.’ He ginerally comes
twict a day; but he hasn’t been here since the young
lady come.”

The officer closed one éye and looked knowingly at
Ben.

‘*Hasn’t been here since, eh? And when did the
sick man go away ?”

“Yisterday afternoon. It was like this: I was a
clearin’ up like, an’ she kem down lookin’ so happy
an’ in a great hurry. She had her things on, an’ ses
I, ‘An’ where ’re ye goin’?? With that she looked at
me with them big black eyes o’ her’n an’ jess
laughed. ‘I want a minister,’ ses she. ‘I’m goin’ to
be married to Rube’—that’s what she called him; an’
I never see a girl so happy. An’ him so sick he
cudn’t lift his head. Well, I told her where she cud
find a clergyman, an’ that was all I knowed till she
kem rushin’ into me room here, lookin’ crazy like, an’
askin’ for the sick man. ‘Where would be be but in
his bed,’ ses I. With that she grabbed me and tuk
me up to his room, an’ he was gone.”

“He must have been sick,” said the officer, looking
at Ben.”

“The hound!” groaned Ben.

‘What did the girl do then?” asked the officer.

“She asked me did I know; an’ when I said no, she
ran out into the street to find him. But she cudn’t,
for she kem back an’ asked me more questions. An’
while she was talkin’ along kem one o’ them messen-
ger boys an’ giv’ her a letter. She read it an’ said,
‘Ob, Heaven! he’s gone, too!’ an’ I thought for a
minute she was goin’ to faint. But she didn’t, She
went out again, an’ staid out till night, when I
heard her goin’ up to her room, bein’ on the lookout
for her, like. I went up with some supper, but she
was for not eatin’ it. I made her, an’ so I did again
this mornin’. She’s out lookin’ for him now, be-
like.”

*You’re sure you don’t know anything more about
this matter ?”’ demanded the officer.

“T amy”

The officer put

to the room up stairs, and that she was not to tell
there.
Ben:
“Well, you see the little game, I suppose ?”’
“T s’pose he’s run away from her.”
any money with her ?’
“Must have had.”
“That’s it. He’s got her money, an’ skipped.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t do that. He ain’t that sort.”
“Isn't he? Well, just look at it.
wasn't any more sick than I am.
both in with him, you can gamble on that.

she had it, an’ comes on here.

you see?”

fallen so low as such a theory would make it seem.

 

around, making repeated efforts to collect his scat-

But the only thing that seemed to come to him was
the idea of hurrying lest he should be late for the
He did not find his. hat after a short and

He got down the stairs in some way, and staggered
out into the street, down which he went, muttering
It was not long before he was sur-
rounded by a crowd of ragged urchins, who espied
in him the legitimate sport of the city child—a

They pelted him with every available object, and
drove him before them, heedless of their gibes or
He went, without a defined purpose, as far
Then he sank upon
the pavement, and lay there, mocked and derided by
the waifs of the street, and avoided by the passers-by.

At last a policeman came upon him, and, haying
tried in vain to rouse him by beating his stockinged
feet with his club, caught him by the collar of his
Then he seemed to
realize that he had a sick instead of a drunken man
to deal with, and laid him down again, while he went

The ambulance came, Reuben was lifted into it, and

no time in circumlocution, He went at once to the
officer, who took the first blocks of that street in his

The officer took Ben by the arm, and led him out of
the room, saying to the woman that they were going

the young woman if she came home while they were
When they were in the upper room he said to

“Rub away? Well, I should smile. Did she have

He gets her to
come on here, shammin’ sick, for I’m satisfied he
He had some one
in with him. This feller Hazzard and the Se ea

ell,
she pulls her little pile out of the bank, or wherever
He tells her she must
go for the minister just as soon as she has put her
money in his hands for safe keeping. Well, she goes,
and he skips with her money in safe keeping. Don’t

The officer certainly told a probable enough story ;
but Ben found it difficult to believe that Reuben had

But then he remembered that Reuben had been
accused of the bank robbery, and although he had
afterward been Cleared of suspicion, had he not re-
fused to remain in Swanzey when there was every

; oR
‘ an
i

>

reason otherwise why she should?
made a victim of Sue?

Ben almost forgot his anger in his horror of such
infamy as seemed to have been practiced by one who
had once been a playfellow of his. He could not
quite believe it, but at the same time he could not
help dwelling on the corroborative circumstances of
the case. It even began to shape itself in his mind
that this was one of the results of forsaking honest
country ways, and takiug to advanced education,
city manners, and fine clothes.

“Ill tell you, now,” said the officer. “T can’t do
anything more here, now, so I’ll go back; but you
wait here, till the girl comes back, and get what you
can out of her. Then, if it seems that he has robbed
her, you bring her around to headquarters, and we'll
see if we Can find him. Get a description of the men
if you can anyhow,”

Ben acquiesced, though he hardly comprehended
any more than that he was to be left alone to await
the coming of Sue. This he was glad of. He let the
officer go, and he seated himself in a chair, and
leaving the door open so that he could hear if she
caine to the room down stairs.

What he should say to her when she did come, he
did not know. He had not formulated any ideas in
his mind. He was simply waiting for her, ready to
do for her anything he could, without any scorn for
her, with no reproaches in his heart, and only fearful
that she would meet him with anger and obstinacy.

The man upon whom he could have wreaked his
first fury was gone, and with him was gone all of
that anger which had so far urged Ben on. Now he
had to see only the poor victim, and for her he had a
generous man’s pity and tenderness. eee

In his sturdy honesty he could not but wonder how
it had ever tome about. How man could be so vile;
how woman could be so weak. And the wonder of
all was how Sue could be that woman.

But now, as he thought of it, and reviewed all the
circumstances, he seemed to see that all the while
that Sue had been urging him to a course which
would separate Ruth from Reuben, she had been
working in her own interests instead of in his, as he
had at the time believed.

It was a heart-sickening subject for him to think
of, and he was relieved at the same time that he
trembled with nervous dread at the sound of a light,
but slow and dragging footstep, on the stairs.

He knew instinctively that Sue was coming, and he
hardly dared to face her. ‘

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
——— > ©<—____
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

EDRIES LEGAGY;

FROM THE STREET 0 THE STAG

By MRS, GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “ Brownie’s Triumph,” * The Forsaken
Bride,” ‘‘ Sibyl’s Influence,” ‘* Geoffrey’s
Victory,” ‘* Witch Hazel,” etc.
(‘EDRIR’S LEGACY” was commenced in No. 12. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXI.
PARTING SOUVENIRS.

DRIE’S friends were consider-

ably astonished when she told

them what she had done, and

a little inclined also to chide
. her for having acted hastily

and rashly. But after they

had seen Edrie’s protegee they
modified their opinion some
what.
With the ability to rest, with
palatable, nourishing food to
- build her up, Nellie Grant soon
recovered from her sea-sickness and began to im-
prove in strength and appearance.
Then she strove to show her appreciation of
Edrie’s kindness. She waited upon her on every
possible occasion—she seemed to even anticipate her
wishes, and tried, in a hundred ways, to prove her
gratitude.
“What are you going to do when you get to
America, Nellie?’ Edrie asked, one day wuen they
were together in their state-room. ‘‘What can you
do to earn your own living ?”’ i
“T thought of going into some family as nurse or
house-maid. I am a fair seamstress, too, for I have
been taught to sew and make my own clovhes,” the
girl replied. ;
“Could you not teach?’ Edrie inquired.
“No; my schooling has been limited, and I am not
fit for a teacher,” Nellie answered, modestly.
Edrie said nothing more then, but later she hada
long talk with Madame Reiffenberg regarding Nellie
Grant’s future. ;
That night, when the two girls were retiring, Edrie.
agzin returned to the subject of the morning.
“Nellie, how do you think you would like the posi-
tion of waiting-maid to a young lady who will have
to travel a good deal ?” she asked.
“T think it might be a pleasant position if the young
lady was kind and good-tempered; though I do not
know much about the duties of a waiting-maid,” the
girl ynsuspiciously replied.
Edrie smiled.
“T think she would try to be good-tempered,” she
said, “and, as to your duties, you would have to help
her dress, attend her whereyer she went, and ren-
der her any service she might require. There might
also be some sewing and mending expected of you.
To be more explicit,” Edrie continued, with a slight
flush, “I am going to require some one to act in that
capacity for me. I am to be a public singer, and
shall need some one to assist me in dressing—to at-
tend me to concerts and operas, to help me change
my costumes, to be ready with my wrap when I come
off the stage, and to do a hundred other things I
might need.” :

Nellie Grant regarded her new friend with undis-
guised astonishment. :

“Are you an opera singer?—a—a real prima
donna?’ she at last managed to ‘ask, with a long-
drawn breath.

“That is what I have been studying for abroad, and
now Iam going back to America to earn my living
in that way. Will you engage yourself as my wait-
ing-maid, Nellie?” ’

“7 thing it would be delightful to serve you in any
way,” the girl exclaimed, with starting tears. ‘Oh,
how fortunate I ain!” her face all aglow at the pros-
pect before her, ‘‘nothing better could have come to
me, and [ will do the very best I can for you.”

Later in the day Madame Reiffenberg saw the girl,
and questioned her upon her past history and man-
ner of living.

“My mother died in New York when I was about
two years old,’ Nellie told her. ‘I lost my father
some time before that,’ she added, with drooping
eyes and heightened color. ‘‘After ny mother’s
death, her sister—my Aunt Ellen, for whom I was
named—took care of me. She was then a single
woman, and supported herself and me by doing
dressmaking until I was ten years of age. Then she
became acquainted with an Englishman, married
him, and we all went to England to live. My aunt’s
husband died five years afterward, and she had to
take up dressmaking again to earn our living. She
taught me to sew and as much of her trade as she
could, with my going tosechool. She died about three
months ago, and being thus left alone in the world,
I felt a longing to come back to America, being sure
that I could earn my living as well, if not better,
there than in England.”

This was the substance of Nellie Grant’s story, or
as much of it as she told Madame Reiffenberg, who
was fully satisfied that she was a respectable girl,
and had been as well brought up as was _ possible in
the humble sphere in which her good aunt had
moved.

She was satisfied that she would be just the one to
go about with Edrie as waiting-maid, and she was
engaged. at once as such, and henceforth became
allied with the Reiffenberg party.

The voyage was a very prosperous one, favoring
breezes attending them all the way. :

To Edrie and Harold Sturtevant it was like a poem
—a dream of delight, for they were almost constantly
in each other’s society, greatly to the distress of the
good professor, who feared to have the girl’s heart
entangled, lest it should seriously interfere with her
brilliant prospects. ,

Everybody was very happy when the spires of
New York began to gleam in the distance, for the
sight of one’s native shores after a long voyage is
very exhilarating; and although they would not be
able to land that night, all felt that they had reached
home at last.

That last evening, spent just outside the bar, was
one of the loveliest ever known on sea or land.

The heavens were cloudless, the moon was full, and
beneath its radiant glory the sea seemed like one
vast expanse of liquid silver.

Harold Sturtevant had enticed Edrie to the upper
deck, where they sat looking out over the moonlit
waters in a soniewhat reticent mood, for both hearts

were too full to admit of much speech.

Harold Sturtevant’s old love for the fair girl had
only deepened and strengthened during these eight
delightful days which he had spent in her society.

He had learned that, in spite of the rare gifts
which she possessed—iu spite of the advantages she

 

K WEEKLY.

And had he not]

*

had enjoyed and the brilliant future opening before
her, she was still the same sweet, pure-hearted,
noble girl that she had been when he first began to
love her at Hollyhurst, and he kuew that unless he
could win her affection and her
day she would give up fame and glory to become his
wife, his whole future would be darkened. 3

Still, in view of her present plans,he felt that he
had no right to declare himself and bind her to him.
She had spent long years in preparation for and
meant to devote her talents to the stage; her pros-
pects were of the brightest; fortune was ready and
Waiting to pour her most lavish gifts into her lap,
and she ought not to be fettered by ties which might
be irksome to her; especially when as yet he had
pave to offer her but his true heart and his true

ove.

So he crushed back all his great love into his breast,
and repressed his desire to ascertain whether her
heart held anything of affection for him, or the fu-
ture anything of hope.

“To-morrow I suppose we shall have to repeat
those dismal words, ‘good-by,’ and go our different
ways,” Harold said,in a somewhat dejected tone, and
breaking the long and rather suggestive silence.

Edrie did not reply, but an involuntary sigh parted
her red lips, and the sound made her companion’s
heart thrill with a fond, sweet hope.

“T presume that your anticipations overbalance
any regrets which you might feel at parting with the
few friends you have made on shipboard,” Harold
continued. ‘You probably look forward to the tri-
umphs awaiting you, and even this eight-day voyage
must have seemed irksome to you.”

“Of course I am anticipating my work, Mr. Sturte-
vant; but indeed I shall look back to these eight days
with more of pleasure than I can express.”

Again Harold Sturtevant’s heart thrilled with

hope.

She had spent more time in his society than with
any one else, and if she retained such pleasant mem-
ories of the voyage, she must regard him at least
with very friendly feelings.

“Tl am very Ncompaa of your engagement here in New
York. I shall be very impatient until you come to
Boston,” he said, earnestly.

“T, too, long to see dear old Boston again, and the
friends there who were so kind to me. Mr. Sturte-
vant, you little know how I love dear Mrs. Campbell,
and yearn for her,” Edrie returned, in a tremulous
voice.

Harold would have given a great deal to have
heard her express as much for him; but, situated as
he was, with his own way to make in the world, he
et that he had no right to confess his feelings for

er.

“T hope I am not
am one of the friends you speak of?" he said, in a
low tone,

“No, indeed,” Edrie said, eagerly; “you were al-
ways very kind to me, Mr. Sturtevant. I do not for-
get,” she added, lifting her smiling face to him, “who
took me to wy first opera, and stirred my ambition to
become an opera singer. I feel that I owe youa
great deal.”

This was almost too much for Harold’s resolution,
but he still curbed his desire to pour out his great
love for her; yet it emboldened him to carry outa
little plan that he had formed that day.

“Then perhaps you will accept a little memento
from me to prove your friendliness ?”’ he said, draw-
ing a suiall ease from his pocket as he spoke.

He opened it, and Edrie saw an odd-looking brace-
let, in dull red gold, and very quaintly carved, lying
within. It was one of two from which he had in-
tended to allow Helena to choose, but a desire to give
it to: Edrie had taken possession of him, and so he
reserved the other one for his sister.

“Oh, how pretty, and how very odd it is!” Edrie
exclaimed, bending forward to get a better view of
it. “I will accept it as a souvenir of this delightful
voyage with pleasure, Mr. Sturtevant.”

Harold’s face shone with joy at this hearty accept-
ance of his offering.

“Will you allow me to put it on for you?” he asked.
“Tt fastens in a peculiar way, with a lock and key,”
and he showed her a tiny golden key attached to the
trinket by a small chain.

She held out her white wrist, with a smile.

Harold slipped it over her hand, inserted the key in
its lock, and turned it, with a sense of almost propri-
etorship, as the bauble was thus fastened about her
arm.

Edrie’s cheeks were crimson when he released her
hand; she, too, felt as if that act had somehow
bound her to him, though no word had passed be-
tween them.

*“You must also have a souvenir,” she said, to break
the feeling of awkwardness that was stealing over
her, “suppose you let me give you this,” and she
drew a curious pin from the scarf about her neck.

“T bought it in Naples,’ she continued ; “it was
made from the silver. drinking-cup of a nobleman
who became impoverished, and was obliged to sell
his valuables.” ;

Harold was well-pleased with this exchange, and
accepted it as a good omen for the future.

CHAPTER XXXII.
EDRIE’S SUCCESS AS A PRIMA DONNA IN NEW YORK.

Mr. and Mrs. Graham, with Belle, were waiting on
the pier to meet Edrie as she landed the next morn-
ing, and all greeted her with loving cordiality.:

They insisted that she should come to them; they
claimed her almost as if she had been an own daugh-
ter; and, as she was to have a few days of rest pre-
vious to the opening of her engagement, she went
for a little visit to their quiet home.

Here they made much of her, and listened with de-
light to her accouuts of her experiences abroad.
Here Doctor Field called upon her, and realized
more than ever, as he looked upon her ripening
womanhood, how much he had lost out of his life in
ieee to win the love of this beautiful and talented

irl.

At length the all-important night arrived, and
Edrie’s debut in New York proved to be even more
brilliant than it had been in London.

She took the musical world by storm, not only with
her grand, pure voice and the absoulute perfection of
her role, but with her beautiful face and figure, and
her bright, piquant, yet unassuming, and lady-like
manners.,

Her first appearance, as she had stipulated, was in
Donizetti’s great opera of ‘Lucia di Lammermoor,”
every note and word of which was as familiar as the
alphabet to her.

A crowded house gathered to witness this opening
performance of the new prima donna, for a great
deal of curiosity had been awakened regarding her.
Everything passed off superbly; there was nothing
to mar or jar throughout the performance, save once,
as she was glancing over her audience, her eyes were
attracted to a box on her right, in which there was a
man sitting alone.

He was bending forward, watching her with the
most rapt attention.

A sudden painful thrill went dancing along Edrie’s
nerves, for she instantly recognized him.

It was Tom Page, the torment of her early years—
her boorish and rejected suitor in Milan.

His eyes lighted as he caught her look, and’a pecu-
liar and disagreeable smile wreathed his coarse lips.

She turned quickly away, and did not again glance
in that direction, but went on with her part, which,
fortunately, was so familiar that the shock she had
received had no power to cause any break, and at the
close she received the wildest applause from her en-
chanted audience.

But the next evening Tom Page was again in the
same box, alone. and Edrie shrugged her pretty
shoulders with annoyance as she once more found
those malicious eyes fixed upon her. H

But she would not allow it to affect her eomposure,
and, to overcome the disagreeable sensation his
presence. gave her, she threw herself with more than
usual enthusiasm into her role. ,

After the last act, upon retiring to her dressing-
room, she found an elegant basket of flowers upon
her table.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed, as she bent to in-
hale their fragrance.

She had received many other offerings, but they
had been presented before she left the stage, and she
wondered to find this one here, sent in such a modest
way.

But she understood the motive.

Nellie Grant, who, by the way, was proving a very
efficient waiting-maid, was standing near, and pointed
out an envelope which was very cunningly concealed
among the flowers.

Edrie took it from its fragrant hiding-place, and,
drawing forth a closely written sheet, read the
following: :
“New York, Nov. —, 188—.

“My DEAR Miss Brown: You have made a great
hit here in New York; your praises are on every
tongue, and I am proud of you. I couldn’t keep’ my
eyes away from you last night, and I shall be on
hand every night while your engagement lasts. I
suppose you haven't forgotten what I said to you the
last time I saw you in Milan—J haven't, and I’ve
made up my mind that I can’t get along without you.
I want you for my wife, and I’m ready to throw over
everything for you. I’m no ladies’ man—I can’t
make love to you as they do on the stage; but I’m in
dead earnest. and no mistake. Will you marry me?
Just tip me an answer right away, and direct to the
inclosed address. Yours for keeps,

“ToM PAGE.”

But for her disagreeable experience with the fellow
in Milan, Edrie would have been greatly amused by
this characteristic epistic and unique offer of mar-
riage. Butshe could not forget his insulting and
threatening manner to her there, and she was very
indignant at this repetition of his presumption.

She refolded the note, replaced it in its envelope,
and tucked it back among the flowers where she had
found it.

She then gave orders to have the basket inclosed in
a box and returned to the address which Tom Page
had given in his note, thus showing him that she
would not accept his offering or deign him one word
in reply to his suit. She hoped by this summary way
of dealing with him to put an end to his offensive
attentions.

But she was greatly mistaken in her calculations,

 

She '.
‘ } 4

yromise that some.

resumptuous in assuming that I .

VOL. 44—No, 26,

 

for the next night found the pertinacious Tom at his
post, while Edrie was conscious that his evil eyes
followed her every movement.

This was very exasperating. She knew that if he
kept it up night after night, it would tell upon her
patience and self-possession, and eventually affect
her acting and her singing.

She told Professor Reiffenberg, who interviewed
the manager, and that gentleman assured her that
she should not be troubled again.

But, upon inquiry, he learned that the box had been
taken for the whole of Signora Edrica’s engagement,
and it would be impossible to get rid of the uncom-
fortable presence without resorting to radical
measures, .

The manager, however, sought a personal interview
with Mr. Page, and threatened him with an arrest if
he did not keep himself out of Edrie’s sight.

“You make her fail,” he said, shaking a nervous
finger angrily in the young man’s face, “and I put
you where you will not attend an opera again for one
three years.”

Tom Page grinned at him maliciously, but made no
response. He was a coward at heart, as all such
boors are. .

Edrie’s annoyance was increased at the end of the
performance by receiving another note werded in

the following threatening manner: batt

“You may think you ean carry a high hand with
me, Miss Barie Brown, but you'll find Se to your ad-
vantage not to be quite so uppish. [ll give you till
the close of your engagement to reconsider my pro-
posal, but if I do not hear from you, giving mea
favorable answer, before the last night, I warn you
that you'll have serious cause to regret it.’

This note was not signed, but the handwriting was
the same as the other, and Edrie well knew who had
written it.

She had no intention, however, of taking the slight-
est notice of it, but she could not bear to think of the
wretch occupying that conspicuous box every night,
and gazing at her with his basilisk eyes. She was
really becoming quite nervous Over it.

She was agreeably disappointed the next evening,
upon glancing up as she came upon the stage, to see
no one in the box, and she was not troubled again by
the appearance of her obnoxious admirer.

He was there, nevertheless, never missing a single
performance, but he had no desire to mar her success
in any way; he felt a certain pride in having her do
as well as she could, especially as he still meant to
conquer and marry her, in spite of herself, and so he
concealed himself among the curtains, where he
could watch her without being observed by her.

Edrie continued to gain the favor of the public
throughout her engagement; her reputation was
hopaughly. established, and she sang night after
night crowded and appreciative houses, while’
money flowed into the manager’s pockets.

Edrie had arranged to receive acertain amount
nightly for her services, whether the engagement
proved to be a success or not, and in addition a cer-
tain percentage of the receipts after they exceeded a
stipulated sui,

he manager said he had never had a more suc-
cessful engagement, expressed himself as more than
ere and arranged for a farewell benefit for
rie.

There was scarcely standing room on that evening,
and the enthusiasm rose to the greatest height, and
Edrie was recalled again and again after the last act;
it seemed as if her audience could not let her go,
and the fair girl, elated with her triumph, bowed and
smiled herthanks until her cheeks burned searlet
and her eyes gleamed like stars.

It was over at last, and, weary and panting from
over-exertion and excitement, Edrie retired to her
dressing-room, glad it was over, for to-morrow she
was going to dear old Boston, and to Mrs, Campbell
and—Harold.

At the door of her dressing-room she found her
faithful maid Nellie indignantly refusing admittance
to a man who seemed determined to enter.

‘‘What is the trouble, Nellie?” Edrie inquired, with
quire dignity, but, after coming from the glare of
* 8. Btage, not recognizing the intruder in the dim
ight.

"The nan turned at the sound of her voice, and she
found herself face to face with Tom Page!

“Aha! well met!” he said, with a leer and a bold
stare of admiration, while his eyes glowed greedily
at the sight of the diamonds upon her person. “I’ve
come for my answer, Miss —ah !—Miss Brown.”

Edrie drew her fine form to its full height and
looked the fellow straight in the face with her
blazing eyes.

“Go!” she simply said, raising one white hand and
pointing toward the door.

She made a lovely picture standing in that com-
manding attitude in her trailing white robe, over
which great bunches of golden wheat stood out in
raised embroidery, diamonds gleaming on her white
wece and fair round arms and in her glossy brown

air.

“No, I won’t go,” the man said, sullenly, though
his eyes dropped before the fire in hers. “I vow I
won’t go until I have my answer.” ; '

“Go!” Edrie repeated, without changing her atti-
tude, but in a tone which no one would have dared
to disobey, and he slunk away, muttering angrily to
himself as he went.

Edrie passed into her dressing-room with a smile
of scorn and triumph on her red lips.

“Help me change my dress as quickly as possible,
Nellie,” she said, as she began to remove her jewels.
“Itis very late, and I must not keep the professor
waiting.” s

Professor Reiffenberg or Mr. Richards always at-
tended her to and from the opera-house, and the lat-
ter being away on business that evening the former
was acting as her escort,

The rich silken robe was quickly exchanged for a
plain, dark street-dress; the jewels and articles of
apparel were gathered up to be taken away, and
then, warmly hooded and cloaked to protect her
from the keen night air, Edrie, attended by her
maid, pees. down to the private entrance, where
she found the good professor awaiting her.

“Well, well, ny sweet brown thrush, we haf done
great things this night,” he said, in a tone of intense
satisfaction. as he gave her his arm to conduct her
to her carriage.

Before she could reply a tall, official-looking man
approached them, and, laying his hand firmly though
respectfully on Edrie’s shoulder, said, in a low tone,
“Madam, you are my prisoner!” .

“Ah, mein Got! vat you mean?” demanded the pro-
fessor, in a tone of amazement, but with the angry
blood suffusing his face, while he assumed a bellige-
rent attitude, prepared to defend his protegee with
his life if need be. ; ;

Edrie looked up, no less astonished, and grew
slightly pale, for the man’s words had startled her,
orepuey she was sure that he had made some mis-

ake,

_ She smiled brightly up into the officer's face, and
involuntarily his hand slipped from her shoulder.

“Tam sure, sir, you have made a mistake,’ she
said, courteously, “‘for I surely have done nothing to
bring me under the hand of the law.” j

“What you mean?” demanded Professor Reiffen
berg, the angry blood still boiling within him.
“What for you make this disturbance-- what you ar-
rest Miss Brown for?”

“For the murder of Daniel Campbell, of Boston,
Massachusetts, on the night of the twenty-fifth of
December, 188—,” briefly but distinctly replied the
officer, while he produced from the breast of his
overcoat his warrant for Edrie’s arrest.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

IN LOVE'S GRUGIBLE,

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

(“IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE” was commenced in No. 15,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXI.
LADY GLADYS ENTERS INTO A CONSPIRACY.

A week passed in a continuous stream of enter-
tainments—dinner parties, concerts, picnics. The
county had not seen half enough as yet of the young
beauty at the Hall. As Lord Algy said, it was asif a
queen, whom nobody was expecting, had suddenly
visited one of her provinces. e

In the meantime, the picture, though it grew, grew

but slowly, and was still unfinished. It provided a.
sufficient excuse for the daily visit of Caryl Wilton
to the Hall. Every day, half an hour or so after
breakfast, he was in the gallery, working quietly
and steadily.
_ Sometimes he would ask for Maida to sit to him,
but not always; but whether he wanted her or not,
she always remained at home at that hour; and
when her maid came to her with Mr. Wilton’s com-
pliments and a request for her presence, she always
rose at once, as if in response to a command, instead
of toa respectful, humble request.

After that first day, when he had made his feelings
and intentions so clear, nothing had been said be-
tween them on the one absorbing subject; but always,
just before she entered the gallery, where he stood
with the light of the oriel window falling on his hand-
some face, her white hand would go to her bosom, as
if to still the beating of her heart, and she would
cowpose herself to a calm serenity.

She scarcely knew whether it was with pleasure or
pain that she looked forward to meeting him. Some-
times she felt that he exercised a certain and itive
fascination over her. If he stopped in his work

 

and looked at her, her eyes felt drawn to his; when

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

SP pie ils Sms

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he spoke, all inner sense was on the alert to catch
the words that fell so softly musical from his lips.
And she was all the while conscious that any power
he exercised over her was unwitting on his part, for
it was plain that he was resolutely subduing every
sign of the devouring love which controlled him.

Never a word, never a hint of the past dropped
from his lips, but. sometimes, when she raised her
eyes under the spell of his, she would see a passion-
ate gleam of patient longing and desire of love
shining in their depths; and then her heart beat, and
awarn mist seemed to fall on her and enwrap her,
and the figure,in its velvet coat and the handsome
face, would fade and go like a vision in a dream.

Often Sir Richard would sit beside them, or walk
to and fro, talking to Caryl Wilton, and always
amused and delighted. , At other times all the visi-
tors, for the house was filling for the shooting, would
stand and watch the picture; but it happened
sometimes that the two were alone, and it was then
that the spell fell on her, and the gallery would fade
away and give place to a Vision of the still street and
the passionate, pleading man, in his evening dress
and white, steadfast face.

Was it pleasure or pain? She could not say; but
whereas she had formerly met him or thought of him
only with dread, she now was conscious of a sense
of protection in connection with him. For was he
not her slave? Had he not said so himself? ready to
do her bidding, to serve and protect her to the death ?

And she could not be unhappy.

Sometimes, at night, a sense of her position, of the
fearful life of deception she was leading, smote her
and made her white and sick, with a strange mixture
of dread and desperation.

Oftentimes it would come to her with such a feel-
ing of relief that she could at any time go to him
and say:

“Saveme from myself! Take me away from here!”

And why did she not do it? Alas! it was not so
easy as itseemed. Even had she loved him, which
she was sure she did not, she could not but feel that
she was bound now to do nothing to hurt the kind
old man, whose whole life was centered in her, and
whom she had come to so love that she seldom
thought of her vow to her mother, and when she did
now it was with horror.

And, then, she was more than ever safe. Nobody
but Caryl Wilton could recognize her, and he, she
knew, would do naught but help her. Why should
she ever think of the imposition she was practicing?
She was in truth a Hartleigh, and she was Sir
Richard’s daughter. She was doing no one an in-
— by personating her sister, and she was making

er father supremely happy.

On the whole, she kad never been quite as happy
as now. The pallor, which had increased during the
few terrible hours of the first meeting with Caryl,
had left her cheeks. She began to show an unwonted
interest in the many schemes for her amusement;
began to look with pleasure upon the great boxes
which came from Worth’s, filled with the choicest
specimens of his art.

Between Guy and herself the same reserve re-
mained unbroken; though all the country linked
their names together. no word of love, or anything
approaching it, was exchanged between them. Since
that first night, when Guy had offered her all that
surely would be his, the title and the estate, and she
had turned coldly from him, she had kept him at
arm’s length.

For some reason, best known to himself, and yet
unconfessed even to himself, Guy was able to bear
her coldness with much more equanimity than for-
merly, though he was still sure that he devotedly
loved her. And he still watched her as eagerly as
before, but no longer with the same jealous fury of
the one man who seemed able to move her out of
herself.

But there was another to whom time brought no
peace. This was little Lady Gladys.

One morning—there had been a dinner-party at her
house the night before—she arose, tired, and in any-
thing but a pleasant humor, as she looked at her pale
face, pinched with the effects of the previous night’s
excitement and disappointment; for, she who had
been the belle until the coming of Constance Hart-
leigh, had been thrown completely in the shade. Be-
side the superb beauty of Maida, poor Lady Gladys
looked faded and passe; in the blazing light of the
Hartleigh gems, her own rubies and opals flickered
feebly and to no purpose.

Guy had sat beside her and talked with her, but
even as he talked his frank, candid eyes had wan-
dered to his cousin’s lovely face, and his thoughts
seemed anywhere but with the girl who had fondly
dreamed of winning him altogether. But if his
thoughts were not with her, neither were they with
his cousin. They were, in fact,in an humble little
cottage in Langham, or perchance in the pretty
church there. And yetit was a week since he had
seen either.

But Lady Gladys did not know whither his
thoughts had gone, and she blamed Maida for his de-
sertion of her, as she was pleased to term it in her
own heart. That night she had cried with jealousy
and vexation, had cried herself to sleep, and this
morning was paying the penalty.

There were Visitors at the house before whom she
would not present herself in her lack-luster con-
dition; and having taken that grand solace of her
sex, a cup of tea, she put on her hat and stole out in-
to the grounds.

They were extensive and pretty, with a little wood
attached, and a bend of the river babbling through
them. She wandered down to the stream, brooding
over the disappointment of the preceding night, and
fanning her jealousy of Maida with a positive hatred.

“If she had never come,” she murmured, through
her white teeth, “if she had never come! I hate her
—yes, I hate her! Why should she take him from
me, aS a matter of course? She never throws hima
kind word or a smile, and yet he cannot take his eyes
off her, even while he is talking to me—to me, who
loves him !”

And poor little Lady Gladys covered her pale face |

with her hands, to force back the bitter, passionate
tears. It was as well that she did so, for as her hands
fell into her lap again, she saw a young nian, ina
light-gray, loose suit, standing at the side of the
stream, fishing.

He was not of her class, and she drew herself up
with instinctive haughtiness, as she saw him watch-
ing her with an offensively cunning pair of eyes. He
noticed the movement, and spoke quickly, and with
respectful humility :

“T beg pardon, my lady, but I came here on pur-
pose to see if I couldn’t have a word with you,”

“With me?’ and she was turning indignantly away,
when she was suddenly arrested by his next words.

“Yes, my lady, with you. Thatis, supposing I am
not mistaken in thinking you would like to know
something in the past of Miss Hartleigh.”

She faced about sharply.

“What do you mean ?”

“Just what I said, my lady. If you don’t care any-
thing about her history, then there is no use of our
wasting any more words, and I will go away.”

“Why should I care ?” demanded Lady Gladys, with
a little tremor of apprehension.

“TIT don’t know, if you don’t; but I suppose if you
loved a certain young man, and that young man
loved some other girl—begging your pardon—and
that young woman had something shady-like in her

ast—why—— Well, I suppose I was wrong, and so

will say good-morning.”

He began reeling up his line, as if preparing to go,
but all the while keeping his cunning eye on the
young lady, who, with clenched hands, was trying to
decide what todo. He turned away.

“Stop!”

It was what he had wished for. The invitation to
talk had now come from her, and the advantage was
shifted to his side; and she realized it.as soon as she
had spoken, and would have recalled her words but
for that demon of jealousy which would not let her
rest without knowing what this man had to say.

“Yes, miss,” and there was already a faint shade of
familiarity in his voice.

“What do you mean by saying such things to me?”

She was making an effort to put the man in his

lace.

: He would not give up his advantage, however, and
answered, easily :

“T meai just this: You don’t love Miss Hartleigh,
and I know it. I have been done out of a little pile
of money on account of her, and I want it. Now,I
need somebody to help me, and you need somebody
to help you. You help me to get my money, and Ill
help you to get the young man. Whatdo you say ?’

“How dare you?”

“Oh, well, if you don’t care to talk reasonably, I'll
go straight to the young lady herself, and I'll bet

she’ll take me up before I can say it twice. Good-
morning.” 5
“Stop! Howam I to know you are not an im-

postor ?”

“An impostor wouldn’t talk as I do, and you know
it. However, I don’t mind telling you enough to

rove to you that Iam able to help you. Miss Hart-
leigh came home all of a sudden, didn’t she?”

“é ”

“And Mr. Guy went after her, didn’t he?”

a Oe

“Well, you don’t suppose that Sir Richard knew all
the time just where his daughter was, do you? I
guess not. Why, he has been hunting for her good-
ness. knows how wany years. All I know is that I
was on the track of her for over five years, and others
were on it before me. Iman agent, and I was hired
by the lawyers of Sir Richard to find his wife and
daughter. And I was paid so much a month and ex-

enses for doingit, and when I found them I was to

1ave five hundred pounds. Well, I did find them—at
least I found the daughter, for the mother had just
died—and I told the lawyers, in the innocence of my
heart; and what did they do? They up and told Sir
Richard, and he sent his nephew—the young man we
know of—with all the points I had been working to
get, and behold! he finds the young woman and
brings her home! Then, what do the smarty lawyers
do? Why, they say I did not find her, and they gave
me only half the five hundred pounds. Now, do you
believe that I know something?”

Lady Gladys had listened to him with an eagerness
whieh told the story of her self-respect fast going
down before the temptation to use the opportunity
offered her. She realized all the shamefulness of en-
tering into a partnership with this man; but by the
time he had ceased to speak, her wind was made up

 

 

 

 

 

 

to accept any proposal he might make, providing
only that there was no possibility of being found out
by her friends.

“Perhaps,” she said, slowly, ‘‘there is nothing to
know that will be of any use to me.”

“Ah!” he answered, with a cunning smile, and
what was suspiciously near a wink, “now we are
coming to business. Of course, if there was nothing
in it that would be of service to you, then all this
talk would be useless; but, my lady, there is a lot
that will be of service to you if you will do as I say.
Look here, now—do you suppose I would have come
to you unless there was some reason why [I needed
you? No. Well, do you suppése that I would have
dared to come unless [ could do as much for you as
you for me? No, miss, and you believe it.”

“Perhaps I do. Why don’t you complain to Sir
Richard about the money ?”’

“Complain to him? Why, he put the thing into the
hands of his lawyers, and he would refer me to them.
No, no. Besides, I have discovered a thing or two
that will make my five hnndred small in comparison
to what I can get.”

“Then Sir Richard doesn’t know yon?”

“Nobody knows me but you—not a soul!’”’

“But I don’t understand yet. If you know so much,
how am I going to be able to help you? What is it
you want to find out?”

“Just say you are in for it,’—Lady Gladys shrank
into herself at the expression which implied so much
—‘tand I will let you know at the proper time. I have
not got the thing in shape yet. You’ll know what
I’m after allin good time. Is it a go, miss ?”’

She hesitated a moment between the good and the
evil, and then looked at him with a flush on her
pretty face which showed the defeat of the last rem-
nant of self-respect, and said, in a husky voice:

“How can I communicate with you?”

“Leave thattome. Hush! Here comes some one.
Order me off the place! Itis our young lady, with
her two lovers.”

And by that remark the man proved to Lady Gladys
that he had studied others than herself in the carry-
ing out of hisscheme. But she had no time to dwell
on that thought, though it gave her a momentary
sense of uneasiness, for she saw the forms of several
persons coming through the woods. She immedi-
ately raised her voice, and with a coolness which
showed her fitness for the part she had undertaken
to play, she said:

‘IT must ask you to go at once, please.”

“Of course, of course, miss. Very sorry, I’m sure,”
and the fellow, with a tine assumption of humility,
took up his tackle and basket and was making off as
if he was very much abashed.

“Hello!” said a voice from the midst of the ap-
proaching party. “Farmer Jones’ Yankee friend
seems to have been caught in the very act.”

It was Guy’s voice, and at the sound of it Lady
Gladys turned quickly around, as if in relief. And
as she did so she saw that her rival was one of the
party, and she ran to her with such a pretty air of
glee rosens that the agent muttered under his
preath :

“The little serpent! Take a woman to cut a throat
and smnile in the doing of it!’

And then he touched his hat to Guy with an air of
great simplicity.

“T say, Mr.—Mr.——” began Guy

“Miles Barton, at your service.”

“Mr. Barton,’’? went on Guy, “I think you will be
wise if you will confine your poaching tendencies to
the grounds of Sir Richard, who is not as particular
as some of the other gentry hereabout.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good-morning, sir.
Sorry to have disturbed the young lady. Won’t.do it
again. Good-morning, ladies. Good-morning, gen-
tlemen.”

Maida, as well as Lady Gladys, acknowledged his
salute, and he went off looking as harmless as a man
very well could.

Only Caryl Wilton noticed that the man gave a lit-
tle start of surprise as he looked at Maida, and only
Caryl Wilton noticed that under the man’s simplicity
was hidden a cunning which might be dangerous if
there were any danger to apprehend.

He glanced from Lady Gladys to the man and
shrugged his shoulders ever so little. There was
something more than an interrupted poaching tripin
the matter, he felt quite satisfied; but he gave no
outward sign of his suspicion, and was never more
cordial with Lady Gladys.

“Don’t let us forget our errand, Constance,” said
Guy, suddenly. ‘There is a picnic in the wind,
Lady Gladys.”

“A picnic! Where to?’

“To the Titan’s Shield.”

“How delightful! And when is it to be?”

“The day after to-morrow, weather permitting,”
answered Maida.

“Ah,” said Lady Gladys, “it is a dreadful climate,
is it not, dear? You must feel it terribly, you who
have been in America.”

No one could have detected any discomfiture in
Maida; but, as she looked up, Caryl Wilton stepped
forward and said, coolly:

“Don’t imagine that Americais a paradise, Lady
Gladys. It has a very trying climate.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Gladys; “you have been
there, too.”

Caryl smiled inwardly at the attempted thrust at
him, but he only answered indifferently, though he
watched her narrowly :

“If you had had time to talk with your poacher, he
could have told you a great deal about America, I
don’t doubt.” ,

Lady Giadys flushed, and wished she had not un-
dertaken a tilt with the self-possessed Caryl Wilton,

 

CHAPTER XXII.
GUY PROVES HIS FONDNESS FOR DAME CHESTER.

Time, that flew with fleet wings for the petted
heiress of the Hall, dragged with leaden heels for the
lonely girl at the little cottage at Langham. There
were no picnics, no dinner parties for her. Day after
day wore away, each like its fellow, and whereas but
a few days ago the days had all been joyous to her,
they now were dull,

‘“*My dear,” said the dame at last, ‘‘you don’t sing
as you did; I miss it as I miss the birds in winter.
What ails you?”

‘Nothing, nothing, dear dame.”

‘Nothing? No, but something is the matter, and
what is it?”

But Mildred protested strenuously that nothing
whatever was the matter, and, to do her justice, she
did not know herself.

Eight days had passed since Guy had satin the
easy, chintz-lined chair—eight long days; and in the
afternoon of the eighth, Mildred came in at the gate,
and slowly walked along the hall, into which she
used to run eight days ago.

She had been to the church to practice, and she had
pias and sang the music and the hymn which she

1ad played and sang that afternoon when Guy had
fallen asleep in the church.

A perfect picture she made as she paused beside
the autumn roses, her graceful figure standing out
against the cottage, her sweet face turned to the blue
sky. A very flower among flowers she looked, the
fairest of them all. But there was no one to see, ex-
cepting the dame, who paused a moment at the cot-
tage door.

“Come in, Miss Mildred, dear,” she said in her
crooning voice. ‘Teas ready.”

With a little start, the girl turned away from the
rose-tree, and was entering the cottage, but at that
moment there eame the sound of a horse’s hoofs on
the gravel of the lane, and, turning, she saw a stal-
wart figure, riding a great, powerful horse, coming
toward the cottage.

Like a fawn at bay she stood, a tide of crimson
flushing her sweet face.

Was he going to stop, or would he merely bow and
ride on? She knew, in that moment of intense long-
ing, what it was that had filled her monotonous life
with a vague sense of gladness—of sweet, melancholy
pleasure—of infinite, dream-like longings. She had
been looking for the second visit of this young squire,
with the crisp, golden hair, and the frank, boyish
smile.

Would he ride past ?

Suddenly, as she asked herself the question, Guy
caught sight of her. A pleased, welcoming light
shone in his blue eyes, and he sent Hotspur forward
with a spring, scattering the gravel in all dtrections,

“Good-afternoon, good-afternoon,” he cried, drop-

ing from his horse, and standing bare-headed before
her, ‘*‘What a beautiful afternoon !”

She murmured something, and Guy, who was wait-
ing to see her put out her hand, at last put out his.
With a little twitch of the scarlet lips, she put her
little hand into his great brown one, and felt a thrill
run through her, as his strong fingers closed over
her soft ones, and held them prisoners.

“You see,” he said, still holding her hand, ‘‘I have
kept my word, and very soon put yours to the test.
Will you give meacupoftea? Where is the daine ?’’

She was here a moment ago. What a beautiful
horse!’ she exclaimed, leaning over the gate, and
stroking the sleek, bright chestnut neck. “How
wane and smooth he feels! Isn’t he a very strong
one‘!

“A very strong anda very wicked one,” answered
Guy, with a happy laugh. “No amount of work will
wear him out or cure his temper. Mind! Take care,
Miss Mildred; he is likely to snap, Iam the only
person for whom he entertains a decent respect, to
say nothing of affection—though [ really think he is
fond of me. Aren’t you, Hotspur, you rogue ?”

Mildred looked up with a quick, soft glance.

“He doesn’t seem so very vicious; Lain not afraid
—see |”

And she drew the great, bony nose toward her.
Hotspur sniffed and worked his nostrils, about with
quick, nervous little twitchings,and glared. out of
his dark, cavernous eyes, and Guy kept his hand
ready in case of emergency. But the great, ill-tem-
pered brute remained perfectly still, and even
allowed ner to puil his silky ears.

“Oh, oh, it is quite wicked to take away a poor
horse’s character!” she said, stroking him, and look-
ing up at Guy with an arch smile.

“IT give you my word, Miss Mildred, you are the
first woman who has ventured even near him, to my
knowledge. He really is vicious—— There!” he ex-
claimed, half-triumphantly, as Hotspur stretched
out his hind leg at a passing dog. “Wasn’t I right,
Miss Mildred ?”’

 

“And yet he comes back to me,” said Mildred, as
Hotspur, having missed the dog, put his nose in her
hand and sniffed in a friendly manner.

“Tt is a case of horse-taming,”’ said Guy. “Whatis
the secret influence you exert over man ard beast,
Miss Mildred?” he added, with asmile.

“T!” she said, drawing back, and giving Hotspur
one last pat; “I have no influence. Iam the most
helpless and insignificant of creatures.”

“Before whom Hotspur bows as he never bowed
before! Ah, here’s the dame. Well, dame?’

“What, Master Guy!” was the glad exclamation.
“Tsit you? On, bring him in.”

‘Horse and all?’ laughed Mildred, her soft eyes
beaming, her cheeks blushing like roses.

“Oh, that great, ugly Hotspur!” said the dame.
**Tie him to the gate.”

“Where he can kick all the passers-by,” said Guy.
“No, he shall goin the paddock; it will not be the
first time,” and he led the horse away.

When he came back Mildred had flown.

“Where’s Miss Thorpe?” he’asked.

“Only gone to her own room to brush the horse’s
hair off her dress. How could you let him go near
her, and she so timid, poor child!”

“What’s the matter? Why is she ‘poor child?”
asked Guy, smiling.

“Why, don’t you see how pale she be?’ said the
dame. ‘Not at all like herself, she haven’t been, for
this—oh, this week past.”’

“Pale!” said Guy, incredulously, and looked up

significantly as the door opened and Mildred entered,
a beautiful color on her sweet face, her eyes shining,
her lips eloquently curved in a smile of serene hap-
piness.
; The dame stared. Half an hour ago the girl had
been sitting in the arm-chair, looking ‘like as if she
were going into a deeline,” the Game had said; and
now:

Heart alive!” exclaimed the dame, gazing at her
admiringly. ‘‘What a girl it is! Why and where
have you gotten those roses in your cheeks ?”’

Mildred started, and looked shyly from one to the
other, and the roses grew to peonies.

“Come, dame, don’t be personal,’ said Guy, ban-
teringly. *‘You’ll be complimenting me directly on
my altered appearance.”

“Ah, and so [ will,” said the dame. ‘‘Why, bless the
boy! if he isn’t red now. Have you been doing any-
thing wrong, you two? You look as if you were
waiting for a whipping, that you do.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

What Scott's Emulsion Has Done!

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THE CALIFORNIA SOCIETY FOR al

 

 

 

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$5.00 GENUINE HAND
HA

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If any dealer says he has the W. L. DOUGLAS SHOES without
mame and price, stamped on bottom,

L. DOUGLAS —
SHOE GENTLEMEN.

in the world. Examine his
-SEWED SHOE.
D-SEWED WELT SHOE.

EXTR
$2.25 WORKINGMAN’S SHOE.
$2.00 and $1.75 BOYS’ SCHOOL SHOES.

All made in Congress, Button and Lace.

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ut him down asa fraud, If not

sold by your dealer, write W. L. DOUGLAS, BROCKTON, MASS.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

8

 

THE HORSE.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.
Of all the lower animals
That humbly tread the earth
To work for careless, thankless man,
The horse has greatest worth.
A very giant in his strength,
And yet withal so mild,
That he will readily obey
An invalid or child.

How patient and how tractable,
How willing he to toil—

A very slave to man, and yet
The monarch of the soil.

The meanest steed is worth regard,
But veautiful to see

Is one of choicest lineage
And perfect symmetry.

No pen can do him justice,
And e’en the limner’s art
Will fail a perfect idea
Of the racer to impart.
His form may be depicted,
But the fire in his eye,
The life that animates his frame,
These, every art defy.

Height, sixteen hands—his color, black—
An arched neck full and strong,

A pair of eyes that shine like stars,
Main, tail, and foretop, long ;

Ears like a fox’s, small and sharp,
With nostrils large and thin,

And showing, when expanded wide,
The blood red tint within.

His haunches molded splendidly,
His shoulders large and strong—
Breast full, arms stout, limbs very fine,
But firm, and not too long,
Knees powerful, but clean and trim—
Hoofs high, with open heels,
Leg action, when in motion, which
The lightning’s speed reveals.

What grace in every movement,
When his proud blood doth stir!

How he leaps from the solid earth
In answer to the spur!

He is my equine beau-ideal,
While bounding o’er the course;

But find him where I may, I love
The great, strong, noble horse.

DIARY OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLALA'AN

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Author of “‘The Diary of A Minister’s Wife,” etc.

_ [THE DIARY OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA’AM” was begun
in No. 13. All News Agents supply the back numbers. ]

OA

DAA
\

<aeea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 44—No, 26,

 

house. A cottage piano ornaments the parlor, and
brother and sister are both good musicians.

It has been an extremely warm day. I spent the
morning very pleasantly with my hostess, and this
afternoon the doctor took us outtoride. He went
five miles to visit a beautiful pond, spent an hour
under the shade of some tall trees on its shore, and
came home just at sunset.

After tea the doctor drew a small package from
his pocket.

‘Here, Helen, is the new book of poems I sent for.
, a read aloud for an hour,if agreeable to you,
adies.”’

We expressed our pleasure at the anticipated treat.
and seating himself at an open window he began,in a
clear, rich voice. He had read but a few pages when,
happening to glance from the window, a shade of
vexation flitted over his features, and he turned a
comical look of distress toward his sister, mutter-
ing, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”

The door-bell rang at that moment, and the gentle-
man ushered in the visitor with a courtly bow.

It was Miss Kesiah, in all the glory of pink muslin
and moss rosebuds, which nestled in her hair and
trembled on her bosom. A black lace vail, arranged
aie studied grace, shielded her head from the night

ews.

She expressed much surprise at seeing the doctor;
thought he was seldom at home in the evening.

“T am a sad loiterer,’’ he replied, ‘‘and must tear
myself away even from such charming society,” and
he turned to go.

“Don’t let me drive you away,” said the lady,
sweetly, “else I shall regret having come in. I get
so little congenial society at home that at times my
,00r heart pants for some sympathetic spirit, and I

reak the bonds that encircle me at home, and, free
en restraint, roam ‘in maiden meditation fancy

ree,’”?

“Why, really, do they place any restraint upon
your movements at home?’ asked matter-of-fact

rs. Dana.

“Not literally, my dear friend. The words T used
are such as are granted to one of a poetic tempera-
ment like myself; yet are my bonds no less galling
because unsuspected by the world.”

Dr. Warren had slipped from the room during this
speech, and a moment later I saw him going rapidly
down the street with a lighted cigar.

Miss Kesiah, with a deep sigh, sank into thedepths
of an easy-chair, and then for the first time seemed
aware of my presence. She greeted me quite cor-
dially, then directed her conversation to the lady of
the house, detailing ‘‘the persecutions she suffered
from her unsympathizing brother and sister, who
had outlived all the freshness of their youth,” &c. At
last she alluded pathetically to the disease preying
upon her delicate frame,

“The doctor has told you the sad news, I pre-
sume ?””

Mrs. D. replied in the negative.

“Ah, itis because he feared to pain your loving
heart by telling you of the dreadful fate which awaits
me—an untimely grave. He is so thoughtful of
others, that he always tries to appear cheerful even
when I am sure he sympathizes with the pain his
skill cannot alleviate.”

I was weary of the conversation, so leaned back in
my chair and I guess fell oeey.

Atnine o’clock I was aroused by a troop of noisy
urchins, with pine torches, who went trooping past.

‘““Merey! what shall I do?” exclaimed Miss Kesiah,
in seeming alarm. ‘I shall never dare to go alone
through the street at this time of night, with such a
rabble out.’

“They are only boys, and itis but a few steps to
fog home, I will go with youif you feel timid,” I
said.

“No, no, my sweet friend, it would never do for
two unprotected girls to be out alone this evening. I
am rte I left the protection of my brother's roof.”

“T wil accompany you; no one will molest an old
woman like me,” said Miss Dana, (she is five years
younger at least than Miss Kesiah) and she arose and

 

| took a scarf from the hat-rack in the hall.

Miss Kesiah with great reluctance threw on her

| vail, and clinging timidly to her companion’s arin,
passed out.
| when a smothered laugh at my elbow caused me to

I stood in the door looking after them,

| turn, and I found Doctor Warren standing there.

/ an hour past, awaiting the de
| | peeped in at the window as

“Where did you come from ?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve been hiding in the dining-room for half
rture ef our visitor.

came up to the house,

| Miss Kesiah was talking volubly to my poor, patient

sister, while you were sound asleep in your chair.
I thought discretion the better part of valor, and
stole into the dining-room, and, safe in my nook,

. | heard Miss Burke’s timid fears about going home
alone, and ungallantly kept concealed.”

“How impolite to let a lady go home alone!”
“T plead guilty, but inreality there was no more

| danger than there would be in passing through the

garden, and if you knew how often my gallantry is
put to the test, you would not blame me.”’

By this time the ladies had reached their destina-
tion. Miss Kesiah mounted the steps and turned to
bid her companion good-night, just as the torch-

; | bearers came back, lighting up the narrow street.
y, | Miss Kesiah started and pointed toward my com-
| panion and myself.

“Deacon Green, either you or T must leave the
room! I will not remain longer to listen to such
language,” I said, proudly.

“Well, you will listen as long as I choose. I'll
have you to understand you can't defy such a man
aslam,and you’d better beware how you provoke
me further!” ,

“Deacon Green!” exclaimed the mild voice of Mr.
Heath, as he stepped over the threshold, followed by
Squire Burke and Dr. Warren, little Andy bringing
up the rear. (I learned afterward that the boy had
gone for the squire, and found the other two gentle-
men at his office. He gave such an account of what
Was occurring at the schoolhouse, that the trio set
out in haste.) ‘‘I am sorry to hear such language
addressed to a lady from one holding your position
in the church,” ¢ontinued the minister, mildly.

“Tt’s all wrong—all wrong—decidedly out of order,”
said the squire, rubbing his hands briskly.

“No gentleman would threaten a lady,” added the
doctor, pointedly.

The old man turned as on a pivot from one to the
other with ill-concealed rage.

“You're all bewitched. I really believe you up-
hold this young woman in her outrageous conduct.
Men are always fools where a woman is concerned.”

“You know we have Adam foran example, deacon,”
laughed the doctor. ‘Ever since the world began,
it’s always been the way.”

‘Adam was a fool, and mankind have been fools
ever since. I'd like to see a woman lead me!”

“Then you think if you’d been inthe garden you
wore not have helped Eve to eat the forbidden

ruit ?

“No, I would not,” and he turned to Mr. Heath
with a half apology for the violent temper he had
displayed; he “had been sorely tried by the ill-
treatment of his children, and for a while the old man
had got the better of him,” etc.

_ “You are surrounded by a cordon of loving hearts
if not of strong arms,” said the doctor, smiling upon
the children.

“Won't that naughty man hurt her now, papa ?”’
whispered little Emma, nestling in his arms.

“No, darling,” and he kissed the fair cheek of his
child. ‘‘Now run away to your books.”

“You're a noble fellow, Lemuel, and I’m sure your
father is proud of you. You’re a true soldier now,”
and he put his hand on the boy’s head.

“Thank you, sir,” was the pleased response, as
Lemuel went to his seat, followed by the others.

Iwas glad to sit down; my head throbbed with
acute pain.

“You are ill,” said the doctor.

“Only a headache, which the excitement of the
afternoon has increased.”

“No wonder. You must dismiss school at once.
Go home and lie down. I will send you an anodyne,”
and before I could interfere he had told the scholars
they could go home.

Mr. Heath took the deacon away to his study.
Squire Burke paused to say a few cheery words as-
suring mo I would have no further trouble, and left.

Dr. Warren closed the blinds, locked the door, and
then walked with ine to Mrs. Churehill’s.

Mrs. C, was very kind, administered the medicine
sent in a few moments after my arrival, assisted me
to lie down, then bathed my head until I fell asleep.
Everything was done in a very precise manner, and
in almost perfect silence, but ne mother’s hand could
have been more gentie.

Islept until seven o'clock, then awoke with my
headache all gone, and quite ready for a cup of tea
and slice of toast. I trust my school troubles are all
over now.

Monday, July 4.—I was awakened this morning by
the sharp report of several small cannon, the whizz
of fire-crackers up and down the street; the little
bell at the church clanged furiously, and at sunrise
a saucy flag was thrown out at the hotel, and it has
fluttered in the breeze all day.

Acompany of boys in paper caps, and carrying
two small drums and some tin horns, have paraded
the streets, making a horrid din—mzusiec they called it.

Of course I have had a holiday. Mrs. Dana sent for
me to spend the day with her, and I am to board

here next.

Dr. Warren’s house is an unpretending white cot-
tage, with a piazza in front, a flower garden at the

“Tam discovered!” whispered the doctor, shrug-
ging his shoulders.

Miss Dana returned, and after scolding her brother
soundly for being so impolite, consented to listen to
the poem for half an hour, then conducting me up
ao a pleasant front chamber, she bade me ‘“good-
night.”

The noisy day is over, the last cannon has spit out
its angry defiance, the last firecracker has whizzed,
the tired little folks have sought their beds, and
silence reigns in the street.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
eo~

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Choose Well Your Doctor.
(Time, evening.)

Sweet Girl—‘What did you give mamma for her
cold ?”

Her Lover (a young physician)—“‘Opium. She won’t
bother us to-night.”

How to Compliment.

Editor’s Wife (looking over his paper)—‘‘Mercy me!
You weren’t at the office yesterday, were you?”

Editor—‘Not much. Why ?”

“One of your backbiting assistants has taken ad
vantage of your absence to call you a dog.”

“Eh ??

“Listen to this: ‘The editor of this paper has been
and will continue to be the watch-dog of the city
treasury.’ ”’

“Oh, that’s all right. That’s intended as a com-
pliment.”

“Watch-dog! Compliment? Why, watch-dogs are
the commonest kind of brutes. If he wanted to com-
pliment you, why didn’t be call you an English pug
or a Yorkshire terrier ?”

Love’s Young Dream.

Miss De Sweet—‘‘Do you like pearls ?’

Mr. Nicefellow—I do not care for separate pearls;
they are too tame; but I admire them in rows or
clusters.”

Miss De 8S.—“‘So do I. If there is anything I love,
it is a pearl necklace—large pearls, you know. Pa
gave me one some years ago, but although it is very
handsome, I do not care much for it, because the
pearls are rather small.”

Mr. N.—‘Oh! Small pearls should never be put
into a necklace. Only the largest size are worthy of
such display. For my part, I much prefer diamond
necklaces.”

Miss De 8.—‘‘Aren’t they lovely! The pure white
diamonds especially.”

Mr. N.—‘‘Yes. It’s a pity, though, the ¢Golored
diamonds are out of fashion; but I think they are
coming back. Isaw a necklace to-day with every
tenth diamond colored, and the effect was wonder-
fully brilliant. It was at Biffany’s; quite cheap, too.
By the way, will you marry me ?”

Miss De 8.—“Oh! This is so sudden! Yes, my love,
I will.”

Miss De Sweet (half an hour later)—“Clara Nub-
bins, next door, is engaged, too; but I think her
lover showed shocking taste in the selection of her

sort of brazen.
pearls.

Mr. Nicefellow—‘For an engagement-ring there is
nothing neater than plain gold. Biffany has them
for a dollar.”

It is six large diamonds set with

Neither Suited.

Angry Husband—“What I wanted was a wife who
would be a helpmeet.”

Angry Wife—‘Huh! What I wanted was a hus-
band who would supply meat to help.”

Little Dick’s Report.

Little Dick—‘‘Mamma, that new doctor across the
way asked me who was our family physician.”

Mamina—‘‘Well, dear, we are never sick, thank
Heaven, and we have not needed one.”

 

side, and fisted up indoors very neatly. The furni-

The New Doctor (next day)—‘‘Well, my little fel-

ture is good, but in keeping with the size of the

ring, itis so big and clumsy; and, besides, it seems |

low, did you find out the name of your family
physician ?”

Little Dick—“‘We don’t have one, and we are never
sick.”

A Complimentary Cut.

Pretty Girl—“Isn’t if strange? Mrs. Highup in-
vited me to the debut of her first daughter, but she
has cut me at the debut of her second.”

Mother (reassuringly)—‘‘Her second daughter is
very homely, my dear.”

His Marriage a Failure.

Desperate Husband—‘‘Do you mean to say you
would object toa divorce from such a woman as I
have described ?” ‘

Good Priest—“I would. In our church marriage
can be dissolved by death only.”

“Very well. Please direct me tothe nearest gun-
shop.”

Love in Chicago.

Mr. Lakeside (Chicago)—‘‘Has our son gone to his
club again ?”’

Mrs. Lakeside—‘‘Probably not. He put two pistols
in his pockets before starting. Heis probably going
to propose to a girl.”

Very Suspicions.

Thin Boarder (hungrily)—‘“‘I wonder what makes
our landlady so fat?’

Thinner Boarder (after deep thought)—‘‘Maybe
she’s a vampire.”

A Second Edition.

Pretty Little Girl—‘Oh, mamma! Five young
gent’men, and three old gent’men, and six rice little
boys bowed to me to-day. I counted ’em.”

Fond Mamma (ecstatically) —‘‘She’s me overagain.”

The Ruling Passion.

St. Peter (kindly)—‘‘Enter.”

Fair Spirit (hesitating)—‘Did Mrs. De Fashion go
in here?”

“No. She went to the other place.”

“Oh! Beg pardon for troubling you. Which way
is it?”

Understood His Business.

Author—‘‘I have sent my essay on ‘Marriage a
Failure’ to the Hightone Magazine.”

Friend—“‘Great Scott, man! The editor of the
Hightone Magazine will never accept that! He was
married not over a week ago!”

Author—“No matter. My article is there, but it
will be a year or two before it is read.”

Sympathy.

Mrs. Highup—“‘Such shocking stories as the papers
do tell. I read to-day of a mother around the corner
who tried to kill her children because she could not
get them anything to eat.”

Mrs. Higherup—‘‘Cruel creature! Well, I don’t
know, though. I really believe I would rather ether-
ize poor little Fido than see him hungry. Marie, go
see if you can’t coax Fido to eat a little more of
that tenderloin.”

Men of Few Words.
Jollyfellow (after an absence)—‘‘Hello, Meak! Mar-
ried yet?”
Meak (sadly)—‘‘No; not married yet.”
Jollyfellow (after another absence)—‘‘Hello, Meak!
Married yet?”
Meak (sadly)—*Yes; married yet.”

A Little Too Late.
Old Lady—*I have determined to leave my fortune
to the man who saved my life when I was a little
girl.”
Lawyer—‘“‘Noble woman! All the world will ring
with your praises. Who is the man?”
“James Jameson, a poor carpenter. He lived——”
“Ah, yes, I remember him. He starved to death
forty years ago.”
i A Sad Fate.
Anxious Father—‘I saw our darling daughter in
the street to-day, and she looked very unhappy—
miserable, in fact; only married a month, tvo.’”’
Sympathetic Mother—‘Yes, I noticed the poor dear.
I’m afraid her husband snores.”

Managing a Boy.
Husband (a literary man)—‘‘I wish you would stop
watching little Dick for a while.”
Wife—‘But if I don’t watch him he'll be in mis-
chief.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. When he’s in mischief
he’s quiet, and I wan* to write.”

Dangers of the Gum Habit.

Miss De Sweet—‘‘I’ll never touch another chew of
gum as long as I live.”

Proud Mother—“I am glad to hear you say so, my
dear; but what has reformed you so suddenly ?”

“Last evening Mr. Richfellow proposed to me just
at the moment when my jaws got stuck so I couldn’t
say anything, and he went off.” :

A Losing Game. j

Jinks—‘‘Ha, ha, ha! I feel jolly to-day. My daugh-
ter has stopped pestering me for a necklace. I hap-
pened to get an idea from a friend, and I acted on it
—told her I had noticed that the prettiest girls were
not wearing jewelry now.”

Winks—“By ginger! I'll try that dodge myself.”

Jinks (the next day)—‘‘Hello, Winks, did you try
that anti-jewelry game on your daughter ?”

“Winks—‘‘Y-e-s; and now my wife is raging around
because she thinks I’ve been staring at pretty girls.
I wish I’d bought the necklace.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

“Dr. Tanner was not the first man who lived on
water for forty days,” said Smudge. ‘No ?” queried
Fudge. ‘Of course not.” “Who else?” “Well, what's
the matter with Noah ?”’—S. F. News Letter.

“So you are running a Prohibition paper in Iowa
now?” “Yes, and doing well. See this cane? It was
presented to me by the local Prohibition club.” “It’s
a beauty.” ‘You bet it is, and it holds a pint.”—
Nebraska State Journal.

‘She—‘‘The are last night was a very brilliant
aftair, don’t you think so?’ He (in the trade)—‘‘Well,
yes; I noticed a great many imitation stones were
displayed.” —Jewelers’ Weekly.

A minister in Pittsburgh met the colored sexton of
his church at a camp ground one day and inquired:
“Will you be at roe es in the city next Sunday ?”
Sexton—‘‘No, sah; I have appointed my cousin to
atfiliate for me on that day.”—Christian Advocate.

He (who has been hanging fire all winter)—‘“‘Are
you fond of puppies, Miss Smith?” She (promptly)—
“What a singular voy Ine have of proposing, Ed-

rdo. Yes, darling.’ And now the cards are out.—

‘o-day.

A PICKED JURY.—First Lawyer (out to lunch)—
“You look mighty tickled about something—smiling
all over.” :

Second Lawyer—‘Tickled !
hardly stay in my boots.
I want.”

First Lawyer—“Eh? What sort?”

Second Lawyer—‘‘All idiots.”’—Puck.

“T declare,” said Noah, as he wiped the perspira-
tion from his brow, ‘‘we’re going to be cramped for
room! I don’t know where we're going to put all
these animals.” ‘Boss, suggested the elephant and
the mastodon, both of whom were switching their
tails viciously, ‘‘why not leave out the flies and mus-

uitoes? They take up more room than we do.”—

arper's Mc y.

REFLECTION ON THE OLD MAID.—Merchant’s Wife
eer appearing in her husband's office)—“Ha!

meee you said your type-writer girl was an old
maid ?’

Merchant (much confused) —‘‘Um—er, yes, m’ dear,
of course, of course; but she is sick to-day, and she
sent her little granddaughter as a substitute.”—
Philadelphia Record,

Clark—“I understand, doctor, that two dentists in
your neighborhood bave arranged a match in their
art?’ Doctor—“Yes, I have heard so.”’ Clark—‘*What
do you think the result will be?” Doctor—‘A draw.”
—Portland Advertiser.

“Pshaw !” said a Sixteenth street lady to her hus-
band, who had been criticising her attire, ‘what
does a man know about a woman’s clothes, anyway?”

I’m so happy I can
Got just the sort of a jury

 

“He knows the price, my dear,” he replied, gently,
and she retired.— Washington Critic. ’

IT sold you the other day ?” ‘First rate. It saved me
a great deal of money.” ‘Indeed?’ ‘Yes; my house
took fire the other day, and I put out the blaze with
less than a quart of it.”—Linceln Journal.

Hominy is not what it is cracked up to be.—-Drake’s
Magazine.

Lies ABOUT FLIEs.—Friend—‘‘Flies are a perfect
pest in summer. Do they bother you very much ?”

Lieutenant Bray—‘Not atall. In summer I drink
so much champagne that. the insects are afraid to be
on the ceiling on account of the flying corks, so they
keep out of the room altogether.’’—TZeras Siftings.

2

SAVED BY A PUP,

BY CHARLES NELSON BSBINNETT.

Tn the summer of 1871, being in ill-health, and my
physician advising a change of air, I went to spend a
few weeks in a little village on the wild New England
coast. AsI had once before been there, I found no
trouble in procuring a boarding-place, which exactly
suited me, with an old gray-haired couple who lived
in a trim and neat little cottage, somewhat apart
from the village proper, and close to the beach where
the great billows came tramping in.

They were very kind people, and the old man
placed his boat and himself at my disposal whenever
I wished to row or sail upon the waters, while the
dame was not backward in manifesting her kindness.

Two weeks—which were spent in rowing, sailing,
fishing, wandering. on the cliffs and beaches, etce.—
went away swiftly, and finding my health was now
entirely restored, I had resolved to return to my city
home after a day’s more tarry, and mentioned this at
breakfast-table one morning.

After the old couple had expressed their regret that
I was going 80 soon away, ‘‘mine host” spoke up thus:

“T declare, Mr. Berringer, there is one place that
you have never visited, and which had entirely

escaped my mind till this minute, and which will
repay you for your trouble twenty times over.’’
expressed a wish to know where this place was.

“Tis that rock out yonder—‘Wreck Rock’ we call
it,” he said; “and it has upon if a perpendicular crag
rising some pars | feet out of the sea, and a great
one into which the waters rush with a terrific
noise.”

And he pointed out seaward some eight miles,
where a lone gray rock showed its head above the
waves.

“I should be delighted to visit it,” I said, ‘if you
have nothing to hinder you from going with me.”

“Nothing in the world have I to binder me,” was
thereply. “Anda better day for such a voyage is
seldom seen, for the morn is calm and cool, and a row
to the Rock -will be delightful; and the wind will
spring vp about noon, I’m thinking, and a glorious
sail we'll have home!”

So, when breakfast was over, we started, taking
with us the old man’s rs, Vi dog, or ‘‘cute pup,”
as his master always called him.

It wads a lovely morning, and the sea was calm,
while the waves aay whispered along the shore;
and over all the cloudless summer sky was spread.

Urged on by the strokes of our oars, merrily the
boat danced over the calm waters, and the old man
beguiled the time by spinning an interesting yarn,
so that it did not seem that more than one hour had
gone by when we were standing on the shores of
Wreck Rock.

I found the scenes to far exceed in grandeur and
magnificence what I had imagined them to be, and
time went by unheeded while I stood gazing at the
restless waves surging against the base of that
ete cliff, or sat listening to the rising tide
rushing with a thunderous shout into that vast
cavern.

It was high noon when we partook of our hearty
lunch in the shade of a cliff; and as the heat was
now intense, we determined to wait till a breeze
should spring up.

And the old man told another of his sea romances,
of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible store ;
and thus an hour went by, and still no wind.

Then it was that my friend said, uneasily:

“J don't like the looks of the clouds that are rising
off there to the north and west, and although a row
in this broiling sun is not desirable, I think the
sooner we get to land the better; for, unless I am
greatly mistaken, a terrific thunder-storm will be
upon us ere long.” :

Expressing my willingness to go, if he considered
it best—for I knew his prophecies about the weather
to seldom fail—we set out for the mainland.

The heat was intense, and it was severe labor to
row even our light boat. “oS :

We had gone not more than a mile and a half when
the old man ceased rowing, and said:

“Tis useless for us to try to reach the shore before
the shower overtakes us. We may as well put back
to the rock.” f

Glancing to the west I perceived the reasons for
his remark, for the banks of brassy, thunderous clouds
were swiftly coming up, while the thunder grew mo-
mentarily louder, unmistakably indicating an im-
pending tempest.

Landing once more upon the rock we hastened to a
little cave near by, and gained its shelter nota mo-
ment too soon, for as we entered the mad rain came
pouring down.

A sea-bird, startled from her perch by our entrance,
flew screaming away, and the old man’s ‘‘cute pup,”
in spite of his master’s calls, whistles, and com-
mands, started off in pursuit, heeding not the great
crashes of thunder, the rain, or the wind, which
howled like an enraged demon.

We bad been in the cave but a few minutes when
there came a blinding blaze of lightning, followed,
instantly, by a crash of thunder that seemed to rend
the isle asunder.

I knew nothing more until I awoke to find my old
friend bending over me, striving to bring me to life.

Ah, that was a horrible awakening, indeed; for the
thunderbolt which had rendered me insensible had
struck upon the rock forming the roof of the cave,
hurling it from its ition, and completely imprison-
ing us in what had been the back part of the cavern,
and leaving a narrow opening far up overhead,
through which the rain was pouring down.

“Is there no way of escape from this horrible
or ?’ I cried, when I had noted our fearful posi-
tion.

“None that I can find,’ replied the old man, ina
mournful voice; “but perhaps there may be,” he
added, more ore:

But our search was allin vain; and, in the fearful
storm that had set in, it was impossible for any one
to approach the rock; even if they did, it was hoping
against hope to think that any one would look for us
in this place. ,

So we sat down on the cold rocks in despair; and
just then a noise was heard overhead, and glancing
up, we saw the old man’s pup peering down upon us,
and whining in a most pitiful manner. ;

“Poor pup!” said my friend. ‘‘I hope he will not
fall into this pit, forif he does not we may stand a
chance of being taken off after the storm is over.”

He called out to him to keep off, and after a little

| while the dog obeyed.

Then for a time the old man tried to be cheerful;
but when the night came on, wild and stormy, he
grew silent. Then we knelt and prayed that we
might be rescued, and restored to our loved ones
once more. We crept as far as possible under the
rocks to shield ourselves from the cold air which
rushed down through the opening over our heads.

All night long we thought of the fearful doom
staring us in the face, and of.the friends who would
watch and wait for our coming, while we were slowly
starving to death in this horrible place.

But one faint hope had we to cheer us. The morn-
ing might prove fair, and some one might come to
look for us. ;

When the long and seemingly endless night was
gone, and the morning came, darker and more tem-

tuous than the night had been, all hope of relief
ied in our breasts.

There was a little water, perhaps a cupful in all,
collected in a hollow in the rocks, but this seemed
more like a mockery, for it would not half satisfy the
thirst of one of us.

“We must die here,” the old man said, mournfully,
as the hours went by, ‘‘and it is useless to pore

“I fear itis, sir,” Ireplied. “But though I know
‘God doeth all things well,’ it is terrible to think of
dying in this place.’

“Ay, that it is,” the old man moaned.

It must have been near noon when the pup again
showed his face at the opening, and whined most
piteously.

But his master ordering him off, fearing he would
fall in, the animal did not stop long.

The storm raged with unabated fury all that
dreary day, and seemed even to increase as night
came on.

We were fatigued with our long watching, and
soon sank into a sleep, in spite of the hunger and
thirst we felt,

It must have been near the middle of the next
forenoon when I was suddenly awakened by some-
thing striking my arm, and glancing at the opening
overhead, I could scarcely believe my senses when I
saw two persons and the pup looking down, and
heard voices shouting to know if we were yet alive.

Quickly and joyfully I answered, and cried out to
the old man, who had just awakened, that relief had
come; and then his shout rang cheerfully out, and
soon a rope was lowered, and we were carefully
drawn through the opening, which was scarcely
large enough for our passage, and soon stood on the
top of the rock, thanking Heaven and our pre-
servers in broken and hurried language for our
escape. :

We presently learned that we owed our rescue to |

that ‘cute pup,” who had barked at a passing boat

 

|until its occupants were attracted by his frantic

Dealer—‘‘Well, how did that kerosene suit you that |

— a

cries, and landed—the storm having passed awa
early in the evening—to rescue him. He had 1
them to the opening, and they thus discovered us.

On hearing this, the old man said, ‘‘Didn’t I always
tell you he was a cute pup!” and took him in his
arms, holding him till home was reached, where they
thought we had been lost in the gale.

The old man refused to eat till the dog’s wants
were all supplied; nor was I backward in petting
him, and would have taken him home with me when
I returned, but the old man would not accept the
seventy dollars I offered to become the possessor of
the “cute pup.”

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Men are blamed for sticking their noze into things;
but it iz the only way a dog tracks out hiz game.

The man who kan live in idleness successfully,
muss either be too pure or too lazy to commit enny
sin.

Poetri iza disseaze common tew all the literati;
sum hav it quite hard, but most hay it dredful lite.

Thkredulity iz the wisdum ov a phool; it iz only a
wize man who kan aftord tew be credulous.

Prejudice iz a hous plant which iz very apt tew
wither if yu take it out doors amungst phoiks.

The devil holds r kards, but he plays them
mighty well. or ey

Whatiz the next wust thing tew lieing? Gittin
ketched at it. * . e

I am so phully aware ov the uncertainty ov the
law, that if a man whom i had never seen nor heard
ov should su me for a debt ov one hundred dollars,
and i couldn't kompound with him for fifty, i would
pay the whole rather than defend the suit.

I hay noticed this difference between people—thare
are some who are not az big phools as they look.

Most authors in writing neglekt their punktuash-
uns, espeshily the fill stop.

I hav seen pholks 80 melankolly and so oor that
they wouldn’t admit thare was a brite side tew enny-
thing in this world, not even tew a nu haff dollar.
If wit forms the blade, good sense should be the
handle and benevolence the skabbard ov the sword.
Experience iz knowledge, and it will stik by a phel-
low like the money he gits by hard knoxs.

Items of Interest,

Many of the female parishioners of a venerable,
white-haired clergyman in Philadelphia were anxious to
receive from him locks of his frosted hair, and it tickled
the old gentleman when he thought of their deep love for
him. Not long ago his wife received a note that put a
different light on the subject. It ran as follows: “My
dear Mrs. X.—Won’t you please ask your good husband
to send me just a little lock of his hair? We have all been
taking lessons in making hair flowers. So many of the
other girls asked him and he sent it to them, but I.
thought I would rather ask you to get itforme. Now,
won’t you please do this for me, it is so hard to get white
hair for lilies of the valley.”

There is the germ of a romance in the prospective
matrimonial union, next June, of two of the representa-
tives of the two largest thread manufactories in the
world. Young Mr. Coats, of the famous Paisley thread
works, is to espouse Miss Clark, a daughter of one of the
firm of the equally renowned American thread works.
For many years bitter rivalry existed between the two
houses, and the Scotch firm seit out a young ambassador
to harmonize matters. He was so successful that his
tongue, as silver-sweet as that of Romeo, not only cap-
tivated the firm, but so won the heart of Miss Clark, that
in two months hence she is to be his bride.

A Brooklyn dentist, after pulling a tooth for a
lady, was immeasurably shocked on being informed that

suit, and he offered to pay a reasonable sum as indemnity,
to avoid legal trouble and exposure. He named $50 as the
amount; she declined it, but agreed to accept a spark-
ling ring he wore. He gave itto her, received a written
document in full indemnification, and the next day the
lady learned that the supposed diamond ring was worth
$1.50.

A remarkable family is thatof David Scribner, of
Waterborough, Me., four generations of which are un-
broken by death. He isin his 90th year, and his wife is

65 years, and have three children living, the oldest of
whom is upward of 60 years of age. These children have
children and grandchildren, and the remarkable fact is
that no death has ever yet occurred in the line of the de-
scendants from Mr. and Mrs. Scribner to their great-
grandchildren. 3

Silas Berry, of Newton, Pa., entered a dark pit in
which brewers’ grain was stored, and was there attacked
by a large rat, which ran up his trousers leg. His efforts
to dislodge it made it squeal loudy, and in a few moments
hundreds of other rodents came to the assistance of the
first rat. The fight continued for fully twenty minutes,
and when his cries brought relief he was covered with
blood, and forty-eight rats lay dead around him.

Tony Pitcher, of Melrose, Florida, while demented
from religious enthusiasm, became such a persistent ad-
vocate of baptism that he baptized himself every day.
He also took all his chickens and pigs to a lake, and
there baptized them. Sheriff Shelley, who went to arrest
the lunatic, had to fight him to prevent Tony from bap-
tizing him.

A sleeping-car company is about to build and run
second-class sleepers, plainly furnished, but provided
with good beds and good service. They will be run in
addition to the first-class sleepers, but with a marked
difference in fare. First-class fare from Chicago to San
Francisco is $13.50; second-class fare will be $4.

A Louisiana judge has just rendered a decision
which has staggered the merchants who sell goods on the
installment plan. He asserts that after the payment of
the first installment of the purchase money, the title to
the goods passes to the purchaser, and that he may then
sell or dispose of the goods as he sees fit.

Sixteen persons, who had lost the remnants of
their fortunes at the gaming tables of Monte Carlo, com-
mitted suicide there during the first twelve weeks of
this year. Fifteen duels were also fought there within
the same period, and still there was no cessation of the
gambling.

A substance called “alterion,” which prevents cor-
rosion in boilers, has been invented by an English elec-
trician. The material is used to coat the interior of the
boiler, and occasionally electrical currents are sent
through it, to displace any possible incrustation.

The use of tin foil as a wrapper for articles of food
is. prohibited in France. It is said to be injurious to
health because of the lead in it. Itis commonly employed
as a wrapper for Neufchatel cheese, chewing gum, to-
pacco, and often for candy.

A Kansas bridegroom, just after the wedding, hur-
riedly started on his wedding tour, alone! Among the
gifts was a check for $150 from the bride’s father. The
bridegroom raised it to $1,500, got it cashed, and skipped.

It was announced, on the programme of a recent

would sing “‘‘She Wandered Down the Mountain Side,’
accompanied by the composer.”

In the city of Basel, Switzerland, all the schools
are free, and school books and educational utensils are
furnished gratuitously. The cantonal government also
bears the entire expense of funerals.

Many women in England earn large salaries by
making the large silk and lace lamp shades now so popu-
lar. One woman in London, at this employment, averages
£10 per week.

Sharks do not like the odor of kerosene. A Key
West fisherman, who is aware of this fact, rubs his body
with kerosene, and swims unharmed among the sharks.

‘The increasing scarcity of the lumber used in car-
riage wheels has led to the prediction that in the near
future steel wheels will replace the wooden ones.

At a “beauty show” in Leghorn the competitors
for prizes were so homely that they were hissed off the
stage.

A man in Woburn, Mass., is such a violent sneezer
that he occasionally sneezes his left shoulder out of
joint.

Three-fourths of the government’s revenue from
imports are collected at the New York Custom House.

A Chicago baby began its earthly career the other
day with four lower and six upper teeth. |

Trout are served at every meal, throughout the

 

entire year, at a hotel in Greenville, Me.

 

 

he had extracted the wrong one. She threatened alaw- —

about of the same age. The couple have been married for .

concert at St. James’ Hall, London, that Madame ——

 

 

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