Vol. 44,

Entered According to

TRUTH.

BY ELIZA COOK.

"Tis passing sad to note the face

Where haggard Grief has taken its place;
Where the soul’s keen anguish can but speak
In the glistening lash and averted cheek—
When the restless orbs, with struggling pride,
Swell with the tears they fain would hide,

Till the pouring drops and heaving throbs
Burst forth in strong, impassioned sobs.

’Tis fearful to mark where Passion reigns,
With gnashing teeth and starting veins ;
When the reddened eyeballs flash and glare,
With dancing flame in their maniac stare ;
When fury sits on the gathered brow,

With quivering muscle and fiery glow ;.
*Tis fearful indeed just then to scan

The lineaments of God-like man.

"Tis sad to gaze on the forehead fair,

And mark the work of Suffering there;

When the oozing, pain-wrung moisture drips,

And whiteness dwells round the parted lips;
When the breath on those lips is so short and faint
That it falters in yielding the lowest plaint;

Who does not sigh to read such tale

On cheeks all shadowy and pale?

But have ye watched the mien that bore

A look to be feared and pitied more-

Have ye seen the crimson torrent steal

O’er the one who has erred, and yet can feel—
When the stammering speech and downcast eye
Quailed from the mean, detected lie?

Have ye marked the conscious spirit proclaim
Tts torture ’neath the brand of shame?

Oh! this to me is the look which hath

More hideous seeming than honest wrath.

Let pain distort with its harrowing might,

Or sorrow rob the glance of its light ;

Yet the pallid chill, or the fevered flush,

Sears less than Falsehood’s scathing blush ;

Nay, look on the brow; ’tis better to trace

The lines of Death than the shade of Disgrace.
ee

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.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

A Titled Counterieiten:

” OR, CHE

Act of Congress, in the Year 1889. vy Streer é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress,

New York, May

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

AMERICAN DETECTIVE IN FRANCE, |

By NICK CARTER,
THE GREAT NEW YORK DETECTIVE,

Author of “*The Crime of a Countess.”

(“A TITLED COUNTERFEITER,”

week. }

was commenced

CHAPTER IV.
DETECTIVE AGAINST DETECTIVE,
Wat’s detective training, though it had enabled him

last |

to suppress all outward exhibition of feeling, had not by :

any means robbed him of the ordinary human emotions.
And so it was that he left the {prison with a determi-
nation to prove to the chief that he was the wrong man
to play with in such a way.
Then, too, he was curious as well as piqued; and,

|

above alli, his desire to help Suzanne and Fernand was |

increased by the knowledge that a more than ordinary
peril menaced them.

The case had an unusual interest for him now, and
even if he were sure not to realize a penny from it, he
would have gone into it with enthusiasm.

The fact that he would probably be working in the

tracted from the charms of the undertaking.

His first feeling of indignation over, he became posi-
tively gleeful at the prospect before him.

“This isn’t exactly the vacation I had looked forward
to,” he said to himself, rubbing his hands as he solilo-
quized, ‘‘but I’m not so sure that I sha’n’t enjoy myself
all the more.

France, and see who comes out first.”

Instead of returning to the village, he sent his horse
back by a messenger, and took the first train for Paris.

From the depot there he took a hack to the chief’s
office, and though it was late hac no doubt of finding
him in.

“Not at the office, monsieur,” was the sergeant’s re-
ply to his request to see the chief.

Wat smiled in his pleasantest manner and wrote
something on a slip of paper.

‘Please give that to the chief,” he said.

“JT said_he was not here, returned the sergeant.

«Yes, I know you said so, and you said it so unblush-
ingly that I can tell that you have told lies before.”

“Monsieur !” blustered the sergeant, turning red.

«Of course I mean professional lies,” said Wat, with a :

twinkle in his eye.

“The chief is not here,” repeated the man, sullenly, as
if he did not wish to bandy words with Wat.

“Will you be good enough to put this on his desk
then ?” asked Wat, suavely.

The sergeant looked uncertain.

‘Your instructions were to deny me, but not to refuse
to take a note from me,” said Wat, ing tone of the ut-
most confidence, as if he knew exactly what the man’s
instructions were.

The sergeant hesitated a moment longer and then
turned away, saying :

‘Well, I'll put it on his desk, and you may call in the
morning for an answer.”

“Thank you.”

But, nevertheless, Wat did not’move.

And the result justified his judgment, for when the
sergeant hurried back he seemed relieved to see Wat,
and said, somewhat sheepishly :

“T] was mistaken. The chief isin, and he would like
to see you.”

“I have second sight,” laughed Wat, as he went into
the inner office, where the chief sat expecting him.

He greeted Wat cordially; and said:

“It seems that stupid fellow denied you admittance.

“Yes,” answered Wat, dryly.

“Well,” said the chief, emphatically, ‘it shall not hap-
pen again. I have given orders that you are to be ad-
mitted at any and all times. How goesthe case? You
will take it, of course ?”

“What! after your telegram ?”

“Was there anything wrong with my telegram ?”

“Which telegram are you speaking of now.”

‘Which? Why the one I sent you.”

“Sent me when ?”

“This afternoon, of course. Whatis the matter with
you, my friend ?”

“But how about the telegram you sent this evening?”

We'll call it a case of America against |
| tigation vigorously.

-

 

 

 

 

 

Washington, D. QO.

Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Secund Class

Three Dollars Per

Two Conies Five Dollars.

 

 

*“*T WILL TRY MY

HAND AT SHADOWING,” SAID WAT,

UNDER HIS BREATH.

 

 

 

“This evening? I sent no telegram this evening.’

“Didn't you send that ?”

Wat handed him the telegram he had received while
in the prison.

The chief read it with an air of amazement.

‘What does this mean ?” he cried.
telegram.”

‘Nor one to the governor, telling him not to permit
me to say anything more to Fernand Grandin ?”

‘Nor one to the governor, except one telling him to
give you every facility.
ceived this, and he one as you describe ?”

**Precisely.”

“And it prevented you from learning anything from
the prisoner ?”

Oh, no. I had quite a talk with him.”

“And what did he say 2”

“You tell me, then, that you gave no such order as |

this ?—that you sent no such telegram?
«This is the first l have seen of it.”
“Then some friend of the counterfeiters must have

face of the police authorities, rather added to than de- | S°2u!t-

“You are right.”

“And I will find out who that friend is by a short in- |

vestigation. Once he is found, and the case is well on
toward a finish.”

“That is clear. But let me attend to that. Iam the
one interested in that matter. What assurance to dare
to forge my name!”

“It would not take me long,” insisted Wat, ‘‘and it

| would be quite in- the line of my work.” }
I will push the inves- |

‘Leave it to me, leave it to me.
In the mean time, I have an im-
portant clew for you.”

Ah, what is it 2”

“One of the counterfeiters hag been traced to Alexan-
dria; but there seems some difficulty in procuring evi-
dence against him.
Egypt at once, and there communicate with the French
Consul, who will give you all the points. Capture that
man, and we shall have the whole gang in our
clutehes.”

“Just as you say. When does the steamer leave ?”

‘Day after to-morrow, in the afternoon.”

“That will give me time to return to Bourgon and
finish my interview with the prisoner Fernand.”

: “Certainly. What did you say you had learned from
nim ?”

“J didn’t say. The interview being interrupted, I
would not like to tell you half a story. If you will give
me a written authorization, I will return at once, and
finish my interview.”

“A good idea,” said the chief, taking a piece of paper,
and rapidly writing the desired authorization.

“Thank you,” said Wat. ‘I will go immediately, and
as soon as I returg, I will report to you, and then take
the steamer for Egypt.”

“That's right. Aw revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

CHAPTER V.

THE HOUSE OF THE MINISTER.

Wat left the office of the chief, looking very much |

elated.

He took a hack back to the depot, and half an hour }

later was on his way to Bourgon.
He whistled softly all the way to that town, and for-

tunately the distance was not so great that he was |

made to whistle an exhaustingly long time
If the distance was not great, however, it was quite
well on in the night when he arrived there.

He, nevertheless, being armed with the chief's order, |

went at once to the prison, and demanded admittance,

It was granted, and he was taken.to the sleepy gover-
nor, who yawned good-naturedly at the sight of him.

‘What, now, my prince of detectives ?” he demanded.

‘Another interview with the prisoner, Fernand
coe Here is the written authorization of the
chief.”

“But did the chief not know then ” cried the
governor, with an air of surprise that was plainly not
simulated.

‘Know what ?”

“That the prisoner has been removed.”

‘Removed? When? Where ?”

“7 sent no such |}

And you tell me that you re- |

I want you to take the steamer for ,

} “Not more than an hour after you left, a guard arrived
| with an order from the minister of police for the removal
| of the prisoner.”
‘Removal to where ?”
“7 do not know.”
‘Did not the order state?
does.”

«¥ know it does, but this did not.”

«Ah, I comprehend.”

«You comprehend ?”

“Yes, and I must hurry away. Farewell.”

Wat left the prison with an appearance of great haste,
| but when he was outside, dropped this appearance, and
| walked leisurely back to the depot.

Such an order usually

}

|

The depot was almost deserted, and the guard was |

pacing slowly up and down the platform outside.
Wat approached him, and asked :
«When is the next train for Paris ?”
| **Two o'clock.”
The guard was weary of answering such questions,
| and was very curt.
“Dear me, that is too bad,” said Wat.
The guard grunted, and resumed his walk.

| tially :
| You see, I’m a detective in that counterfeiting case,

| and I was to havé met the guard here when they took |

| the prisoner off.”

; “Fernand Grandin ?”. queried the guard, interested at
| once.
|, “een

‘Was that the man the gendarmes had ?”

| “That was the man. Were they much ahead of me ?”
“They took the eleven-o’clock train.”

“Phew! For Paris ?”

‘Yes, for Paris. Where else 2”

| “Of course. It was there they were to take him.

Eleven o’clock, eh? And I will have to wait until two.”
“Until two. But tell me, how are they getting along
| with that matter ?”
| Wat was too much distressed to think he had missed
| his appointment, however, to talk any further with the

guard, and so he retired to a bench, and waited pa-
tiently for his train.
| In order not to waste the time, he pulled his hat over
his eyes and composed himself to sleep, for he was not
| sure how much more of the night he might be obliged
to use in running around, and he was glad to get sleep
when or where he could.
| When it was near train-time, he roused himself and
| looked around.
| The room was empty, except for a passenger who had
| just arrived and was asking for a ticket for Paris.
| Something in the voice attracted Wat’s attention, and
| he watched the man closely.
| Phe Count de Rouville!” he muttered, as the man
| turned and let him see hisface. ‘What are you going
| to Paris at this time of night for, ’'d like to know ?”
| He pulled his hat still further over his eyes, and cov-
| ertly watched the movements of the young man.

He seemed very impatient for the coming of the train,
and kept constantly pulling out his watch to see the
time.

| He paced the floor, and gnawed his mustache, and
acted generally in a way to make Wat feel that he was
| moved by no ordinary feeling.

“Tm afraid, my little man, that you will rob me of my
| night’s sleep, for I really will have to keep my eye on
you,” muttered Wat.

When the train came, the count slipped a piece of
| money in the guard’s hand, and was shown into an
| empty compartment in consequence.

Wat went into the adjoining compartment.

When the train reached Paris, the Count was met by
| a young man of his own class, who, without a word, con-
| ducted him to a hack, into which they both jumped,
| and which was at once, and without any word of direc-
| tion, driven rapidly off.

| To follow in a.hack was out of the question, for at |

| that time of the night it would not be possible to do so
| without detection.
The only thing to do, then, was to follow on foot.
Even that was not a sure plan, for a man running at
the top of his speed at half-past three in the morning,
is a suspicious object.
But there was no help for it.
started in pursuit.

Wat took the risk, and

Wat took his place by his side, and went on, confider- ;

| It was something of a trial of speed, for the horse was |

pushed to his best pace, and Wat was obliged to open
out into a good run.

Fortunately he was not interfered with by the police, |

and was able to follow the hack until it stopped.
The two young men alighted from it, and dismissed it.
When it had turned the corner, and not before, they

went in the opposite direction, and walked several |

blocks.
They stopped in front of a handsome residence, and
let themselves in by means of a latch-Key.

{ All of this smacked so much of mystery that Wat was |

, determined to know at once who lived in that house.
He tried a device that had served him before.

| concierge’s door.

“Get away from that door, you drunken fool!” growled
a man’s voice.

“Ym not drunk,” answered Wat.
urgent message.”

“T have a most

“For whom ?” demanded the concierge, opening the |

| door.
| ‘For the Marquis de Marville.”
‘You infernal idiot!

this hour of the night ?”

marquis does live.”

The concierge made sure of the money before he an- |

| Swered :
«JT never heard of the gentleman.”
“Never heard of him ?” echoed Wat, in dismay.
“Never till you spoke his name,”
| cierge, with a low chuckle that indicated that
| had got rather the best of Wat.
| ‘Perhaps he lives in that house, there,” said Wat,
| pointing to the house he had seen the two young men
enter.
| ‘No, for monsieur, the Minister of Police lives there.”
| ‘Not in that house ?” said Wat.
house from here ?”
«Yes ; he does live in the third house from here.
“The Minister of Police lives in the third house from
here °”
| That is what I said.”
| ‘sAnd are you sure of that ?”
|

he

”

“T should think so. I see him every day of my life.”
“Then the marquis doesn’t live here, that is certain.”

“Tolerably certain,” and the man closed his door with |

alaugh.
| ‘H’m!” muttered Wat; “I wish more than ever now
that I had finished my interview with Fernand.”
| —
CHAPTER VI.
WAT IS MADE HAPPY.

“What I should like to know,” said Wat to himself, as
he walked away, “is, what is the Count de Rouville

of Police ?”

Wat had a little room over’a wine-shop in a secluded
quarter of the city, which he always made his head-
quarters when he was in Paris.

Thither he went now, and addressed himself to the
business of getting all the sleep he could out of what
remained of the night.

In the morning he sent out for his breakfast, and hay-
ing eaten it, set about overhauling a trunk, which con-
tained as singular an assortment of objects as is often
seen.

There were several suits of clothing, some of which
were good, but most of which were very dilapidated.

Then there was an array of wigs and beards, such as
might reasonably be looked for in a theatrical com-
| pany, but hardly to be expected anywhere else.

These were Wat’s properties, for he was not abofe
| using a disguise when the occasion seemed to call for it.
Indeed, if the truth be told, he was rather glad when
| the opportunity offered for him to disguise himself.

He was an extremely clever actor, and enjoyed using
his talents in that direction.

Now he was merely making ready his wardrobe,
not for immediate use, but for an occasion which he be-
lieved was not far off.

By the time these things were arranged he was ready
to visit the chief.

 

| ‘Ghost’ on my track.

He went to a house near by, and rapped lustily at the |

Why don’t you find out if you're
' at the right house before you go to waking folks up at |

“Pardon me, but I thought this was the right house. |
| Here! take this five-franc piece, and tell me where the |

replied the con- |

“Not in the third |
| occupied politeness, and spoke out his business at a

Matter. ee

No. 27.

Year,

He had no difficulty in gaining admittance this time
and was taken at once into the private office.

| “Of course you did not get there in time,” said the
chief, the moment Wat appeared in the door-way.

“No, I did not; and it seems to me that I had better
drop out of this case since you have hvu longer any con-
fidence in me.”

Wat spoke sharply, like a man who is offended.

“But,” exclaimed the chief, in a conciliatory tone, ‘‘it
was not my doing. The Minister ordered that, without
any reference to me.”

‘‘A’m !” grunted Wat, sulkily. ‘But I dont see how
I can be of any use to youif Iam to be played within
such a way.”

“Come now, Denton, don’t be angry. Such a thing
can’t happen again. Besides, your duty will take you
to where you will be the sole master.”

‘That’s true,” acknowledged Wat.

‘And, moreover, I can see the prisoner and finish
roe interview. Tell me, then, what you learned from

m.”

“No,” said Wat, with a return of sullenness,
have nothing more to do with that matter.
learn What you can.”

“Oh, well,” said the chiet, good-naturedly, ‘‘it doesn’t
er You will start for Marseilles this afternoon,
then ?”

“Yes, if you still wish it.”

‘Of course I do.”

“Oh, look here, chief!” exclaimed Wat, as if he had
but just thought of it. ‘You said in your telegram that
you had a personal reason for wanting me to take hold
of this case. What is that reason ?”

A look of embarrassment flashed across the chief’s
face, but it was gone as it came, and only such an ob-

| server as Wat would have caught it.

| ‘A personalreason? Oh, yes,” said the chief. “I only
| meant by that that I was being held responsible for the
| matter and wanted your help to get me out of the
| scrape. You see, I knew that you could do the thing if
| anybody could.”

“Thank you,” said Wat, with a gratified air.

“Then I may count on you for the Alexandria
matter ?”

| “Certainly. You will, of course, make out the neces-
| Sary papers of authority and have them signed by the
| Foreign Minister as well as by the Minister of Police.”

| The papers shall be delivered to you in proper order
| On board the steamer at Marseilles.”

| A faint, scarcely perceptible smile flitted over the
| chief’s face as he said this, and with inward amusement
| Wat saw that the chief believed that he had outwitted
him.

*‘¥ shall
You may

“Very well; I will be there at least half an hour

before the time of sailing.”

With a few more commonplaces, Wat left the chief

and hurried out into the street, walking as if he was in
| the greatest haste.
| He kept this up for several blocks.
; Then he suddenly stopped and turned in an abstracted
| manner, like aman who is half minded to return.

He loitered undecidedly for a few seconds, and then,
| With a determined shake-of the head, resumed his firsi
| course.

“TI thought so,” he muttered; ‘the chief has put the
He is atraid that I will not goto

Alexandria. And he is right. I will not go, but he

| Shall be none th wiser.”

The so-called ‘‘Ghost” was the most famqus shadow in

| the French detective force.

It was said of him that he couic follow within ten
yards of a man for a month and never arouse his sus-

| picions.

He had gained that reputation before he attempted to
Shadow. Wat, or he would not have gained it at all.’

Wat was truly happy nes.

There was not only a great deal of MCHEey to gain-and
the happiness of two good people to assure, but he
found himself pitted against the shrewdest detectives in
all Europe.

For there was not the slightest doubt that, for some
reason, the chief was as anxious to get him off the case as

| there was equally no doubt that he had a short time
previous been anxious to have him take hold of it.

| From what he had seen he had no doubt that the
chief was acting in accordance with orders from the

| Minister of Police.

The fact that the Ghost” had been put on him was
evidence both. that he was suspected of an intention of
pursuing the case in spite of orders, and that his pur-
suit of the case was feared.

Wat led his shadow a sharp run through the streets
for a half-hour, and then, having taken him to a spot
with which he was very familiar, lost him in the most
natural manner imaginable.

So easily did he drop the ‘‘Ghost” that that famous
shadow never thought of blaming anything but his
stupidity in losing his man,

As soon as hé had gotten rid of the spy, Wat hastened
to his room and donned a disguise which at once con-
| verted him into a shrewd-looking man of forty years of

age.

He assumed a sharp, business-like air which gave
even the most casual observer the impression of a man

| who was equal to any emergency, and one dangerous to
| trifle with.

He found a cab and had himself driven to the Bureau
of Finance.

Walking briskly and authoritatively into the offices he
| took a piece ef paper, and in a rapid hand wrote:

“G, Dant.

He handed this to a messenger, and said, sharply :

“Give this, without delay, to Monsieur the Minister of
Finance.”

Now, as everybody knows, the worthy Minister of
Finance is not. easy to get at, but his peremptory way of
approaching him had its immediate effect, for who that
had not an especial right would dare to act so?

The messenger had already been studying the man
who had entered and written so briskly, and he was
therefore a ready victim of Wat's stratagem.

He bowed and went away with the slip of paper.

And the Minister was affected too by this short note.
If Wat had spun his story out and begged an audience
he would have been given time to cool his heels outside.

As it was he was invited at once into the inner sanc-
tum.

He went in, not impudently, but with an air of pre-

Important. Counterfeit case.”

word.
“The counterfeiters, your excellency.”
“Yes. Well?”
‘| am in a fair way to find them.”
“Ah! You are in the detective force ?”

 

doing at this time of night in the house of the Minister |

‘No, Monsieur the Minister,” emphatically, I am not,
Is the matter in the hands of the police exclusively ?”
“No. A reward has been offered, and anybody is en-

| titled to it who captures the criminals or furnishes
| proof to lead to their apprehension.”

«Just so. Are you aware that the police look with
jealousy on any intruder.

“I may say that I believe that to be the case.”

“]t is the case. I have information which I am afraid
to give to the police.”

“But why ?”

“Because I want the whole reward, and they would
| gee that I did not get it.”

“That is a serious thing to say.”

‘Do I look like a man who would bring such a charge
in wantonness ?”

“No, monsieur ; but still it does not seem——”

“Tt does not seem as if officers of justice would do an
unjust thing. You do not know. I have clews that lead
to the discovery of the counterfeiters. The question I
come here to ask is, will you give me a special authorti-
zation to prosecute my work until I have found them ?”

“That is a matter that needs consideration.”

“If you stop to consider it may be too late.”

«‘What kind of an authorization d0 you want ?”

“Merely one saying I am the accredited agent of the
Finance Department in this one matter of the counter-
feiters.”

“IT see no harm in giving you that, only thatI don’t
know you.”

a ee my name on that piece of paper.”

“Gq, Dant.”

“Gustave Dant, in full, but life is too short for so much
name. I call myself Dant usually.

The Minister smiled. This abrupt, earnest man
pleased him. He was inclined to try the experiment of
Seapine him, At least, there could come no harm
rom it.

“You shall have the authorization.

 

I will have my

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

CARS rimeh

 

THE NEW

YORK WEEKLY.

 

pee

VOL. 44—No, 27,

 

secretary write it out ButI think I would prefer that
you did not make a parade of your mission.”

“If your excellency wil! talk no more of it than I do
nobody will know anything about it until it is all over.”

“J will keep my own counsel, and I shall be rather
glad to get ahead of the Minister of Police. In truth,
this matter has gone on altogether too long. There is
serious danger that the credit of the government will
suffer.”

The Minister rang for his secretary, and gave the
necessary orders.

A quarter of an hour later Wat had the authorization
in his pocket, and felt that he was at least safe from the
malice of the Minister of Police, should that high
functionary by any chance catch him at work.

In the meantime he would have an eye on that gentle-
man’s house.

He was very desirous of knowing who it was that had
admitted the count into the house at such an early hour
of the morning, and of finding out what the reason was
of the count’s hurried visit there.

He took a cab nearly to the house, and there dis-
mounted and walked to the vicinity, intending to both
watch and make inquiries.

He noticed that the door the two young men had en-
tered by-the night before was only a side entrance, and
had the appearance of being little used.

A glance at it told him that it opened on asort of yard,
bain it was necessary to traverse before reaching the

ouse.

While he was engaged in making these observations
the a opened, and two young men came hurriedly
out by if. : :

Wat saw that one of them was the man who had met
the count the previous night.

The other he could not see in the face, but the figure
was too unlike that of the count to admit of being that

Tson.

Catan to see this new face, Wat made a detour and
came upon the young men as they were crossing the
street to get a cab.

Wat almost started in his surprise.

The face was that of Fernand Grandin.

The dress was that of a Paris elegant, but it was worn
without the ease that habit gives, and Wat knew that
the man before him was really the Fernand Grandin,
whom he had seen in the prison of Bourgon only a few
hours ago.

“1 will try my hand at shadowing,” said Wat, under

 

She protested, indeed, but rather weakly, and Ben
saw that he had persuaded her,

“T won’t be in yeour way, Sue. Pll remain with
yeou until yeou’ve found him an’ got married, and
then I'll go.” ;

‘‘Where can yeou stay?’

“Oh, [ll find a place.”

“But yeour work at the farm ?’

“Father’ll find somebody to do it, for a while.”

“T must have this room.”

“Yeou shall.”

CHAPTER XXTI.
UNCLE JOSHUA IN NEW YORK.

There were so many things for Uncle Joshua to do
before he could get away from the farm, that the
visitors decided to go on to the White Mountains and
so home, leaving him to follow them to the city.

To the old man, whose farthest journey from home
had been to Boston, the visit to New York was an
event of no little importance. He arranged his af-
fairs with as much care as pepo Cook wight have
ee bone setting out on his voyage around the
world. :

He had intended to go alone, and then, after-eon-
sideration had led him to ask Aunt Tilda to go with
him. And finally, when they were ready, who should
come up to the house, one day, but old Cy Prime, who
had also been quietly making his preparations, in
order that he might strike grief to the heart of his

tour with Tilda.

Joshua at first refused to have Cy go, on the
ground that he was so reckless and would be such a
care to him; but Cy pleaded so successfully that at
last he consented, and some three weeks after the
visit of Happy Jack, all three of them started for
New York,

All of Swanzey turned out to see them off, and the
older folks shook their heads in melancholy expecta-
tion of the result of such a daring undertaking. But
even if Joshua had seen these foreboding signs, they
would not have affected him, for he had one quality
which had stood himin good stead in all the critical
situations of his life—absolute confidence in himself.

He tried always to do right, according to his no-
tion of it; he was perfectly free from self-conscious-

 

his breath. :
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

You will miss a literary gem if you fail to pur-

chase a copy of ‘ROSAMOND; or, SUNDERED HEARTS,” |

by Mrs. Aler. McVeigh Miller. Ask your Newsdealer
for No. 18 of THE SELECT SERIES. Price 25 cents.

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 XX.—(CONTINUED.)

It was Sue, dragging her weary limbs up the stairs.
She took no heed of the fact that the door of her
reom was open, and, unsuspicious of a visitor there,
walkedin. Ben saw her before she did him, and he
started with dismay at sight of her haggard, drawn
face.

o His whole great heart went out in pity and tender-

_ness for her, who had been as a sisterto him. He

had risen from his chair, and now stepped forward a
pace. She heard the movement almost before she
saw him, and turned with a glad, gasping ery, which
changed to one of angry defiance as she saw Ben.
She turned quickly, as if she would go, but he step-
ped forward and took her gently by the arm.

“Don't be angry, Sue,” he said, appealingly, rather
as if he were the offender, than as if she were in any
way eulpable. “I've followed yeou to take yeou
hum.”

She laughed with aggressive bitterness.

“Take me hum? I said I wouldn’t never go back.”

“I know everything, Sue, but nobody else does.
Come home, do.”

“Never, Ben, an’ yeou might as well
“J can’t leave yeow here, Sue.”
“Yeou can’t help it.”

She let herself drop into a chair, and he could see
that she was weary to exhaustion; but she abated
nothing of her bitterness and defiance. He did not
‘know what to do to move her. He knew her violent
and obstinate temper, and almost despaired,

“Sue,” he said, pleadingly, ‘“‘I can’t say yeou must
go, an’ I don’t want to; but won’t yeou talk it over
with me? If I didn’t know nothin’ 'bout it, ’*t’would
be dif’rent; but I know everything.”

ae d’yeou know ?”’ she asked, with a sneering
sinile. i

“T know all ’bout Rube an’—an’—yeou.”

“Oh!” and she sneered again.

; “T know he promised tomarry an’ never intended
on"

““Yeou don’t know it,’’ she exclaimed, furiously.
“Yeou can’t know any such a thing. Nobody can
know that.”

“Well, Sue, he ran away while yeou went for the
minister.”

“He was aout of his head an’ didn’t know what he
(was doing.”

“Didn’t he take yeour money with him ?”

“No, he didn’t. Who’s been putting yeou up to
this, Ben Eastman? You never thought o’ that out
o’ yeour own head. Who did?’

“Never mind abeout that, Sue. Yeou must know
yeou can’t stay here alone. What would come 0’
yeou? I can’t let yeou go like this, Sue. Come
home.” ;

“Never. Yeou’re only wastin’ time.”

“Let me help yeou hunt for Rube, then. I can’t
let yeou stay here alone. Yeou know yeou can trust
me, Sue.”

‘‘Why d’yeou want to help me hunt for Rube?”

“To make him marry yeou,” answered Ben, with
sudden anger.

She laughed scornfully, but said nothing.

‘Ben bent his headin painful thought for some mo-
ments. He was no matchfor Sue. He never had been
able to manage her, and he could not seem to make
any impression on her now. Suddenly a thought
struck him. .

“Do yeou remember, Sue, that last night yeou were
home ?” 5

“What of it?”

*“Yeou said suthin’ to nie ’bout not bein’ ongrateful
for what father an’ me had done.

“Goin’ to remind me o’ that, be yeou ?’ she asked,
in a hard tone.

“Not for unkindness, Sue. Yeou know that. No-
body knows any better than yeou that I never would
say a word to call for thanks. No, Sue, I only
spoke on itin hopes yeou would remember haow yeou
felt that night, an’ mebbe feel a leetle that way
naow.” ‘

Sue’s head sank until it rested on her hand. She
was much too tired to fight, but she felt so hard and
bitter toward all the world that she could not yield
to the self-pity which she felt.

The gesture went straight to Ben’s soft heart, and
he stepped to her side and knelt there, taking the
hand that hung listlessly at her side in his, and say-
ing, in a husky voice:

“See here, Sue. I’m most broken-hearted over this,
Ibe. I did come daown here full o’ yengeance on
Rube; but I’ll drop all that, an’ do anything you say.
If yeou say the word, we’ll sell aout the old place at
Swanzey an’ go aout West, where nobody knows us.
An’ if—I don’t know how to say it, Sue—but if any- |
thing happens, ’1l—l’—be a——_ But, there! it’s no
use sayin’ what yeou know. Come, Sue! Yeou don’t
need to go back to Swanzey ; father an’ I'll go with
yooR: Never think o’ Rube Whitcomb. Come, won't
ye?

There was something so tender and so compassion-
ate in his tone that Sue could not hear him unmoved.
She struggled for a moment, and then gave up to the
grief that wrung her heart.

“Don’t ery, Sue—don’t ery, dear! It shall be jest
as yeou like. Anything you say, Sue. It yeou can’t
give up Rube, I'll hunt him aout—not mad, though I
can’t never like him arter what he’s done—an’ when
I find him [11 talk right to him an’ get him to marry
yeou. Will that do, Sue?”

He was so kind and good that Sue, being weakened
with hunger and fatigue, had much ado to keep from
telling him that Reuben was in no wise guilty; but
she had wit enough to realize that to do so would be
to lead up to other and_ more awkward topics, and
oa would lose Reuben to her should he be
‘ound.

“T don’t want yeou and Rube to come together,
Ben,” she said, in a subdued tone. “I might as well
say I love Rube, and know he will marry me when I
find him. He went away when he was aout of his¢4
head. Iknow he wouldn’t have done it any other
way. Yeou leave me here an’ I’) find him,”

“No; I ean’tleave yeou, Sue. I'll stay here an’
help yeou find him, if yeou must do it.”

“But I don't want yeou to find him,” she cried, in
an irritated tone.

“Then Pll stay with yeou and take care on yeou
while yeou look for him.”

go back.”

ness; and he was as generous in his feelings as he
was direct and simple in his manuer. .

Aunt Tilda was a great deal more concerned than
he for the appearance they should make in the city
among the rich Hopkins folks, and she did a vast
|} amount of what Joshua called fussin’, before she
would consent to start. But when at last they did
go off, no one was better satisfied than she that they
would present a creditable appearance.

And Cyrus, stimulated by Aunt Tilda’s discourses
on the subject of dress, had bought outright, or had

| made by his sister Betsy, so many and so giddy arti- |
|} cles of wearing apparel, that he modestly refused to |

wear his best before the good people of Swanzey, lest
they should think he had turned into what they had
a heard of in late years but had never seen—a
dude.

Aunt Tilda had once been in Boston, but Cyrus had
never been even that far away from Swanzey; so
that Joshua, who had been several times in Boston,
was an authority on the subject of travel. And his
recklessness at times made his two companions fear
that some accident would surely happen to him be-
fore they could get him safely to their destination.

Cyrus, after more than one nervous remonstrance,
reminded him reproachfully that he had objected to
taking him, Cyrus, on the ground that he would be
reckless; and here was he now endangering life,
limb and their happiness by his maneuvers.

The fact was that neither Cyrus nor Tilda dared to
stir from their seats lest they should meet with some
accident; whereas Joshua, feeling the importance of
being au experienced traveler, would get off the cars
atalmost every stop. He would walk along the plat-
form to the window where Tilda sat, and there con-
verse with her. The agonies she suffered only a ner-
zene person who has traveled but little can compre-

end. ;

However, Joshua did reach New York with them,

bag in hand, and each wondering which way to turn.
Tt devolved on Joshua to lead the way, and, al-
though he knew no more than they, he undertook to

 

Oo it.

He had no little trouble in getting his trunk. He
espied it being taken from the baggage-car, and
; would have helped himself to it had not the man
| guarding it told him he must let it go tothe baggage-

| room first. This struck Joshua as a rather suspicious |

| proceeding, and he therefore refused to lose sight of
| is trunk until it was delivered to him over the coun-
| ter of the baggage-roon.
Even then aman asked him to let him send it to
him; but Joshua was not to be fooled so easily.

“T guess not,” he said, with a shrewd twinkle of his |

leye. “Cy an’ me ean carry it.
| heavy.”
And so he and Cyrus took between them the old
| leather trunk, covered with moth-eaten patches of
| hair, and with the family. umbrella tied to it by
| means of a piece of rope} walked triumphantly
out of the depot, Aung Ti Howing with a bewil-

*Taint so all-fired

become the instant victim

’ f some dire, city machi-
nation. te.
The most obvious way té' 0 was to follow the car-

tracks that ran out of the depot, and Joshua did so |

| with a promptness that inspired his companions with
| an instant confidence. But when the way led them
into the long tunnel under Park Avenne, Tilda be-
oe 2d as certain they had made a-mis-
take.

Une hua, however, would not turn back,
though he was not a little surprised and startled at
the length of time it took them to get out. And when
at last they did reach the other end, he put the,trunk
oe and told Tilda to sit down on it and rest her-
self.

“Gosh!” he said, looking back into the tunnel,
“that’s the longest covered bridge ever I see.”

“Haow air we goin’ to find Henry Hopkins? That’s
ES I want to know,” said Aunt Tilda, from the

runk.

“Ask. I guess everybody knows him.
Cy! Take holt. Get up, Tildy.
big house yonder.”

It was the Park Avenue Hotel to which Joshua led
them. He left them out on the sidewalk while he
went in and walked up to the desk.

Come on,
We will ask at the

clerk broke in peremptorily :

“Don’t want any potatoes.”
Josh indignantly attempted to explain, he said, still
more abruptly, ‘No, we don’t want any butter nor
eggs. This isn’t the place. Go around to the side”
—waving his hand—‘“‘and see the steward.”

Joshua stared a moment; but, not wishing to dis-
play too much ignorance, turned and walked out to
where his companions waited for him.

“Thought I wanted to sell potatoes,” he said in-
| dignantly to them.

“What did yeou say anything ’baout potatoes for?”
| demanded Tilda.

“T didn’t.”

“What made him, then ?’’

“Don’t know. Come on an’ see this Mr. Stewart he
tells about,” and the old man went around to the
kitchen entrance to the hotel and asked for Mr.
Stewart.

The man of whom he asked wore a white apron
and a paper cap. He looked at Uncle Joshua for a
moment and then said as the clerk had done:

“We don’t want any more potatoes.”

“T didn’t say ye did,” retorted Joshua, testily, be-
ginning to think some joke was being perpetrated at
his expense. ‘I ain’t no potatoes to sell. I want to
know where Henry Hopkins lives.”

“Henry Hopkins? Don’t know him.

“Who is he?’ Why he lives here.”

“Here? Then why don't you go to the office,
around front?’

“T did, an’ he sent me here.”

“Well, I don’t know any Henry Hopkins.
don’t you look in the directory ?’

“What's that?”

“You can get one in any drug store.”

“Look here, stranger, it’s ’beout time yeou stopped
this. We ain’t none on us sick, an’ don’t waft any-
thing from the drugstore. If yeou don’t know where
Henry lives that’s all right.”

He turned to take hold of the trunk again, when
the man laughingly stopped him. e

“You don’t understand me. At the drug stores,
generally, they keep directories in which are the
names of all the people who live in the city, and
where they live.”

“T want to know!” said Joshua, turning round
again.

“You go into the first drug store youcome to and
ask for a directory, and you will find the man you
want in it.”

“Thank yeou.”

“Welcome. Goright up this street till you come
to Broadway, You'll see a drug store near the cor-
ner.

They went as directed and had no difficulty in find-
ing Broadway. The crowds there surprised but did
not abash our honest friends, who, as unconcernedly
asif they had been walking on one of their own roads
at Swanzey, carried their old trunk along the
crowded thoroughfare un'il they came to a drug
store, when Joshua went inside to ask for the direc-
tory while Aunt Tilda and Cyrus beguiled the time
by looking in at the window of a store, taking care
never to unloose their hold upon any of their posses-
sions.

‘A man told me,” said Joshua, to one of the clerks,
“that I could get a directory here.”

“Certainly. Hereitis.” And the clerk pushed the
book toward Joshua.

“T want to find Henry Hopkins.”

The clerk smiled, and waited on another customer.
Joshua, seeing that he was expected to look in the
book, took out his great bowed spectacles and ad-
justed them, unconscious of the amused smiles of
customers and clerks alike. He opened the book at
the beginning and ran his finger down the page. He
carefully ran over several pagesin this way. Then
he looked up and the perspiration was rolling down

 

Who is he?”

Why

 

-“*Yeou don’t need. I can take care o’ myself.” |

nial

his face,

detested rival, Seth Perkins, by making the grand )

 

“Gosh!” he exclaimed, in an audible tone, ‘I won-
der where Henry is.”

“Tf he lives in the city he must bein the directory,”
said one of the clerks, pleasantly.

Uncle Joshua turned over the big book in his hand
and said, dejectedly :

“Seems to me I might as well look for a needle in a
hay-stack.”’

“What's the name?” asked the clerk.

Pac cong Henry Hopkins. Like’s not yeou know

im.

“No,” said the clerk, “butif heis in the directory
I will find him for you.”

“Now, that's neighborly.”

“Why, you were looking in the A’s.
look under Ho.”

“Gosh! Soi ought.
Joshua.

“Henry Hopkins, banker. House, — Fifth avenue,”
read the clerk.

“Hi gun! That’shim! Write that down on a piece
0’ paper, young man, will ye ?”

he obliging clerk did so, and Joshna, after thank-
ing him and inviting him to step in and see him any
time he was down Swanzey way, went out to where
Aunt Tilda and Cyrus. were standing looking in
through the door at him.

“Come along,’ he said. ‘We'll find him naow,
Hold ona minit! Here, Til, take my coat. It’s all
fired hot here, ain’t it?) Take your’n off, too, Cy. Til
will carry them for us, won’t yeou, Til?”

“Sartain.”

So Cyrus took off his coat, and the two men, in the
eomfort of shirt sleeves, took up the trunk again
and started down Broadway. The clerk had given
Joshua hasty directions for finding the house; but
Joshua, in the excitement of stopping at every win-
dow of unusual ‘attractions, forgot them, and was
down by the Fifth Avenue Hotel before he knew he
hae passed the street at which he should have turned
aownh.

He knew he must be astray some how, but that did
not trouble him greatly, for he had faith that he
could find out again by asking, and ‘so, as he was
tired,and Tilda and~-Cyrus were tired, too, he pro-

You want to

Jest like a dictionary,” said

posed that they should sit down on the step in front

of the hotel door, and rest.

Cyrus was more glad of the rest than he would
have eared to confess; but now that they were
seated, he admitted that his boots, which were new,
had been hurting.him for some dime.

Joshua took some nut-cakes out of his carpet-bag,
and passed them around, and they sat there, con-
tentedly eating, Moving now to this side, and now to
ea to let the stream of persons in or out of the
notel.

“Must be a protracted meetin’ goin’ on here, I
guess,” said Joshua, as he shifted his seat for the

 

and early in the afternoon they stood in the Grand |}
Central Depot, each with an old-fashioned carpet- |

da :
dered notion that if ae tot of them she would |

“T want to know, stranger——” he began, when the |

And then, as Uncle |

hundredth time.

“Ya-as,” assentead Cyrus, tugging at his boot,
which had begun to cause him excruciating pain
since he had sat down. ‘I say, Joshu-a, help me off
with this plaguey boot, will ye? It’s hurtin’ like
smoke.”

Joshua obligingly stood up, and, turning his back,
made of himself a boot-jack for Cyrus, and the tor-
turing boot was pulled off.

They made rather a striking picture as they sat
there eating nut-cakes, in their shirt sleeves, and

how much the passers-by laughed.
conscious of being mirthful objects.

When they were sufficiently rested, Cy put on his
boot again, and, ingqniring at a near-by drug store
for the direction to the house, Joshua led them across
the street into Fifth avenue.

It was only necessary now to read the numbers on
the houses, and this they did for several blocks, run-
ning up and down stoops innumerable in order to do
so. They reached the right house finally. and, with
asigh of mingled fatigue and relief, they dropped
the trunk on the upper step, and rang the bell.

They were un-

CHAPTER XXII.
TWO_OLD FRIENDS.

 

Years ago Henry Hopkins had left Swanzey a poor
farmer’s boy. Besides his homely suit of homespun,
| he had nothing but his honesty and industry to take
with him. He had been successful, as so many
country boys have been, in the great metropolis,
which almost seems to reserve its greatest rewards
for the farm-bred lads.

But it is only seeming; for only those who are suc-
cessful are heard from. The countless numbers who
go to ruin, or sink into obscyprity, are never paraded
for the benefit of the ambitious or discontented, and
the successful stand like luring monuments to the
straining eyes of the country boy whose often hard
life leads him to look upon the possession of money
{as the one worthy aim miife.
| If the boy who disd@ins the plow could but be
breught to see into the minds of those who have gone
away from home and have attained the object of
their ambition, he would see, for the most part, that
the real happiness of those successful lives lay in the
nace as of the days when the city was an unknown
place.

Henry Hopkins had been one of the favored ones
of Dame Fortune.
was ranked ag &@ mil
| in, and was surrouwm
| reach of wealth.
| Like all so-called
| scious of the advat
great wealth; but
|
i
!

.

 

every luxury within the

men, he was over-con-
being the possessor of
h a somewhat overdone
gat a kindly, generous
@ise shame of the days
beyhood.
told him that he might
at any time, and he was
with a pleasure little

ceremoniousness
heart, and one whi
; and Companions of
His son and daus
| expect to see Uncle
looking forward tot
| short of boyish.
Perhaps Mrs. Hopkins, who had also come from
Swanzey, was less eager than her husband to renew
| the acquaintances of her youth; but even she was
| ready to welcome them, though she would have been
| glad had she known exactly when to expect them, in
| order that she might have so arranged her social
| affairs that there would be no danger of any distres-
sing contretemps by reason of her fashionable
| friends coming in contact with her country visitors.
| As it happened, none of the family was at home on
| the afternoon when our old friends rang at the door-
| bell of the elegant mansion, A footman, who by the
| splendor of his clothes, reflected as much as a foot-
| man might, the importance of his master, opened the
door to them.

Joshua bowed low at the sight of so much splen-
dor, and his sister and Cyrus followed his example.
The man looked as if he was not quite certain
whether or not this was a new Way of putting a
slight upon him.

“Does ‘ Henry
Joshua.

“Yis, sir.”

“Tt's allright, Til. Comealong, Cy.” And Joshua,
without any other word of explanation, was for mak-
ing his way into the house.

The man barred the way as politely ashe could,
but effectually, nevertheless, and said :

“Mr. Hopkins is not at home.”

“Don’t matter,
Joshua. ‘Air yeou one o’ his friends ?’

“Sure, [im the footman,’ was the somewhat lofty
answer.

“Gosh!

Hopkins live here?’ demanded

I want to know! Is that the reason yeou
Joshua, referring to the knee breeches which the
man wore as a badge of office.

Cyrus, audibly.

“Sure, if it's game you’re wantin’ to make of me,”
until the master comes.” And
the faces of the visitors. ;

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Aunt ‘Tilda.

“Mad, I guess,” said Joshua, serenely.
for Henry. Like’s not he'll be right along.”

This was quite satisfactory to Tilda and Cyrus,
who looked upon the matter as inhospitable, but
probably characteristic of city ways, and the latter,
glad of another opportunity to get off the painful
boot, withdrew it, with Joshua’s assistance, and sat
contentedly there. The supply of nut cakes was un-
failing, and it was called on again; and the trio was
sitting in comfort, if not in absolute contentment,
when a carriage drove up to the door and a young
lady and a young gentleman alighted from it Both
stared for a moment as they looked up at the -party
on the stoop; but both sprang eagerly forward as
Joshua rose up and shouted :

“Hi gun! I’m glad to see ye.”

Cyrus hurriedly pulled on his boot as the brother
and sister—for the two were Frank and Annie Hop-
a up the steps, the former inquiring wonder-
ingly:

“Why, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you
go into the honse ?”

“Had some sort o’ misunderstandin’ with that
highty-tighty chap with the red trousers, an’ we sot
down aeout here to wait. Huw be yeou?”

Miss Annie kissed and otherwise warmly welcomed
Aunt Tilda, and there was a heatty hand-shaking all
around. None of them gave a further thought to
the footman, who, however, was trembling in his
shoes at the sight of his young master and mis-
tress so joyfully greeting the guests he had treated
so cavalierly.

He had been watching the three as they sat on the
stoop, and had opened the door as soon as he saw
the carriage drive up. He had expected a scene of
a different kind. When he saw that he had madea
mistake, he hastened to inake his peace with Joshua,
by officiously offering to carry his trunk for him, to
the surprise of the young people, who had never
known him to descend from his lofty pedestal to per-
form so menial a servéce before.

They went into the reception-room, where the
young people plied their visitors with questions,
which elicited the story of their search for the house
—a story which Joshua told with a quaint humor
which indicated that the situation had been appre-
ciated even by him, in the broader if not in the more
delicate shades of it.

“You must be tired,” said Frank, ‘Come right up

 

 

to your room, won’t you? Annie, you will show

with Cyrus nursing his foot; but none of them cared |

He had amassed riches until he |
faire; he had a palace to live |

so long as he lives here,” said |

wear yeour trousers gallussed up so high?’ asked |
“T thought he was a foreign lord,” whispered |

said the man, indignantly, ‘‘yees can stay outside |
he shut the door in|

} “Wa-al, it |
don’t matter; we can set right daown here an’ wait |

Aunt Tilda to her room, won’t you? Come along,
Uncle Josh.”

“See here, Frank; don’t put me too high up, will
yeou ?”’ asked Unele Josh. ‘I’m a leetle mite afraid
of fire, aw’ TI ain’t no hand to shin down a lightnin’-
rod.

“You are to sleep just up stairs, Uncle Josh, and
Mr. Prime——”

“He'll sleep with me, an’ if he kicks I’ll make him
sleep on the floor. He’s kind o’ frisky, Cy is, an’
a like to have him where I can keep my eye on
Lim,

“Just as you say, Uncle Josh,” answered Frank,
with a laugh; “but we could give him a room by
himself if he would prefer it.”

Cyrus had a decided preference for being in the
same room with Joshua, however, and they were led
up stairs to the next floor and into aroom so much
more magnificent than anything either of them had
ever seen before that Frank had some difficulty in
persuading thém that the bed was really to sleep on.
Joshua looked at the lace pillow-shams and spread,
and declared he could never sleep under a thing
like that.

“But yeou needn’t worry abeout me,” he said.
“Cy an’ me’ll rig up some sort 0’ bed on the floor.”

Frank laughingly explained the use of thé shams,
and then staid with the visitors until they had
washed and arranged themselves in their best to do
honor to their city hosts; and Cyrus, at least, was a
marvel of Swanzey art. Joshua had the good sense
to attempt nothing in the way of personal adorn-
ment beyond what he had been accustomed to every
Sunday at home.

By the time they were ready to go down, Mr. and
Mrs. Hopkins had returned and were waiting for
their guests in the reception-room. As Joshua entered
the room Henry Hopkins stepped forward with out-
stretched hand, exclaiming:

‘Joshua, how are you ?”

Joshua looked at him with a beaming smile.

“Yeou ain’t Henry Hopkins ?”

“Yes.”

‘Hank Hopkins?’

“Yes.”

*Red-headed Hank!”

The two old men laughed in happy unison at the
recollections recalled by the boyish name, and shook
hands with a warmth that melted away all the crust
of formality, which a less natural person than Uncle
Joshua, under such circumstances, would have been
likely to foster.

“This is my wife,” said Mr. Hopkins, turning to
that lady. ‘You must remember her.”

“How do, marm? Le’mesee. You was a Richard-
son, wan’t you?”

She could not yield as easily as her husband to the
old man’s genial warmth, but she smiled graciously,
and admitted that she was a Richardson.

“Betsy Richardson ?’

“Elizabeth Richardson,” corrected the lady, in her
dignified way.

“Ya-as, [remember; we used to call yeu Bets for
short. I can remember the first time I ever see yeou,
| jest as well as if ’twas yesterday.”
| “Indeed?” frigidly.

“Yes; yeou drove down to the store on a load of
| wood, with yeour father. I'll never forgit how purty
|yeou looked that day,”’—Mrs. Hopkins smiled gra-
| ciously—‘‘in yeour new caliker frock an’ sun-bonnet,
an’ yeour blue yarn stockings hangin’ daown over
the side of the load of maple.”

Blue yarn stockings! The elegant Mrs. Hopkins
had forgotten there were such things, and it was
wonderful how indignant the recollection of them
made her. She turned away from the old man, with
an expression of supreme disgust on her face, which
was in no wise modified by the sudden outburst of
hearty laughter from her husband, who entered into
the humor of the situation with keen appreciation.

“He didn’t seem half so funny in the country,”
whispered Annie, who had come down with Aunt
Tilda in time to hear Uncle Josh’s speech.

And indeed it was singular to see how strangely
altered the old man looked, when, in fact, the only
difference was in his surroundings. He was like a
jewel badly set, and only those who had seen him in
the midst of his familiar country scenes could have
realized how sweet and wholesome he really was.

It was fortunate for Mrs. Hopkins’ reputation as
a hostess that Aunt Tilda was there to take her at-
tention, for it is doubtfulif she could have forgiven
many more such recollections as that of the blue
yarn stockings. Frank, who was a privileged per-
son, as an only son generally is, whispered in her
ear:

“We wanted to surprise you with early recollec-
tions.” 5

“You have been entirely successful,” she answered,
with some resentment. «

However, what with Aunt Tilda toturn the current
of her disturbed thoughts, together with the absence
of Joshua and Cyrus, who had been taken by Mr.
Hopkins to see the stable, there were no more Uth-
pleasant recollections brought forward, and the time

 

 

| that the country-bred folks would find themselves a
| little abroad when it came to eating their first course
| dinner. Aunt Tilda and Cyrus, afraid of exposing
| their ignorance, passed a miserable hour, tryg "
avoid the mistakes which Joshua made, and

at as heartily afterward as his host, for, with"a Trt
appreciation of his old playmate, Henry Hopkins

offend him. :

Indeed, Joshua’s own sense of hilmor was tog keen
to permit him to let his own mistakés go by Without
some sharp Comment, oftener far funnier than any
blunder he could be guilty of. He felt something
like a boy let loose from school, and determined to
cram all the fun possible into his vacation.

And his spirit infected his old friend so that his
family could with difficulty recognize the sedate
banker in the hilarious old gentleman whose up-
roarious laughter fairly made the glasses ring.

The dinner was fittingly brought to a close by
Joshua drinking the scented water from his finger-
bowl. And when his host pointed out that the use
of the vessel was to wash the mouth and hands in,
he exclaimed in his candid fashion :

“T want to know! I washed afore I came daown
stairs.”

From the table they went to the drawing-room, the
splendor of which almost deprived Joshua of the
power of speech. He could hardly be persuaded to
sit on the satin-covered chairs, and finally when he
did sit down, bounded up again as if he had been
hurt.

‘‘What’s the matter?” demanded Henry Hopkins.

Joshua felt of the soft, springy cushion, and
| answered, naively :
| “Gosh! I thought I’d sot on the cat.”
| Mr. Hopkins laughed with all the zest of a boy, and
drew Joshua down beside him onalounge. Frank,
divining that his father would like to talk over old
times with Joshua, led the others away on a tour of
the house.

Left to themselves, the two old friends sat for some
moments in silence, the memory of by-gone days
flooding the minds of both with recollections in

 

passed serenely enough until dinner was announced. |
It was ho more than might have been expected |

 

| alone.
knew that laughter without ridienle would never |
j
}
|
|
|

 

which sadness mingled with happiness. But there
was little room in Joshua’s wholesome nature for |
sadness, and the very first question of his host}
brought out an answer that started the peals of |
|laughter again. They fell into reminiscences, and |
talked of the people they had known and the things
they had done, and any one to have seen them would
have supposed them two boys masquerading in the
guise of old age.

“Are the Peterson boys all living?” asked Henry.

‘*All living but Bill, an’ I guess he’d ’a’ been if he’d
staid to home. Bill allus was of a rovin’ turn 0’
| mind, an’ he took a fancy an’ went out West someres
| —out to Montany, I guess it was—an’ he got tangled
up with polities an’ whisky an’ a piece 0’ rope, an’
it kind o’ discouraged him a leetle mite, I guess.”

Then followed a story about one Deuteronomy,
| who had lost an eye in the war, and had it replaced
with one of glass that did not fit, so that he was un-
able to shut the lids ef that eye; in consequence of
which he presented the singular spectacle, when he |
fell asleep in church one Sunday, of sleeping with
one eye shut, and one wide open.

Then eame the recollection of the first cireus the
two boys had ever gone to, the new roundabout suit
Joshua had worn on that occasion, and the new hat
Henry had worn, while Joshua had had to be con-
tent with the old straw one Tilda had braided him;
and the forty-one cents Joshua had spent. And the
two old boys simply rolled over on the lounge in un-
controllable glee as the memories carried them back
to the careless, happy days.

But presently Henry fell upon the topic of Joshua’s
mother and her pride in him, and that brought to
Joshua the thought which had been sedulously kept
back all the time—his boy. And the tears came into
his eyes as he told Henry how he had a boy in New
York that very night, perhaps in distress and want.
But Henry assured him that he should be found, and
with a simple faith the good old fan dried his eyes,
and a little later asked that he might be allowed to
go to bed so that he might be up early in the morning
in order to set out on his search for Reuben.

“Yeou might as well leave a sasser o’ taller along-
side the fire-place,”’ he said, as he and Cyrus took
their leave. “I may want to grease my boots afore
yeou get up in the morning.”

Henry Hopkins laughed, but did not think it worth
while to tell Joshua that it was not the custom to
grease boots in the city, intending that his guest’s
boots should be well polished before he arose in the
morning.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>~e~<

If you wish to read a first-class story, ask your
Newsdealer for ‘ROSAMOND ; or, SUNDERED HEARTS,”
by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. Complete in No. 18 of
THE SELECT SERIES for 25 cents.

> 0 or

CATARRH CURED.

A clergyman, after years of suffering from that_loath-
some disease, Catarrh, and vainly trying every known
remedy, at last found a recipe which completely cured
/ and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dread-
ful disease sending a self-addressed stamped envelope to
Prof. J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren St., New York City, will

 

| clouded.

 

receive the recipe free of charge.

THE EMPTY NEST,

BY C. E. BOLLES.

There’s an empty nest in the maple tree,
Desolate and alone,

Sadly it rocks on the leafiess bough,
All of its inmates flown.

Broken and torn are the fragile walls,
Where wandering snow-flakes fall;

Softly they cover the tiny wreck,
Under an ermine pall,

Where are the couple in suits of brown,
Who fashioned that home up there?

While a happy song in joyous tune
Rang out on the sweet spring air.

Do they rear their brood in another land,
*Neath sunnier skies than ours,

Where never the storm king’s blighting breath
Can wither their fragrant bowers?

Do they ever think of their sammer home,
Where they caroled gay and free?

Is there never a throb of fond regret
For the nest in the maple tree?

Thus, one by one, we are drifting away,
From the homes that once we knew;
And time, and space, will sever for aye

The hearts so leal and true.

But ’tis sweet to think of the meeting-plaee,
In the house not made with hands,

And to rest assured ’mid the wrecks of life,
That the home eternal stands.

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

| LOVE'S CRUCIBLE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

Author of ‘‘Only One Sin,” *‘A Heart's Bitterness,”
‘*Another Man’s Wife,” ‘Thrown on
the World,” etc.

(‘IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE”. was commeneed in No. 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WORDS THAT WERE NOT SPOKEN.

HERE was a profound silence
for some moments after the

N dame’s remark, and two beauti-
“ ful roses settled on the cheeks
|, of Mildred, while Guy stirred his
¥ tea as if he meant to serateh a

she had occasioned, began to
ny chatter and ask questions, and

)

& uy Guy was compelled, as usual, to
~ give an exact account of the
the Hall, and of every little event

which had happened there since his last visit to the cot-

tage.

Mildred listened as intently as the dame herself, and
with rapt attention glanced up under her downcast lids
at the handsome face in front of her.

She noticed that while he talked a slight shade came
at times over his brows, and a faintly troubled look into
the frank, open eyes, as if he were keeping something
ens or as if he were reluctant to talk of his home at
all.
Suddenly he looked across at her, musingly, caught
her glance, and broke off with: —-

‘And the old cat’s dead, and that’sall. Quite enough,
too, dame. Miss Thorpe is boredto death. Let us talk
of something else.”

‘Very well, my dear,” laughed the dame; “I’m going
toclear the things away; you and Miss Mildred can
then talk about what you like.”

‘Let me help you, dame,” said the girl, rising, but the
ame pushed her gently into her chair again.

«Sit still, my dear; he’ll be off like a shot if he’s left
Keep him till I come back.”

With a little laugh and a heightened color, Mildred
rose, and, taking up her work, went and sat beside the
open door, but she did not offer to tatk. Guy leaned
back and watched her, his head resting on his hand, his
thoughts roaming here and there, aimlessly, a feeling of
repose, very novel and grateful, stealing over hiir.

“It was all so quiet in the little room; the figure of the
girl and the sweet, gentle face, all so still and peace
ful, that the disquietude, which had lately taken posses-
sion of him, seemed to vanish and leave him at rest. He
felt as a man might feel who, after a long battle against
wind and tide, drifts into some sunlit harbor where all
is peace and rest.

At last it struck him that he could not any longer sit
like a mummy, abstracted and speechless, and, having

| nothing to do, he got out his pipe and dropped down on

the door-step, stretched his long limbs almost at her feet,
and looked up at her.

ih: tired of your seclusion yet, Miss Mildred ?” he
asked.

She looked down at him with a little slow smile.

“Not in the very least. I am quite content.

‘Quite content!’ He nodded and sighed. “That's a
oot thing to say. But you look it; you look quite

appy.’

“Tam very happy,” she assented, in a low voice.

“Yes, you look it,” he said, thoughtfully, unconsciously
gazing at her sweet face, with its soft reposeful lips and
downeast eyes. ‘You look asif the world, with all its
falsities and disappointments, were a sealed book to
you; asif life had been one untroubled day, neither too
bright nor too cloudy, but——”

He paused suddenly, for at his words the color left her
cheeks, and she raised her eyes with a troubled look.

“Oh, you are wrong, quite wrong,” she said, in a
startled voice. ‘Life has been very hard and sad for
me till now; perhaps that is why Iam so content. Not
too bright—ah, no, it has not been too bright—but
If you only knew——”

“Tell me,” he said, on the impulse of the moment;
then, as a startled, shrinking expresssion crossed her
face, he added instantly, “I beg your pardon—forgive
me. It was not idle curiosity.”

“J am sure it was not,’ she said, with a dash of color
coming to her pale face again. ‘But my story would
only weary you and pain me in the telling. And it
would do no good,” she added, in a low voice, more as if
communing with herself, and ending with a little sigh.
‘Tt is all past and gone, like a strange, mysterious
dream, and I am, as you see,—at peace at last.”

Guy looked at her, and then away at the distant
horizon, with a thoughtful frown. She spoke of mys-
tery. Was it possible there could be any mystery in
her past? It was not curiosity, but an intense, almost
irreconcilable desire to learn something of it that pos-
sessed him.

“You will forgive me,” he said, ‘“‘but sometimes, when
I am thinking of you”—she colored faintly and lowered
her head at those words—‘‘I have an idea that you have
traveled a great deal.”

She looked up with a hesitating glance, and then
went on with her work.

“Yes,” she reluctantly said, ‘I have traveled a great

”

«7 thought so,” he gently responded,

“Why ?”

“I scarcely know. For one thing, because I some-
times fancied I detected a little foreign accent in your
voice—something American.”

Once again she glanced at him with the half-troubled,
half-fearful look, as if wondering if he suspected any-
thing she would not have him know.

“T have been in America,” she slowly said.

“J thought so,” said Guy, frankly. ‘How strange!
You ‘know, of course, that I have not long returned
from there ?”

«Yes, I know,” she assented. és

“It would be singular if I had met you there,” he said,
as if communing with himself. ‘‘Were you ever in San
Francisco ?”

A shade of white passed over her face, and she looked
at him with a strangely searching glance. Her fingers
paused in their task, and she answered him ina low
tone:

«Yes, I have been in San Francisco.”

«When ?” demanded Guy, eagerly.

She hesitated, and then reluctantly answered :

“In July.”

“July !” he repeated after her, with a tone of pleased
surprise ; ‘“‘why, I was there in July. Do you know, the
first time Isaw youl had an idea that 1 had seen you
before. Is it possible that we could have met in San
Francisco ?”

“No, no,” she answered, hastily. “We have never
met before. It must be some fancied resemblance.”

‘It is very singular,” said Guy, thoughtfully puffing
at his pipe, and quite unconscious of her agitation. ‘‘I
have never got over the idea that I had met you some-
where, or that you were like some one that | knew. I
fancied at first that yon were like my Cousin Con-
stance.”

Mildred looked at him with a startled look of inquiry
and of intelligence, as if the thought suggested some-
thing new to her.

“7 2?” she said, softly.

“That was at first; but now that I know you better,
the resemblance does not strike me. Perhaps,” he went

 

 

 

 

 
 

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-Maida

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 44—No. 27,

cmt THE NEW, YORK WEEKLY. 5—

d

 

 

 

on, looking at her musingly, “TI may have seen your

trait at some friend’s over there. The more I think
of it the more the idea comes to me that it was in a
rtrait I saw you.” ;
Pehe shook her head, with a troubled, wistful look, and
said :

“No, I had no friends. I never had any, only one—
my mother; and when I lost her I was alone in all the
world—quite friendless.”

She looked down at him with a gentle smile, but there
was a moisture in the beautiful eyes that set his heart
beating.

“What a brute Iam!” he earnestly exclaimed—thick-
headed, too, to trouble you like this! I certainly am
the stupidest fellow in the world! Any other man
would have seen that he was paining you by his cackle,
Will you forgive me ?” he pleaded, leaning toward her
eagerly. “I will never do so again; indeed, I did not
know, or I would rather have knocked my stupid head
against the wall.”

She smiled and wiped away a tear that rolled like a
pearl down her round cheek.

“Tt is I who am stupid,” she said, ‘‘and I who ought to
ask your forgiveness for—for—being so sensitive. But 1
don’t think we had ever met before the other day, and
it must be that I am like some one you have seen;
though,” she added, with a smile, ‘I do not think it can
be Miss Hartleigh, because they say she is so beautiful.”

“No more—’ began Guy, hastily, and with some
vehemence, and then colored and went on, blunder-
ingly, ‘‘Hers is a different style of beauty from yours.”

She stopped him with a merry laugh and a brilliant
blush; but he went on again, manfully: a

“Well, why shouldn’t I speak the truth? You are
beautiful, as any but a blind man can see. Why
shouldn’t I speak of what is as certain a fact as that the
world is round ?”

With her face all aflame, she shook her head.

“lam unused to such compliments,” she said; ‘to
any; indeed, so! do not know what to say. Ofcourse I
am very much obliged, Mr. Hartleigh,” and she laughed
again in amanner whichindicated that she did not set
much store by what he had said.

’ «That's right,” he said, cheerfully. ‘I wanted to hear
you laugh. It was worth being rude to getit. And if
you are so much obliged you can show it by singing
something for me, will you?”

+ “TJ don’t think you deserve it,” she sald, still smiling.

She rose, nevertheless, and went to the piano.

Guy leaned his head against the door-post and
watched her, as her white, slender fingers glided over
the keys, and the exquisite voice rose softly into song.

“She is not only beautiful,” he thought; “she is
lovely—tovably beautiful! Whata hard world it is!—
that she, whom the winds should not have visited too
angrily, should have suffered! She has keenly suffered,
too. Nota friend in the world! All alone, she said.
Poor girl! But she is not friendless now!” he thought,
with sudden energy; ‘she has one true friend, if heis
onty a fool! I'll be her friend if she’lllet me. But what
can 1 do for her? Nothing. Sheis happy and content,
she says. Ah!” and he sighed, “if she were only suffer-
ing from some wrong, and wanted some one to right
her—to defend and protect her, there would be some
comfort in that—for me. I could do something then.
But to be her friend only till some one with a better
title comes to take her away—she’s very beautiful, and
some one is sure to come sooner or later. Some one will
come! Some curate, or—or—confound him! whoever
he may be!”

He broke off, and, too disturbed by the idea of a pos-
sible lover for Miss Mildred Thorpe, he rose and went to
the piano. She was playing softly, a sort of running ac-
eompaniment to her thoughts it seemed to him, and did
not hear him approach.

Guy stood looking at her, his hand so near her that it
almost touched her arm, a strange, wistful, troubled feel-
ing possessing him. He was to marry—if he kept his prom-
ise—to marry Constance. If he did not he would prob-
ably lose Sir Richard’s wealth—though he did not care
for that—and would certainly cause Sir Richard a-severe
disappointment. And he had been willing to marry
Constance, had given her his love; but she had coldly
thrust it aside. Another man would have been piqued
into a still more obstinate Passion, as Caryl Wilton had
been ; but not so Guy—frank-hearted, candid Guy. Her
coldness had made him miserable, the air of mystery
and reserve had chilled him and saddened him; and
now, at the critical moment, he meets this beautiful
creature, a faint shadow of Constance, with all the ten-
derness and meek maidenliness which to him Constance
lacked.

Was he fickle ? He could scarcely accuse himself of
that, For one thing, he was not in love with this sweet
young creature yet. He liked her, in a friendly way,
and she exerted a soothing, quieting influence over him,
but he was quite sure that he did not love her. He
thought of Constance as he looked at her, and he
sighed.

She had not known he was so near, and, looking
around with a little start, was in time to see the
troubled, perplexed look in his handsome face. Her
voice faltered, and her fingers strayed on the keys.

“Tam tiring you,” she said, and her hands dropped in-
to her lap.

“No, no,” heeagerly said. ‘I—it was very rude—but
I was thinking of something while you were singing.
Not that I was not listening, for | was, and earnestly.
How beautifully you play and sing! But, there! Ive
said that so many times. What a delight it must be to
you to be able to give so much pleasure to others by
your music !”

“it never struck me in that light before,” she an-
swered with a light laugh. ‘I regard myself as one of
the most useless of creatures.”

“You!” said Guy. “Then what must you congjder me ?
A mere cumberer of the ground.”

“Oh, no,” she earnestly answered. ‘‘You have your
duties—the duties of your position. [am not so stupid
as to think that these in high places have nothing to do,
The dame has told me how much you have to see to.”

“Tm afraid she sometimes sadly bores you,” he said.

‘No. Like most humble people, I like to hear of the
life and doings of those above me.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he said, with a pained expres-
sion. “Above you! Jf you mean me, I feel so infinitely
your inferior that Iam humbled when I come near you.
As for anybody else.” he went on, with unnecessary
warmth, “I know of no one who can compare with

ou——’
He stopped in confusion, and she looked up at him

 

’ with a frightened flush. Then she bent her head timidly

and looked down. As She did so, her brooch—a little
silver bird—fell from her throat to the floor. She bent,
and put out her hand to recoverit, and in doing so
touched his face, as he stooped also. The blood flew to
both their faces as she drew her hand back; but when
he looked up her face was pale.

He looked at the brooch fora moment, and then held
it out to her in his open palm; and as she touched it
with the tips of the soft white hand, his fingers closed
on hers.

With asudden quiver she raised her eyes to his, a
half-frightened questioning in them.

Some word trembled on Guy’s lips, a world of passion-
ate longing shone in his eyes; then he remembered Con-

. stance and his promise to Sir Richard, and, asif with a

sudden effort, he let her draw her hand away, and with
tightly compressed lips he turned aside. x

With a long breath, either of relief or regret, she let
her fingers touch the keys, to gain time and composure.

When she looked around afterward, Guy was gone,
and a minute later she heard the sound of his horse
tearing up. the lane. Then the music suddenly ceased,
and her face went down and was hidden in her hands.

Guy rode like a man fleeing from some terrible temp-
tation, but the look in those soft, melting brown eyes
went with him and haunted him. That touch of her
warm hand on his cheek—why had it sent the blood
surging through him and made his heart beat so wildly ?
Could it be possible that he loved her? He had only
seen her twice or thrice—knew nothing of her except
that she was loth to mention the past. And Constance!
—what was to be done about her? It was true that she
showed no signs of accepting him if he proposed to
her; but still, he had promised,and the promise was
sacred to Guy.

And that thought took him to the one of love. Did he
love Constance, or had the sweet-faced girl at the cot-
tage won his heart? Why, else, had he been on the
nent of telling her so at that moment when he held

er hand prisoned in his? Well, then, he did love her.
What did the past matter? She could be only pure and

ood, and so what did it matter to him who she was or

ad been. Yes, he loved her, and it seemed to him that
he had some right to hope that she was not indifferent
to him. But what right had he to even think of her if
he was pledged to another? And he was, and he could
not in honor withdraw from his promise. He groaned
and dug the spurs into Hotspur’s sides till that noble
beast reared and plunged forward in a mad gallop.

AS for Mildred, she could not leap into the saddle and
ride away her perplexity and embarrassment; but’ she
sat with her face hidden until the dame came in, and
then had to meet the storm of questions and reproaches
which the good old lady poured out, when she found
that Guy had fled.

Mildred evaded the good soul as well as she could,
and then caught up a white shawl and said she would
go out fora walk, It mattered little to her which way
She took, and it was not until she had gone some dis-
tance that she realized that she had turned toward
Hartleigh village.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
~. “You! Is Ir you, THEN!”

* Hartleigh Hall was filled with guests, and although
Guy was not there to sit down with them that night,
Sir Richard did not wait for him, for he knew that he
had much todo now that he had undertaken the care
of the estate.

Dinner was over, and there had been music, and many
of the guests had seated themselves at the card tables.
ad wandered out on the veranda, where she
thought to bealone, but she had not been there many
seconds when she heard a step behind her, and, looking
around, saw Caryl Wilton.

“Pardon me for disturbing you,” he said, “but I had
a word to say to you which [ hoped you would forgive.
It is about a dear friend of mine who is near to trouble
without knowing it, and I want your advice on the
matter. Will you give it?”

She turned a trifle pale and drew a sharp breath."

“At least I will hear the case,” she answered, in a
scarcely audible voice.

“To make it more clear to you, let me suppose a case.
Let us take the case of a woman who isin danger. She
has an acquaintance—say Lady Gladys, for example—
who is jealous of her and wishes her harm. Then there
comes a man from America, who tries to appear very

simple, but who has a secret understanding with Lady
Gladys. I don't know what harm the man can do, but I
am convinced he seeks todo harm. What I would like
to say to my dear friend is, that if she has any papers or
other valuables which could possibly betray her, she had
better destroy them, that is all.”

He had not looked directly at Maida as he said this,
or he would have seen that she was growing ashy pale.
Perhaps he knew the probable effect of his words, and
preferred not to look at her until he had finished.

“How can I help you in the matter?” she asked in a
low tone.

Then he turned, and looked her full in the face.

“Tf nothing suggests itself to you, then there is noth-
ing you can say to help me,” he gently said.

“No,” she answered, almost coldly, ‘‘nothing suggests
itself to me. I do not understand you. 1 hope you
will excuse me if I leave you. I wish to walk.”

“Not alone?”

“Why not ?”

“Oh, you must not. Those jewels!
some evilly disposed person, or—or——

«You are fanciful, Mr. Wilton. Please, excuse me,”
and she drew her light shawl about her, and glided
away from him.

He stood looking after her with lowering‘brows, and
had just made up his mind to follow her and insist upon
accompanying her, when he heard Sir Richard calling
him, and stood still.

“Is that you, Mr. Wilton ?”

«¥es, Sir Richard.”

“TI am like a shepherd who is always losing his sheep.
Have you seen my daughter ?” :

“Miss Hartleigh has gone to her room, perhaps,” said
Caryl, knowing how alarmed the old man would be if
he knew that his daughter had_ gone out into the
grounds alone to walk. And the two walked back into
the house together.

Maida stepped swiftly across the terrace, holding
her shawl closely to her, the moonlight falling on her
face, which showed no trace of nervousness or fear—
nothing but a sort of vexation at having been Spoken
to about a matter, which she had been trying to forget.
She no longer feared. Save for passing moments of
sudden, fierce mental struggles, like those of a chained
and imprisoned wild animal, no presentiment chilled
her soul, or tempted her to swerve fromthe dangerous
path on which she had set out,

Sometimes she almost believed that her past life was
a dream, and that she was Constance Hartleigh. To-
night, save for a few moments of terror, ag Caryl Wilton
revived memories of the past, she was at peace with
herself and with the past. He was. fanciful. What
-could there be in any secret between Lady Gladys and
the American—any secret which could hurt her. Even
Caryl Wilton could.not be sure that she was not the
rightful daughter of Sir Richard, for, after all, she was
the only daughter he had living, and she would not let
him think he could move her at will.

With a look of defiance, she half paused and looked
around. As if to strengthen her assurance, the night
lay silent as a tomb.

‘How exquisite!” she murmured, looking up at the
sky. ‘I shall surely have time to take a look at the
church. How can they find any pleasure in sitting in
those warm-rooms, while all this calls to them in vain ?”

Communing thus, she opened the wicket. gate, and
stood among the tombs, gleaming white in the moon-
light. And, as she looked around, a smile played about
her lips.

“Certainly I am not nervous,” she said. ‘Are there
many women with a taste like mine who would stand
here without a shudder? How quietit allis! I wonder
how the church looks inside!”

She was passing the porch to look in at one of the
windows, when she saw, to her astonishment, that the
door was half open. With a smile at the thought of the
extent to which Sir Richard’s anger and amazement
would have gone had he but known it, she pushed the
door open, and entered.

She s'ood in the nave, admiring the weird beauty of
the moonlit pillars and carving, and then walked slowly
around the aisles. A vivid ray of moonlight fell upona
large white marble tablet, and attracted her attention
to it. The tablet was no curiosity to her, but she always
looked at it whenever she entered the church. She
knew the lines by heart, but she read them again:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
AGATHA,
WIFE OF SIR RICHARD HARTLEIGH, BART.,
Born June 6, 18—,
Died December 11, 18—.

“To Lady Hartleigh!” she murmured. ‘Yes, that is
the world’s way. A huge, glaring tablet of stone is
offered as an atonement tor a life of wrong-doing, asa
compensation for years of suffering. Such atonementand
compensation as it is, she has had paid to her; but what
atonement has been made to that other suffering
woman, betrayed and deserted? And yet, do I
ask what atonement? I forget. An atonement has
been made, and it is I who have snatched it—I, the
daughter of the betrayed, wronged, deserted woman!
Atonement, do lsay? What atonement could be more
complete? [, the child of the deserted woman, and in
the place of the rightful heiress, am the acknowledged
daughter and heiress, bear the proud Hartleigh name,
wear the family diamonds, can marry, if I choose, the heir
to the title. Mother!” and she stretched out her arms,
with a passionate sod; “have I not already kept my
oath ?. What more can you demand? What more? Is
it not enough? Mother, be satisfied !”

With a gesture almost of appeal, she let her arms fall
ee and with bect head moved from before the
tablet.

rou might meet

 

 

:

As she passed into the deep shadow cast by one of the
pillars, a sudden thrill ran through her—one of those
strange sensations by which we are convinced that,
hitherte unsuspected by us, we feel that some other
human Weing Is near’ us.

She heard nothing, saw nothing, yet she felt that
something strange and mysterious was near her, For
the first moment since leaving the terrace, fear seized
her. An intangible horror reached out a hand from the
unknown and touched her.

White as death, not trembling, but with every limb as
rigid as the stone figures on .the tombs, she leaned
against the pillar and stared before her.

A minute—it might have been an age—passed, and
she was about to make a great effort to recover her
presence of mind, when, with a horror no tongue can
describe, She saw a white substance gliding from the
chancel.

With noiseless, regular movements it seemed to float
down the aisle, now lost in the shadows, now white and
distinct in the moonlight.

Cold beads of sweat stood on Maida’s face. With start-

ing eyes she watched, powerless to move a limb or utter
acry ; one thought alone possessing her, in the shape of
a vague prayer that the Something might not approach
her or turn its face.
_ Slowly the white figure reached the nave and was
gliding toward the door, when all at once,,as it came
opposite the tablet to the memory of Lady Hartleigh, it
threw up its arms, and turning full toward Maida,
wailed mournfully :

«Mother! mother!”

With an awful horror, Maida saw that the face was
that which she had last seen lying cold and rigid in a
far-away land!

For one moment she stared in speechless horror, and
then started forward, with a wild cry.

The face turned from the tablet, with an expression of
horror not less than Maida’s own, stared an instant, and
then, with a wail, cried:

“You? Is it you, then?”

The cry rang in Maida’s ears like a call from the dead,
and, with a piercing scream, she sank senseless on the
cold stones,

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

rt 0 te

You should not fail to read ‘‘ROSAMOND; or, SUN-
DERED HEARTS.” by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, com-
plete in No. 18 of THE SELECT SERIES. Price 25 cents.

————_—____— ee
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

A FAMILY SECRET

By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton.

 

 

(“A FAMILY SECRET,” was commenced in No. 20.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XIV.—(CONTINUED.)

Syria ran lightly down the steps.and crossed the
lawn in the direction of the terrace,

A still form rose from a rustic chair there as she
approached; she was standing face to face with
Austin Hurlbert before she was even aware of his
proximity.

“Forgive me,” hesaid, in an humbled, pleading way,
which would have gone straight to her heart a few
months before.

‘Have you come back for the simple. purpose of
waylaying me and saying that again?” she ques-
tioned, drawing back and repelling his advance with
a gesture.

“And if Ihave?’ he demanded. “Is your lot so
pleasantly ordered that you can deny me the one
,00r grain ef comfort I have sought from yout

ave not asked much, Mrs. Rathford. If you would
shake hands and say godspeed to me before I turn
my back on these old familiar scenes forever, I think
I could face the world a stronger and better man for
the remembrance.”

“You are going away?” she asked, in a husky
voice.

“Tam going away. I cannot stay and be forever
reminded of all that I have lost; I will not give up to
the doom which would perpetually overhang me
here. Men have gone mad from retrospection such
as mine without the inherited taint which I possess.”

The utter dreariness, and the great pathos of his
.tone, words cannot describe. It was very excellent
acting, and even Syria might have been in a measure
deceived by it, but for the evidence of that con-

~~

 

 

 

 

 

demnatory note which lay crumpled in her pocket as
she stood there.

“Where wilt you go?”

“TI do not know; [ searcely care. I shall put the
ocean between me and these scenes; beyond that I-
have scarcely thought.”

“You came to tell me that?’ she asked, in the same
still way.

“T thought I came to seek an interview with my
uncle. [ thought when I saw the company in there!
was waiting to effect it. I know now I was only
awaiting one look into yourdear eyes, one kind word
from your lips, to—. Shall I say therest, Syria?’

His breath was coming and going in quick pants.
His lips were fever-hot and dry; he felt like suffoca-
ting. while the air blew in fresh and chill from the
river. What-fatality was it that decreed he could
never now face the girl he had once voluntarily given
up without all the blood in his veins leaping atfire,
and his usual cool, selfish caution utterly deserting
him? There was no acting in this; nothing but the
wild prompting of a passion which would dare all
things from heaven above to hades below.

“Say it!’

a very stillness might have warned him, but did
not.

“To ask you to share the sweet bewildering mad-
ness With me, my love, my love!” He stretched out
his hands toward her imploringly. ‘To ask you to
fly from the misery you must know in your unloving
marriage, to enjoy bliss with me.”

She eluded his outstretched hands, and glided back.

“Oh, you wretch!” she exclaimed. in a low, con-
centrated voice, vibrating with scornful passion.
“You cowardly wretch! You dare—you dare say that
to me! Tt was not enough that you should jilt me in
cold blood. It was not enough that you should
double that wrong by deserting Trene. It was left
you to utter this last insult, to make the measure full
of what Ihave to repay. That gipsy ancestress of
mine would have repaid such with the poison-cup or
the dagger, and I warn you, Austin Hurlbert, I shall
send you as deadly a return for the indignities you
have heaped upon me.”

The low, thrilling voice died out; she turned and
flitted away in the gloom, while he stood there still
like a man dazed.

As Mr. Rathford once before had come upon a part-
ing scene between those tvo, so he came upon this
onenow. As before, he did not hear one word of
what passed. He had come out in search of his wife,
and he met her at the verge of the lawn. He had
simply heard voices and seen at indistinct shape
away from whom she flitted in thesdusk.

“Who was that?’ he asked, as he drew her hand
within his arm, and turned toward the house.

Some of that angry scorn lingered in her tones
still as she answered him.

“T think you knew before asking, Mr. Rathford. I
think you must know it was Mr. Hurlbert. Who but
your nephew would I be likely to meet in that way ?’

Not having heard one word, he misunderstood her,
of course. And she knew nothing of the pang
which pierced him, knew nothing of the keen agony
hid beneath his quiet manner.

“T must askthat you will notsee him again, Syria,”
he said; and thought, ‘Great heaveris! if those
people in yonder suspected it! My wife must not be
allowed to compromise herself. I will see Austin;
I will give him anything he asks, so he will only leave
this place and us forever.”

“Gad! she’s a trump,” mentally ejaculated Mr.
Walter Fordyce, in the thick shadow whence he had
seen and heard all which had passed, a little thrill of
admiration coursing through his phlegmatic system.
“T wonder, if the boss was up toitall, if he wouldn’t
set a watcher on that trail, too? It’s none of my
business, but I should say the danger was on that
side more than this.”

 

CHAPTER XY.
THE TRUTH, BUT NOT ALL THE TRUTH.

Despite his broken arm, despite the nervous pros-
tration consequent upon that mishap, all the world
had suddenly turned rowe-tinged to Earle. He was
temporarily installed at Rock Range, the best phys-
ician of the county was sent for, and under him the
patient was consigned to the teider ministrations of
Mrs. Rainstellar and Miss Ray. Neva never at-
tempted to rival the latter in her office as nurse, but
she came once or twice daily tothe little south par-
lor where Mr. Cecil passed his time reclining on a
broad divan, or sitting ina purple-cushioned chair,
against which his bright head and pale face made a
very striking and effective picture.

With avery good grace he submitted to the gentle
tyranny exercised over him, and quite won Mrs.
Rainstellar’s heart by the patience he exhibited as
the days wore on.

“It’s all nonsense to coop upa hearty fellow like
me for the trifling matter of a broken bone or so,” he
lazily protested. “‘If it were my leg, now, I could un-
derstand the necessity of keeping uuiet, and taxing
your goodness with all the vagaries in which invalids
are indulged in; bug why I should be denied locomo-
tion under the circumstances is, as Dundreary says,
‘something no fellow can understand.’ Oh, yes, Mrs.
Rainstellar, I’ve heard all about avoiding irritation
and permitting the cartilage to knit, and all the rest;
but you see never did take kindly to molly-cod-
dling, from the time I was in the cradle. SinceI was
stupid enough to pitch over the precipice I must be
brave enough to take the cansequence I suppose;
but please don’t add to the penalty by tying me up
both hand and foot.” :

“You shall walk about as soon as you are able,” his
elder nurse assured him. “igshouldn’t think you
would feel much like ifyvet:: then, sick men are
always So restless. - YotCwor Fn t belong to the tribe
if you weren’t sometimes unreasonable.”

Again Mr. Cecil protested. He was not sick, and
had not been at any time, to a degree worth speaking
of; and still there was enough of the languid conval-
escent about him to make the dreamy hours slip im-
perceptibly by, marked by a golden glory whenever
the fair being of his adoration crossed his sight and
let fall some-word or look, upon which his fancy
might feed until she came again.

She had entered unperceived as he urged his plea;
she moved forward and leaned against the long case-
ment near which he sat.

“How did you come to fall that day ?” she abruptly
asked.

“IT thought I had explained. In getting out of the
way of the bowlder I very carelessly jumped into
Spaces or stumbled over, which amounts to the same
thing.”

“T don't mean that. What started the bowlder?’

“Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and
constant pressure, I suppose, told on the support of
that one. I only know that I don’t regret the happy
accident.”

His blue eyes were two very effective admiration
points as he said this. What wasa broken arm in com-
parison to the bliss of knowing himself under the
same roof with her? What were the paltry twinges
he had endured from it compared with the terrible
fear of losing her, which had borne on him oppres-
sively until that red-letter day in his existence when
he staked all his hopes with fullest trust upon a
single smiling glance from her.

She stood looking at him now with very different,
very thoughtful eyes. * . :

“Do you know that Mr. Athol was directly above
you? Whois to say he did not wish you what—what
would have been had you fallen to the rocks ?”’

“That would have been death outright, or worse
than death—the fate of ahopeless cripple. Above,
was he? Lucky he was there rather than below.
Not to boast unduly, Miss Lelewel, I don’t believe
Athol’s muscle would haye carried him through as
safely as mine did me. Whether he wished me harm
or not (and he might if he knew what good cause he
had, Neva),” this last in Swift parenthesis as Mrs,
Rainstellar’s back was turned, “he neyer did me any,
rest assured,”

It was the only time Neva put the suspicion which
had grown upon her into words, and she honored
Earle the more that it found no resting-place in his
open mind, _

Everything has an end, and so had Earle Cecil’s
lingering in the Arcadia her presence made for him,
when, within a fortnight, Talbot Cecil drove over for
the purpose, and took his brother home. Some men
in his place, remembering Miss Lelewel’s reputation
as a flirt, might have seriously retarded their re-
covery with vain imaginings of what was going on
beyond their ken while the same roof covered them
both; some might have left her reluctantly while the
suitor of her father’s choice remained, but not Earle
Cecil. Had he trusted her less, he would have loved
her less, and his was the grande passion of @ life.
The day would come when she would send away the
other, he never doubted, but he would receive his
erown of happiness at her hands then.

The day came. Mr. Roland Athol received his
congé, and departed. A sudden cessation of all the
gayeties left the big house seeming insufferably dull.
A little coldness ha i crept into Mr. Lelewel’s manner
toward his daughter, but beyond this his always
courteous demeanor had not changed. There had
been no scene between them; he had not charged
her with blighting his hopes and disappointing his
expectations. The subject uppermost in the thoughts
of each had not been alluded. to in words by either;
but Mignon, studying stealthily her uncile’s almost
inscrutable countenanee, felt that her confidence in
him had not been misplaced.

“He has not given up his plan,” she exultingly
thought. “She thinks her troublesome lover is gone,
and she is safe, ne doubt; but [ know she has never
been in greater danger from those two men than
now.”

But it was far from Mignon’s wish to give @ warn-
ing.

It was the day following Athol’s departure, and the
stagnation which had fallen upon the household
seemed complete. No one was stirring in the wide
halls or upon the stairs as Neva came out of her
room, a light shawl wrapped about ler, a little round
hat with adrooping spray of white roses set upon
her bronze hair. She descended to the lawn, walked
across the close-shaven turf, and followedidly a path
which wound among the trees. It brought her pres-
ently through the open space, with its low-growing
evergreens, te that iron side gate which opened upon
a lane leading tothe highway. She stood with her
arms resting on the low, light railing, looking away

   
  

 

 

 

| Spirit honestly if you come honestly by anything,
| but ’veseen as proudaoneas you brought down.

 

across the lights and shades of the near landscape
inte purple distance.

Minutes passed. She did not heara stealthy step
coming over the grass, she had no sense of another’s
presence until a shadow fell between her and the |
sun, and she glanced up to see a man standing So near
thatshe might have touched him. The face before
her had lost the half-famished look she remembered,
and he was respectably dressed, but she knew him
Tateutly as the man who had tried to rob her in the
wood.

“How did you come here? What do you want?”

She drew back a step or two as she asked the ques-
tions. The man’s look had repelled her that other
time, it repelled her no less now.

“T’ve been waiting about all day for a chance to
speak to you, Miss Lelewel. There is something I
know which it might be worth your while tu hear.”

“Regarding my mother!”

She did not say it, but her heart bounded painfully
as she reflected that the secret which had been hid-
den from her all her life was offered here. It gave her
a start_as he repeated the very words of the thought
he read in her face.

“Regarding your mother, miss. You’ve remom-
bered what I said to you once before, I see. I can tell
you that and something besides, something regarding
yourself. It’s for you to say if T shall.”

She did not move, did not speak. An innate sense
of honor as well as of shrinking had prevented her
ever asking information concerning the shadow on
her life from any except her father, who had refused
it. She felt all the humiliaticn of having it offered |
her now through such a medium, but still she did
not speak.

“If it’s worth knowing it’s worth paying for,” said
he, roughly. “What will you give me to tell?”

A covetous expectancy lighted up his face, and as
she saw it her momentary indecision vanished. She
drew her shaw] closer about her and turned away.

“T will give you nothing. I have no desire to hear

anything you may have to tell. Stand back! I have
not forgotten that you tried to rob me once. It will

not be wise to attempt it here.”

He had sprung forward and placed himself directly
in her way, a blaze of evil passion in his eyes.

“Oh, you can afford to be haughty and scornful, |
young lady. You come by that high-and-mighty

You'd better hear what I have to say; it’ll be to your
advantage as well as mine. Come, now; if you
haven’t the cash handy, I’ll take your promise to |
send a couple of hundred to my address.”
“Tt is evident that you do not understand me,” she |
replied, coldly. ‘I decline to receive any informa-
tion from you, on any condition. If you offered it
freely, without hope of reward, I should decline it all
the same. Stand aside, or I shall call the servants

sensitive nature, [ think it-will win.

| hurried away with the blind instinet of a dumb hurt
creature to bear her suffering alone.

“It’s a hard alternative,” thought Mr. Lelewel, as
he watched her disappear; ‘‘and with her morbidly
Tt is the truth,
if not all the truth; but that, if I can prevent it, she
shall never know.”

CHAPTER XVI.
WHAT EARLE SAW.’

“Surely I can wait with theassurance she has given
me,” thought Earle, standing still in the spot where
Neva had left him. But it was with no prescience of
the duration of his waiting that he turned his back
upon Rock Range and retraced his homeward way.

He found his brother in the stable-yard inspecting
anew piece of horseflesh, and accosted him as he re-
signed his own glossy bay to one of the boys,

: ane’ is your new hand? Garnett, I mean. Is he
ack ?

“Not likely to be back, I’m thankfultosay. TI have
been bothered with some miserable shirks in my life
before, but neverone to compare with him. Next
time you feel charitably disposed toward a beggar
give him any mite you choose, but don’t, my dear
boy, dowt drag me bodily into your benevolent
schemes. Those people may be willing to work, but
they’re never qualified; I’ve had my own experience
until I know them root and branch. One who might

| possibly rake hay in the fields passes himself off as a

trained gardener, and destroys a hundred dollars
worth of plants before I discover his deficiency, and
the one that rakes never smelt new hay before,
and turns up his nose and bemoans the better days
and ranker odors he’s known in a corner grocery
store. I tookit as a good riddance of bad rubbish
when your prolege gave me notice of quitting and
took off this morning. I never would haye taken him
but at your instigation.”

“Gone, is he? Then he has spared himself a dis-
missal at my instigation, also, Talbot. I hope you
haven’t bought that fellow... He has a wicked eye in
his head.”

It was the horse to which he was referring,
though the same might have been said of the
quondam field-hand.

“T have, though, and for Nellie’s driving. Fane
assured me he was as quiet as——”

“As a sleeping volcano, I suppose. I think too
much of my pretty little sister-in-law to recklessly
risk her neck. Oh, I don’t want to argue with you,

| Tal, old fellow; but suppose yon have him put into

the buggy and we take a drive to try his mettle.”

No sooner said than done. They drove out of the
stable-yard five minutes later, and Nellie Cecil, lean-
ing Over an upper balcony, waved her handkerchief
as they passed. A puff of wind caught the snowy

 

and have you put out of the grounds.”

“You will? You've all the rare mettle that be
longed to your mother, Miss Lelewel, and it took her |
no good road. You'll not call the servants, miss, and |
yowll hear what I choose to tell you. I think I will |
tell you what your mother was, for my own satisfac-
tion, whether you will or won’t. She was a married
woman when she ran away with your father, and
her first husband gota divorce granted six months
afterward. I don’t say but there was a legal mar-
riage after that; of course there could be none}
before.”

He added the last hastily; the effect of his words
frightened him. Neva stood as still and rigid as if
suddenly turned to stone; she was pale as death
itself, her great dark eyes dilating with a horror un-
speakable.

“You’d better come to my terms and hear the rest,
Miss Lelewel,’ said the man beside her, grimly.
‘You'll find it worth your money to you. Is it ‘yes’
or ‘no’ ?”

“No!”’ The syllable dropped from her lips stonily,
unconsciously as it seemed, but it roused the man’s |
ire anew.

“Very well,” he said, menacingly ; ‘only mind this: |
I’ve set myself tomake some money out of what I
know, and Pli do it yet. If you won’t pay either for
speaking or silence, I'll find somebody else who will.
Do you hear?’

“J hear, sir, and I strongly advise you to use a dif-
ferent tone when addressing a lady. What are you
doing here, sir?’

The man wheeled, an ugly scowl upon his face, to
see Earle Cecil regarding him sternly across the low
iron gate. He gave no answer, but making for the
fence vaulted over, and took his way with long
strides through the quiet lane.

“Was that fellow annoying you, Neva? Ill see that
he has his deserts if he was. I know him. He has
been working as a field hand in my brother’s employ;
and now that I think of it, it was right here I picked
him up and sent him there. Neva! Great Heaven!
whatis it?” he exclaimed, sharply, as he caught a
view of her ghastly face. “What is the matter,
Neva?”

She moved her white lips mechanically.

“Why do you ask ?”

“You look like a ghost, like death.
Lean on me and let me take you in.”

“Tam quite well. There is nothing the matter.”

She said it, looking at him with eyes full of dull,
hopeless anguish, and intuitively it came to him that
only some terrible mental shock could make her look
like that.

“My love, my love!’ he cried, taking her cold
hands in his clasp, “what have they been doing to
you. Was it all that fellow said? What can I
do for you, Neva? My darling! I would serve you
with my life if it would avail to spare you pain. Give
me the right to share whatever befalls you, for good
or for evil, for all time to come.”

A shiver went over her. She broke away from him,
and clasped her hands over ler: pallid faeepjacon-
vulsed by a sudden spasm. 5

“Oh, no, po!” she cried out, brokenly.
alone, Earle Cecil, let me alone!”

She turned and fled from him then, while Earle re-
treated to lean against the railing, a victim of bitter
self-reproach.

“T was too abrupt,” he thought.
trouble, and I touched upon it too roughly.
eould but ward all trouble from her! I had no right |
to intrude myself upon her at such a time. I will not
do so again; surely I can wait with the assurance |
she has given me.”

He never thought of accepting that passionate,
despairing ery as her answer. There was something
very chivalrous in this young man. There was not
one grain of selfishness in his entire composition, not
one particle of self-love to alloy the pure adoration
he gave to her.

No one appeared to be stirring in the house as Neva
returned to it. She passed the open parlors, went
straight on to the study, where she was sure of find-
ing her father at that hour. He was there. but was
not writing—not busy inany way. He was standing,
erect, and thin, and tall, before his desk, one slender
hand thrust into his coat-front, a reflective shade
gathered upon his brow.

The door opened and shut, and he looked up, to
see Neva standing before him, blanched and gasping.
He uttered her name in quick, alarmed surprise.

“Papa! T have seen that man again—the same who
was at the ruined chapel, and he told me the—the
secret you would not. Is it true?”

“Ts what true ?”’

“That my mother was another man’s wife /—that |
she fled from him with you!”

“Be quiet, Neva! Come here and sit down.”

He put his arm about her and drew her forward, |
placed her gently in a chair, and stood looking down
upon her with mournful gaze.

“Was that truth, papa?”

“T must admit it so, Neva—that much. What else
has been told you ?”

“Nothing else.”

Mr. Lelewel breathed a soft sigh, which almost
seemed one of relief, and the rigid lines about his
mouth slightly relaxed.

“Thad hoped to keep that knowledge from youalways,
Neva; but it appears the dead past cannot be left to
bury its dead. I have no justification to make to my
own Child; but since you have heard that, you had
better hear how it happened. Your mother was my
betrothed wife before she ever saw the man who was
her husband. He never would have been that, but
some cursed chicanery was brought to bear, some
misrepresentation of me to her, and she married him
in-a fit of pique. What she suffered afterward,
Heaven only knows. He got an inkling of the truth
some way; he was furiously jealous, insanely so, and
made her life a burden. I heard of it; I went to their
home with the purpose of rescuing her from him, and
I did it. I have no word of excuse to offer; I believed
I was right then, and now it does not matter. It was
the. Athols who received her, protected her until the
worst of the storm was over, and when the decree of
divorce was granted, we were married from their
house.”

Her hands, which had covered her face, dropped ;
she looked up at him, an unspoken question in her
eyes, Which his next words answered.

“Afterward, when you and young Roland were chil-
dren togeter, and that story was scarcely remem-
bered except as a family history, we made the com-
pact which was to unite you two, to consign to
oblivion the chance of its unpleasant revival some
day. It was to protect you, more than all else; for
the publication of that old story to the world now
would reflect most heavily upon you, unjust as such
penalty should be. You understand now why I insist
upon that compact being fulfilled.”

“You insist!” she repeated. ‘Surely Mr. Athol
told you that is all over and done with ?”’

“Fo told me of the answer you had given him, and
of his hope that he would ultimately win you to re-
voke it. My favor was pledged to him at the outset,

 

 

Are you ill?

“Let me

“She has some
Ah, if [|

 

| Ihave pledged is to him anew. When he asks your
| hand again you must give him another answer.”

“Papa, I cannot.”

“Not to prevent the scandal, with all the exaggera-
tions attending it, being given to the world again?
| You know your own strength best. You know if you
| could endure having your name made a by-word in
connection with it, if you could endure being pointed
out as the daughter of Gleneva Lelewel, of one time
notorious fame. Itis not a charitable world Neva;

 

was all more her misfortune than her fault.”
She put up her hand with a wail.

| of the new purchase.

drift and carried it down obliquely acrossthe vision
Like the arrow from the bow,
like a shot from a gun, like any simile fora swift,
straight course, that gentle animal was off. Five
seconds later there was a crash at the gate-post, the
buggy stopped there completely wrecked, the horse
shot out into the road-way with only a rattling frag-
ment at his heels, which served to increase his
fright, and the brothers Cecil landed a dozen yards
apart upon the turf within.

Talbot was scarcely hurt at all, but Earle lay with
that unlucky arm, tender still, doubled beneath him,
white and insensible amid the dry, rustling leaves.

And that was the way it chanced that October
passed and November came before he turned his
face, where you_may be sure his thoughts were ever
straying, toward Rock Range.

He was looking anything but well even then; but
love is a great vivifier, and a little glow supplanted
his paleness as he stood upon the steps waiting an
answer to his resounding peal. A snowy-polled,
ebony-visaged, politely bowing apparition opened
the door to him, and answered his inquiries.

“Miss Neva isn’t in, Marse Earle; no, sah. Nor
likewise de oder ladies, nor Marse Harlaw; no, sah.
Dey’s all been and gwine back to Washin’ton dese
free days, sah.”

“To Washington!’ echoed Earle, aghast. ‘Was

there no message left for me ?”’
There was none. It was not a sudden move; oh,
no. The family prepared leisurely and made their
fall exodus according to custom. That statement
made in the vernacular recalled him, and he smiled
at his own stupidity. It was their custom, of course.
How swiftly the summer had flown that he should
forget until that moment! It was recorded now
with the summers past and dead.

“And it only remains for me to follow to Washing-
ton as soon as may be,’ decided this impassioned
Romeo, as he rode away. “I'll go to-morrow.”

There was another visitor at Rock Range that day,
a gentleman who had arrived at Point Bluff by the
early train, and made innumerable inquiries regard-
ing Mr. Lelewel, his household, his guests, down to
the minutest details in the personnel of the last. A
tall, thin, sallow gentleman this~-no other than Mr.
Jerome Sterling.

He urged his inquiries over again as pressingly
and minutely of the bewildered servitor at Rock
Range, adding one he had not seen fit to putin the
bar-room of the Red Lion.

Had a certain Mr. Austin Hurlbert been there at
any time since the third of September past ?

No, the servant was positive. No one of that name
had been a guest at the house.

“Perhaps he was only received as a caller,” Mr.
Sterling suggested. ‘Let me describe him. Medium
height, very handsome, regular features, black eyes,
black curly«hair and whiskers. Did any of Mr.
Lelewel’s friends look like that?”

“No, sah,” responded the old darkey, promptly.
“De only dark complected gemman ob dem all wor
Marse Rollin’ Athol, from Floridy, sah. But he
didn’t hab no whiskers, nor curly ha’r nyther, which
isn’t a sayin’ but it might a been ef it eber got de
chance which it wor cut too clus off to hab, sah.
Spect Marse Rollin’ worn’t him nohows, sah.” .

“Ah, no, [suppose not. By the by, when did this
Mr. Roland Athol come—in September ?”’

“Yessah, on de sebenth day ob September, which I
rememberates from de fac’ dat de house wor on de
streeteh ob expectationcy for de hull five days afore
it when de young gemman, Marse Rollin’, met de
party from hyar on deir ruinated ’scursion. De gal,
Jolly (what am Miss Neva’s maid), got all de sarcum-
stances ob dat ar, whichit wor powerful odd. _ It
wor kinder queer that Marse Rollin’ was neber
comin’ anigh, while Marse Harlaw was a scourin’ ob
de country to fin’ him out. It wa’n’t de way Miss
Neva’s used ter, and sarbe him right ef she tuk de
oder, which is a mighty sight fairer and bounti-
fuller. 4

“Exactly !’ Mr. Sterling cut short that voluble tide.
“But you'll excuse me if I don’t quite comprehend
the gist of all your remarks, my friend. Am I to
understand that your master met with Mr. Athol pre-
vious to his coming here ?”’

“Bive days afore,on de ’cashun ob de ruinated
’scursion, as I’se been a tellin’ ob you, sah.”

“Which carries him back to the second, while
Hurlbert’s disappearance dates from the third,”
thought Mr. Sterling, disappointedly. ‘Has he not
been here after all?”

Satisfied that he could elicit no further informa-
tion, he bestowed a trifling gratuity, and turned his
horse’s head toward the village. The way was long
and rough, as I have described before, and the
shades of the early twilight were gathering as he
drew near on his return. The roofs of the Point
Bluff houses were looming dimly in the distance,
still a quarter of a mile away, when a man rode from
the road-side, sprang forward, and caught at the
bridle as he was passing.

He was a dark-visaged person, carrying that in his
face which marked him as a kind of man one does
not care to meet at nightfall on a lonely road.”

“Let go my horse!” said the rider, reversing his
whip in his hand, and lifting it threateningly.
‘What do you mean by stopping me in that way?”

“T don’t mean any harm, sir. I only want to speak
with you for a minute. I was at the Red Lion when
you were asking about the people at Rock Range,”
he went on, abruptly.

“You've been out there, I suppose ?’ :

“T suppose, if it’s any business of yours, you will
let me know it.”’

“It’s no business of mine unless you make it worth
my while.’

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ere es

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller’s beautiful story of
‘ROSAMOND; Or, SUNDERED HEARTS,” is published
complete in No. 180f THm SELECT SERIES. Your
Newsdealer will furnish it for 25 cents.

- e@ 4
CARE OF THE BODY.

Most of those who die between twenty-five and
sixty, unless they die by accident, die by some
indiscretion—such as the overindulgence of appetite,
or the neglect of food when needed, or the overstrain
of business, or exposure to changes of temperature

without corresponding changes of clothing. It is in-
telligent caution that saves sickness; and this cau-
tion ought to be in possession and exercise before
middle-life. Itisso much easier to prevent serious
sickness than it is to secure recovery trom it. Hence
itis that many who are deticientin vigor in early life
outlive the vigorous and careless.

 

 

 

 

Aching Sides and Back, Hip, Kidney and
Uterine Pains, Rheumatic, Sciatic, Sharp and
Weakening Pains, relieved in one minute by
the Cuticura Anti-Pain Plaster. The first and
only instantaneous pain-killing, strengthening

laster. 25 cents; 5 for $1. At druggists, or o

OTTER DRUG AND CHEMICAL CO., Boston.

 

|
.
| it will put it in that way, though Ideclare to you it

“Spare me, papa! spare me if you love me,” and

Pl M Pimples, blackheads, chapped and PLES

oily skin cured by CUTICURA SOAP.

 

 

     

eee LS

 

   

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

<<aesg THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 44—No. 27.

 

 

 

OO mmewenwmm"

 

nner ws

NEW YORK, MAY 4, 1889.

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FRER.)

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for money lost in transit unless sent in one of the above
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RENEW ALS.—The volume and number indicated on your
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f you do not receive the paper promptly, notify us that
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ERRORS.—The irregularities of the postal service fre-
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and desire an early opportunity to rectify any mistake
that may occur.

TO CLUB RAISERS.—We are at all times ready and will-
ing to lend you all possible aid, and will send, free, as
many sample copies as you think you can judiciously use,
together with other advertising matter.

Special inducements made for large clubs.

Subscriptions may begin at any time, and numbers as
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rent numbers. Carefully state what number and volume
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Subscribers will prevent annoying delays by renewing
at least one week. before expiration.

All letters shonld be addressed to

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

 

 

A Romance of Deep Interest.

 

A story of great power, with a fresh and fascinat-
ing plot, will be begun next week, under the express-
ive title of

FORGED APART.

By LIEUTENANT MURRAYF,

Author of “* UNDER A CURSE,” “ THE MASKED
LADY,”’’ etc.

 

The story deals with true lovers and an objecting
and determined father; a proud and self-reliant girl,
who, however, is no match for a worldly man, and is
readily overcome by his duplicity ;

A VAGABOND RELATIVE,

heartless and dissolute, who successfully enacts the
part of
A BLACKMAILER,
and proves a perpetual menace and exasperating
thorn to
HIS OWN DAUGHTER.

A beautiful love episode runs through the entire

story, which is full of affecting scenes, all depicted

with graphic fidelity and intense earnestness.

“FORCED APART,’ LIEUTENANT MURRAY’S new
story, will be commenced next week.

THE BABY’S LETTER.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

“T guess I won’t go out to-night.”

“Why not? Comeon. There’ll be no merchants in
the hotel after this hour. Indeed, it is too rainy. It’s
getting intolerably stupid here.”

But the first young fellow kept to his resolution;
and finally the other, strolling first into the bar-room,
came back and said good-by, as he went out alone for
a Saturday night’s ‘‘fun’’ in New York, as he termed
it.

After he had gone, I still stood by the hotel desk,
leaning carelessly on my elbow, and, almost uncon-
sciously to myself, watching the young gentleman
who had so positively declined to go out. At once
his action interested me. In fact I should not have
regarded nor remembered the above scraps of con-
versation except for what I now saw him do.

When he was alone he pulled out from his pocket a
bundle of letters, shuffied them till he came to a
crumpled sheet folded almost in a wad, and scrawled
over, as I saw, with lead-pencil marks. He spread it
out carefully on the marble of the office counter,
netng Soe hands to effect this, and his right elbow
touched me as he did so, though he paid no attention
tome. Then he leaned over and devoured the mis-
sive with all his eyes.

He was a handsome young fellow, not over thirty,
and I noticed as his head inclined that he wore a
very wide weed on his hat. ‘“‘Widower, no doubt,” I
said to myself. He read the penciled scrawl over
and over again. His face was all siniles, but his eyes
_—~ moist with tears. He read the letter up and

own, then turned it and read it sidewise, right and
left, regarding it askance. His mustaché curled as
his round cheek plaited in a laugh, but his under lip
Was s00n caught and deeply indented by the teeth,
while a tear rolled down clear across his engaging
face. His breath came hard. His hands worked on
the marble where he had planted them, bracing him-
self. Then ina dull stare, of unspeakably eloquent
yet dumb sorrow, he stood transfixed, looking down
on the letter. Almost a groan came from his lips;
almost, not quite a groan, in that public place; but
an outpouring of a great pent breath, next to an
articulate sound of misery. This startled him, and
he looked up hastily, with the shy and quick recovery
of good breeding. He had forgotten where he was.
Ah, yes, in thought he was miles away over land and
sea. He turned away and pensively walked over to
the elevator, no doubt returning to his room, safe
for that night at least from the wolves of the great
town.

It was a child’s letter. It was “printed,” as the
children say. The baby hand of his motherless little
one had done it, I thought; and I pictured to myself
a solicitous gray-haired woman, mother to this
gentleman, bending over the grandchild as the
tentative pink fingers had slowly set down a tale
of love “to papa.” Whatever it said, it was a tale
of love. If it talked of the cat and kittens, of the
snow, of a doll, or what not, it was still a tale of
love to this heart-weary man. It came, too, just in
the nick of time. It was more powerful to restrain
the strong man from evil than ten thousand horses
tugging to pull him back from temptation. It was
like an angel’s singing, this pretty prattle of things
at home, and charmed him, outcharming every
siren! Itreached down, this tiny bunch of fingers,
till it cut anew on the tablets of the grown man’s
heart the pure lessons of his own childhood. It
brought again before him, I doubt not, the pictured
face of the woman he had loved and lost; the child
had her young mother’s hair and eyes, and something
of the sweetness of a voice now hushed forever
sounded in the infant’s tones. Such a letter is a god-
send. Reader, have you not several of this kind? I
have. I carry in my pocket a well worn and now
somewhat faded scrawl, the first missive sent me by
my oldest daughter. She is grown now. I surprised
her, recently, as she came to me for her weekly
allowance, by taking out her infantile communica-
tion. “‘ Why, papa!” she cried, and kissed me. She
saw me replace the paper. She knows I love her
very dearly. And, reader, on a stormy day, or when
business troubles perplex, such a page puts nerve
into a man, especially if he is away from: home. I
have known it to be brighter than a candlein the
lonely room of a strange hotel where I sat, especially
if I was disappointed in my home mail; all business
letters, and no home tidings. Well, then, I'll sit
down here, and read the old child-letter of long ago,
Oh, the child! ¥ ae “ 4

As I sit hers, reading this, I see thee again as thou
wast to me at first. How I loved thee then! Do TI
love thee as well now? Have I been careless of thee
of late, in all the push of the busy years? How I
dreamed of thy future and sought to plan for_it.
Have I been as true as I then resolved to be? My

Eee

 

children, when you were small and in my arms, when

life was fresher with me, and my affections were in
the green, the bud, and young blossom; I contrast
those days with these days, to detect if I have grown
cold, stern, indifferent, and out of sympathy with
you. Does my son’s last letter have in it any of the
affection of his earlier epistles? We are in business
together now. Are we all business and hard facts?
My daughter, wed now and gone from me, do you
feel free to express to me, old and gray, the tender-
ness you cherish? Do you cherish me tenderly, or
are you only anxious to please me about these days
when you think I may be mae my will?

If this page from real life should fall under the eye of
any young mother whose children cluster at her knee,
the companions of a home from which the breadwin-
ner is absent often on long journeys, I beg you teach
the baby hands to write to him every week. You can-
not tell whatastone wall you may soerect between him
and temptation. Men are truer than they are thought
to be. The tender spot is in every heart. A child can
reach it when no one else can. Love is the mightiest
df alllaws. It is possible to suspect, to accuse, to
threaten, or warn, all in vain. Often to be told,
“Thou shalt not,” is to be tempted, and forced to
reply, “I will.” But the gentle law and leash of love
draws ever. Silent, potent, it is the rescript of the
zovernment of heaven’s own beatific estate.

A child's pen is mightier than any sword that was
ever drawn. I believe the Creator meant it should
be so. He made the innocents dependent, yet He
gave them scepters over us of most beneficent sway.

DON’T NAG.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

Whatever else you do, young wife, don’t “nag” the
man you have married. Burn his bread, give him
pies and cake that you learned to make at the cook-
ing-school, allow his heels and his toes the inesti-
mable privilege of free ventilation, spend his money,
if youcan getit to spend; but, for sweet charity’s
sake, don’t ‘‘nag” him.

A husband is a fellow-creature. He has rights
which ought to be respected. And a fault-finding
woman is worse than a smoking chimney in a per-
petual north-east rain-storm.

The nagging woman will meet her husband in the
hall, and open fire on him before he gets off his over-
coat.

“James, did you get that braid I sentfor? No?
Well, I hardly expected you would. Thisis the third
time you have forgotten it. Why didn’t I write it
down? Writeit down! Dearme! if [was a man,
and managed a business like yours; I’d see if I
couldn’t remember such a little thing as ten cents’
i og of braid without having it down in black and
white.

“Now, James, I must speak to you about that sink
pipe before I forget it. It leaks into the cellar. We
shall all die of diphtheria and typhoid fever if that
pipe is not attended to. Ihad the headache all night,
and it must have been the gas from that pipe. No,
James, it was not the cold cabbage I eat just before
going to bed. Indeed, it was not. How absurd you
are!

‘And there is Mary Ann so put out with the coal at
the bottom of the bin that she declares she will give
notice to-morrow. And dear mother just coming to
make her annual visit, too! _

‘And the man that painted the front door was here
yesterday with his bill. Such a bill! Ten dollars for
painting a door! Why, I could have painted it my-
self for half that money.

‘“‘And oh, James, I do wish we could have stained
gisss in our hall, as the Joneses have got in theirs!

’m sure Jones doesn’t make any more money than
you do, and stained glass has such an aristocratic
look. It impresses one, when one goes into a house,
to meetit. Can’t afford it? Well, Iam not at all
disappointed. I expected that was what you would
say. That’s what you always say when I have par-
ticularly set my heart on anything. It does seem,
James, asif you sat up nights to study out how to
vex and thwart me! Oh, dear! how much better off a
woman is not to marry! If I had only known as
much before marriage as I know now—— But there!
it’s no use to wish! James, if we can’t have any-
thing else like other folks, I should like for you to
wipe your boots before you step into the parlor. Of
course, I don’t expect that you will do-so, now that
you know that I want you to; but I thought I would
speak of it. Some men areso careless! But, then,
others are not. Now, there is Mr. Roberts. He never
carries in a grain of dirt, ve heard his wife say,
say's and again, and he puts on his slippers in the

all.

“James, the clothes-wringer handle is broken.
Mary Ann declared yesterday that she’d never try
to wring another rag of clothes with it. AndI de-
clare, Jaines, you must speak to the milkman. The
milk this morning was blue asthe sky. Oh, dear, I
wish you would put down that newspaper long
enough for me to tell you about it. Reading about
Harrison’s new appointments, are you? Well, do let
them wait. There’s been too much fuss about them
already. I hate politics! A man is always reading
politics when his wife wants to talk to him about
household matters.”

And then she goes out of the room in a pet, and
slams the door behind her.

Doid’t be like her.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

I never have seen a bigot yet but what had a small
and apparently braneless hed; buti hain’t seen all
the bigots, yu know.

Silence iz like darkness, a good place tew hide.
Thare iz no revenge so komplete az forgivness.

He that desires tew be ritch only to be charitable,
iz not only a wize man, but a good one.

Grate welth, in our journey thru life, iz only extra
baggage, and wants a heap of watching.

The malice oy the world ain’t haff so dangerous az
its flatters.

Ififeel that i am right, all the kurs in the country
may snap at my heels.

Trieing tew satisfy our desires with wealth iz like
trieing tew stop up a rat hole with sand; the rats
will soon dig out som whare else.

A piece ov satire, tew be beneficial, should be so
rendered that every man who reads, or hears it, shall
say to himself, “That iz just, bekauze it hits every
boddy but me.”

Skandle iz as ketching as the small-pox; and per-
haps thareiz but one real preventive, and that iz—
tew be vacksinated with deaf and dumbness.

Really wize men pay but little attenshun to mis-
tery; but one good mistery will furnish a dozen
phools with vittles and drink for a year, and fat the
whole ov them besides.

We are all ov us too apt tew judge ov asin by its
size. We will pass a lead 10 cent piece, when we
would shudder at a counterfit 10 dollar bill.

OUR PICNIC.

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

 

 

 

One evening I was watching for Mr. Psalter, my
husband, at the parlor window. Psalter and Brother
Jobn were both late that night, just because we had
something for dinner which would be entirely
spoiled by standing on the stove to keep warm, as
gentlemen are invariably late on such occasions.

Well, as I was watching for him, and imagining
that every coat and hat that turned the corner con-
tained my truant instead of some one else’s, a party
of Germans, returning from one of their excursions,
passed by on the opposite side of the way. Among
them were youths and maidens and toddling chil-
dren, young folks only just married, and old couples
who had celebrated both “crystal” and ‘silver’
wedding-days.

I watched the group as it passed up the street,
with the sunset falling aslant upon the yellow heads
of the children and the brown beards of the men,
until a shimmer of the light coats and red ribbons
was all I could discern in the distance.

When even this had disappeared, I drew in my
head with a sigh, and felt as though I had been part-
ing with a friend. I believe it was this—in fact, I

know it was—that first put the notion of a picnic
into my unfortunate, foolish head. It would be so
delightiul and so pleasing to the children, we must
go—Psalter and the children and myself, Tom and
his wife and baby, John, Uncle Bob, and all (it was
before Uncle Bob married that girl Ellen, of course).
Oh, yes! we must make a family party, and a merry
one, too, of it.

Accordingly, the following Monday found me busily
employed making up pies and other edibles of the
like nature for the next day’s cousumption, for I had
determined to have a fegular old-fashioned picnic,
and take our owt provisions.

How anziotisly the children watched the sky that
evening! And when the sun set brightly, and they
felt stire that ‘‘to-morrow” would be clear, there was
such a clapping of hands, and such pleasant antici-
pations of our picnic.

 

Tuesday morning was bright and quiet, and we
were all assembled at an early hour, with our pro-
vision-baskets ready packed. After some delay,
oceasioned by the necessity of sending for catnip
_tea and peppermint wherewith to feed Jane’s baby,
who was taken with a sudden fit of colic, we started.
Tom and Psalter were loaded with the baskets.
John—unlucky John, who is always getting into
some scrape or other—carried Jane’s baby, and Jane
and myself had quite as much as we could do to look
after the other children.

Sister-in-law, myself, and all the girls were dressed
in white. Uncle Bob, who, being very stout, likes to
be cool, was attiredin a suit of snowy linen, so that
we made quite a summer-like appearance, the dark
pas of the other gentlemen only affording a
pleasant variety to the preuy.

Uncle Bob waddled at the head of the party, carry-
ing a huge umbrella as protection against the sun,
and eating sandwiches, apples, biscuits, and I don’t
know what else, which he took from his pockets, all
the way along. Speaking of those pockets, I declare
they were stuffed like peddlers’ packs with all sorts
of eatables. He had brought some from his own
home, had obtained a fresh supply at Tom’s house,
and concluded the operation at mine. A suspicious-
looking flat bottle was buttoned up in the breast of
his coat; and, altogether, he would have been com-
fortably provided for a week’s journey—for, as Uncle
Bob himself said, he might want a bite before we
opened the baskets.

We stopped at the corner of a thoroughfare for a
conveyance. Every driver within sight at once
claimed us as his own particular prize; but, dear me!
not a stage among them all had room enough left for
the whole of us, so it was decided that we should ap-

oint a place of meeting and take different vehicles.
Risteetaeiavr got in first, I followed, Tom and Uncle
Bob came next, and, if you’ll believe me, the door was
banged to, and John and the baby, Psalter and the
two baskets, and every one of the children, remained
on the sidewalk.

‘Here, Psalter, give Fanny to me,’ I called from
one window; while sister-in-law screamed, ‘‘Give
me that poor baby, John, this instant!” from another.
But it was of nouse; away we were rattled by the
obdurate driver,, who, having crammed eighteen
souls into his conveyance, was afraid of letting some
of his visitors escape. Sister-in-law was in great dis-
tress.

“Oh, dear!” she said, ‘what shall Ido? The poor
child will be so hungry and so uncomfortable; what
na I do? I knew John will let her fall, or some-
thing.’ .

“Now, don’t fret, Jane,” said Tom; “we won’t be
half an hour getting to the ferry, and then it will be
all right, you know.”

“All right, indeed!” sneered sister-inlaw; ‘‘as if
anything could be ‘all right,’ with such frantic, heed-
less goings on at the beginning. To think that I
ear, have trusted that heedless John with my
baby!

And, to tell the truth, I never was more vexed and
worried myself than I was at that moment, although
I tried to feel sure that, as Tom said, all would be
right at the ferry.

“There!” said Uncle Bob, as we stepped on board
the ferry-boat at last_ ‘There, they have got down
before us, after all. I see ’em in the ladies’ cabin.”

To the ladies’ cabin we all rushed forthwith, headed
by sister-in-law, who saluted the persons therein
assembled with the.original and striking remark:
“Tum toits muzzer, a doll baby, so it is!” which
caused considerable astonishwent, as neither baby,
Jobn, Psalter, or any of them were there. Uncle Bob
was mistaken, so we turned to regain the wharf; but
it was too late. The boat had already started.

By this time Tom began to look anxious.

“You know,’ he said, evidently trying to comfort
himself; ‘‘you know we were to meet at——,” naming
the place which had been appointed in the morning;
“and of course they will go straight there; so don’t
worry, Jane.”

But Jane refused ta be comforted for a moment,
and no wonder.

Obedient to Tom’s suggestion, after landing we
turned our steps directly towa®d the woods, and, after
much scrambling and with many scratches, arrived
at our destination. There we waited and waited,
looking along the road by which we ourselves had
come, In momentary expectation of the arrival of our
companions, all of us very much excited, except
Uncle Bob, who, beneath the shade of his big um-
brella, consumed the contents of his pockets and the
flat bottle, without cessation, with the most com-
plas countenance imaginable. After passing an
10ur thus, sister-in-law declared that she was posi-
tive some accident had happened, and, in default of
a better alternative, we returned to the ferry.

“Do you know whetlierany one has been drowned?”
demanded sister-in-law, hysterically, of a negro boy
whom we met near the water side.

““Yes’m, thar war,” answered the boy.

“Was it a young man and a baby ?” shrieked sister-
it-law. &

“No mum—an old woman.”

“And none of the ferry-boats hage blown up within
this half-hour, my man, have they?’ put in Uncle
Bob, with his mouth fail.

“Don’t know, massa; dey’ll tell you at the ferry,”
said the boy. showing fis teeth very. much.

“Oh!” answered Unele Bob, taking another bite of
biscuit. “Just ask, wiilyou, Tom ?%’

But Tom was pursuing his inquiries in a different
manner. ¢

“Have you seen two gentlemen, with a baby, and
two baskets, and cora children, pass lately ?”’
he asked of the man 4 tiie ferry.

“Two oe what else, sir?”

 

replied the man. 3 :

“A baby !” scream fe—"a ’ittle tiny ’ittle sing,
what its nasty bad unéie took away without its din-
ner, 80 he did!”

“Ma’am !” gasped the Man, perfectly bewildered.

“You see.” exclaimed Tem, “‘we came over on a
sort of picnic, and have lost half of our party, and
wish to find which way they have gone.”

“Oh, yes,” said the ferryman, “I see. What was it
—seven gentlemen, a basket, and two babies ?’

“No, sir.’ I putin. “Two gentlemen, a baby, and
seven children !’’

“You may know the gentlemen, perhaps,” said
Uncle Bob, ‘‘by the strong resemblance one of them,
this lady’s husband, bears to myself;’’ and Uncle
Rob spread himself, pockets and all, before the box
occupied by the official whom he addressed.

Psalter is tall and rather slender, and Uncle Bob is
almost as broad as he is long; and Psalter has beauti-
ful features and large blue eyes, while Uncle Bob has
no apparent features at all, except cheeks and a triple
chin. The idea!

‘‘Let me think—let me think,” said the man. ‘Yes,
there was a party of that description went up yon-
der to the left a while ago. [remember them par-
ticularly, on account of thte baby’s crying.”

“And one of the gentlemen resembled me?” re-
peated Uncle Bob.

“Yes, sir, considerably so, I believe,” said the man,
doubtfully.

‘And they had straw hats and two baskets with
them ?” I inquired. ;

“Yes, ma’am, I believe 80,” said the man, turning
away as though determined to say nothing more on
the subject.

It certainly must be Psalter and the rest, we con-
cluded; and away we started down the path indi-
cated, now imagining we saw them, and now discov-
ering that we were mistaken, until we were tired to
death and absolutely famished.

Uncle Bob, although he had emptied both his
pockets and the bottle, declared he should faint if he
had not something substantial to eat; and accord-
ingly we proceeded to a public-house near at hand,
where Tom called for dinner. The two gentlemen
ate heartily, but neither Jane nor I, hungry as we
were, could touch a mouthful.

“Do take some of this milk, ladies,’ said the good-
natured landlady, and she placed a pitcher full upon
the table. “It’s very refreshing after a long jaunt in
the sun—and so a poor baby that was brought in here
a while ago thought, I reckon.” :

“A baby !” exclaimed Jane and I at once.

“Yes, ma’am—a poor little baby,” answered the
landlady—*‘all alone with a young man; and really I
didn’t know which to pity most, the baby or its pa,
when I see him a-feeding of it with milk, and pour-
ing more of it into its eyes than its mouth. I had
to take hold and feed it myself. Whatever his wife
was a thinking of, when she let him go out by him-
self with that mite of a baby, I can’t think.”

“Tt must have been Jobn,” I said. “It certainly
was our John.”

“La! them’s the identical words a gentleman that
came in a while after he was gone said, when I pro-
miscuously mentioned the young man. He said,
‘It’s our John !’”

“What was the gentleman’s name—do you know ?”
Tinquired.

“No, ma’am, 1 don’t; but he was a handsome-look-
ing man, and had a whole lot of children and baskets
with him. I’ve an idea he was a Sunday-school
superintendent going on a picnic. All I know is, he
sez to the children, ‘We'll go home now,’ and they
crossed to the city.”

‘“‘Home—home at once, then!” cried Tom; “they
are all there already, doubtless.”

“You et wait until I ceuld get something into
my stomach to keep me from fainting before we get
home,” grumbled Uncle Bob, as he followed.

Oh, how long that drive and sail seemed to us, and
how relieved we were when we at last saw lights
gleaming from the windows of our house!

We rushed in ina body. There were Psalter and
all the children, but neither John nor the baby; and
what was more, Psalter had seen nothing of him
since they parted at the stage-door, when we got in.
Poor sister-in-law went into strong hysterics, and de-
clared that she had had a presentiment of something
terrible all day.

“We must look for them,” said Psalter. “I'll go to
the ferry, and you, Tom, go——” : :

“Oh, it will be of no use!” sobbed sister-in-law.
“They are either drowned, run over, or devoured by
the wolves. Just wait, Tom; I sha’n’t live three
minutes, and then you'll have nothing to detain you,
and can go where you choose—only I hope that you’ll
remember that it is all your fault from beginning to
end, and take warning by it.”

 

At this moment a violent cry was heard in the hall,

 

 

and in a moment more John and the baby stood

among us,

“Just take her a moment, Emma,” were the first
words he uttered. “I have carried her all day.”

But the poor little thing was already in its mother’s
arms; and while Jane soothed its woes,as only a
mother ean, she berated poor John at the top of her
voice, until, with fatigue and unhappiness, the poor
fellow was ready to cry.

We discovered, as soon as John obtained leave to
speak, that he had followed, first one party, then an-
other, until he lost himself, and had wandered miles
away in the wrong direction.

‘Poor Cassie cried considerably,” said John ; “but
excepting that, she was a very good girl. I bought
milk for her frequently. I tried to get her to eat some
cake, too; but she don’t seem to know how to chew
yet. Dear me! I didn’t know a little baby weighed
so much.”

“But we are so tired, mamma,” said Fanny; “and
we couldn’t find you, and so I and Rosa cried. I lost
my slipper in the road, and Clara’s frock is torn, and
Dick’s jacket, too—and we are so tired, mamma, we
want to go to bed.”

To bed they went; and while I was kissing little
Fanny good-night, sleepiness overpowered me, and,
with my arm around her, I sank upon the pillow, and
knew nothing more until I awoke to find myself
snugly covered up with blankets, while the morning
sun was shining through the window, and I saw
Psalter arranging his hair at the glass.

And so ended ‘‘our picnic.”

ns
A TRUTHFUL GIRL.

 

During the war, Miss N., a beautiful and spirited
Virginian, whose brother (a Confederate soldier) had
been taken by the Union forces, was deisrous of obtain-
ing a pass which would enable her to visit him. Francis
P. Blair agreed to secure an audience with the Presi-

dent, but warned his young and rather impulsive friend
to be very prudent, and not let a word escape her
which would betray her Southern sympathies. They
were ushered into the presence of Mr. Lincoln, and the
object for which they had come stated. The tall, grave
man bent down to the petite maiden, and, looking
searchingly into her face, said: ‘‘You are loyal, of
course ?” Her bright eyes flashed. She hesitated a
moment, and then, with a face eloquent with emotion
and honest as his own, she replied: ‘Yes, loyal to the
heart’s core—to Virginia!” Mr. Lincoln kept his intent
gaze upon her for a moment longer, and then went to
his desk, wrote a line or two, and handed her the paper.
With a bow ,the interview te.minated. Once outside.
the extreme vexation of Mr. Blair found vent in re-
proachful words. ‘‘Now, you have done it,” he said;
‘didn’t I warn you to be very careful? You have only
yourself to blame.” Miss N. made no reply, but opened
the paper. It contained these words: ‘‘Pass Miss N.;
she is an honest girl, and can be trusted. A Lincoln.”

>@

A WESTERN DAISY.

BY ELM WOOD.

 

 

 

I was invited up to the Indian Agency a short time
since, to attend the annual feast and sun dance. The
ceremony was grand and impressive. As the guests
took their seats on the ground they were served with
the first course. It consisted of jack-rabbit served
with soup. The second course was soup served with
jack-rabbit. The third was jack-rabbit and soup
served together. The dessert was bottles of whisky
served with pipes and tobacco.

Mr. Longsnake, the chief of the tribe, and Mrs.
Longsnake, the belle of the evening, danced a duet.
The band was composed of the best talent in the
tribe.

The instruments used were three old kettles and a
lard pail, which the musicians pounded furiously
while standing on one leg.

Just as Mr. and Mrs. Longsnake finished their
dance, a man jumped into the ring with an appalling
yell,and clasping his hands on his stomach went
round as if in mortal agony. He was quickly fol-
lowed by others, until a boiler factory would have
seemed a quiet place by the side of the howling mass.

After the dance I was introduced to Mrs. Long-
snake. Under certain circumstances she might have
been white, but now she was of a sorrel complexion

with bay hair and eyebrows. Her lithe and willowy
form was built on the co-operation plan. Her dainty
feet were incased in a natty pair of moccasins,
richly inlaid with precious beads and costly porcu-
pine quills.

They were unique, and fitted her feet to perfection.
She could easily make a pair outof two full-sized skins.
In her shapely nut-brown hand, which much resem-
bled a smoked ham, she carried a coonskin fan; her
eyes were of a blue-black color, and as she turned
them on me, it reminded me of a look a goat once
gave me before he knocked me “beyond the bounds
of time and space.” Her mouth was broad, firm,
and well open, with lips that vied with the puff ball
in Size and color. -

Her teeth were pearly white where they lad net
been stained by the use of tobacco.

The chin bespoke character, and was double all the
way down to her swan-like neck, which at some
period of time had been white, but owing to the
action of the elements had become slightly dis-
colored.

She wore her hair in a Sioux coil, that fell in a
shining mass over a pair of shoulders which rivaled
bird’s-eye marble in their variegated beauty. Her
front hair rippled over a low forehead in a way that
caused her Greecian nose to stand out with a promi-
nence that was painful to behold.

Standing at the end of the nose you hada bird’s-eye
view of the generel features, which were very fine to
an artistic eye.

The dress she wore was made of some soft, cling-
ing material—flour sacks I should judge—which dis-
played her superb form in all its simplicity. It was
cut low in the neck and high the at bottom, and was
trimmed with sleigh-bells.

She wore a paper collar that did not meet within
aos four inches, and was fastened together by a
string. :

The only jewelry she wore was ared cross painted
on her forehead, and a band of brass around her
ankles. She wore a single cactus in her hair, and a
pair of bufialo horns in her belt.

Although but a girl, in point of years, she raised the
ee the hay scale at two hundred and thirty-five
pounds.

In conversing with her I found that her political
views were confined to ponies and dogs.

She did not consider marriage a failure, and her
manner of asserting herself indicated that she was
not afraid of a mouse.

Theological and love-sick novels of the gushy,
mushy, slushy sort, she abhorred. She preferred
“Diamond Dick, the Sarpinut of Siskiyou,” and “The
White Caps, or the Knights of the Switch.” She be-
lieved in asupreme power, and said Bob Ingersoll
would have to ride a pony made of iron and heated
red-hot, for ninety-two years, before he will be
properly branded and turned out with the main herd.

In areata of her husband she said he could eat
more and do less work than any man of his size in
the territory, and was ready to back her assertions
with a buffalo robe against a plug of tobacco. She
was sound on the woman’s rights question, and
thought that Chinamen should be forced to do wash-
ing for actual settlers for nothing, and board them-
selves, or be forced to go back to China on foot. She
also declares that, as a rule, Indian agents are not
honest; and she believes that soldiers of the regular
army would rather play cards for money than saw
wood, and are a lazy lot. She maintains that a com-
pulsory education law would be a decided failure in
the far West; and that prohibition would not pro-
hibit, unless there was no liquor to be had for love
or money.

She confidentially informed me that she did not
go much into society, because it was so tiresome to
tastefully robe her sylph-like form, and it was only
on state occasions like the present that she came out
in full dress.

After she had thus freely made known her views
on various themes, she bade me good-night, saying
that Longsnake was getting so fullshe would have
to take him home before he killed some one.

Things were getting pretty numerous around there,
so [ took myself away and crowded into an officer’s
tent to discuss the question, ‘‘Which isthe more bene-
ficial to the red man—civilization or the Gatling

gun ?’ I was chosen on the affirmative, and went to |.

ed.

The next morning I met Mrs. Longsnake at the
agency. Her right eye was closed, and her Grecian
nose pointed toward her left ear in a way that looked
anything but becoming. L[inquired after the health
of Mr. Longsnake. She said he was as well as could
be expected under the circumstances. The agent
asked what had happened. :

“Well,” said she, “last night, when I went to take
him home, he hauled off and spotted me in the eye,
and before I could straighten up he got in on my
nose. Then I doubled him up like a piece of bacon,
and sat on him until he became sober. He is prob-
ably the worst used up man on the reservation. When
I came away he had got himself straightened out,
and was resting better.”

“Where did they get their whisky?’ asked the
agent.

“That’s a question that greater intellects than you
possess are figuring over in Congress to-day—how the
red men get their fire water. Ha! ha!” and she
turned away, singing:

“There’s a land that is fairer than this!”
The agent said she was a full-blown daisy, and no
mistake.

 

 

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

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

 

Old Reader, Houston, Texas.—Wild Bill, or William
Hickok, as he was extensively known in the West‘
though on the court records his name appears as John B.
Hickok, was killed in Deadwood, Black Hills, on August
2, 1876, by John McCall, whose brother, he alleged, had
been slain in Kansas, in 1869, by Wild Bill, without cause
or provocation. McCall’s statement was tothe effect that
his brother and Wild Bill had alittle misunderstanding
in a saloon in Kansas about some trivial matter, and Wild
Bill proposed to fight itout, His brother said it was no
fighting matter, he did not want to fight, and he was not
armed, when Wild Bill, having two pistols, threw his
brother one of them, and said, “Defend yourself.” His
brother took the pistol, but before he could raise it Wild
Bill shot him dead. McCall, hearing these particulars of
his brother’s death, registered a vow that he would kill

Wild Bill on sight, and he kept his word, for while Wild
Bill was seated in a patie saloon, playing cards, he
(McCall) entered, put a pistol to Wild Bill’s head, and
blew his brains out. McCall was arrested, but on the
first trial was declared not guilty. He was subsequently
re-arrested and found guilty. He was executed at Yank-
ton, Dakota, under the direction of the United States
Marshal. He did not deny his crime, and appeared to re-
gard his sentence as just, stating in a letter to one of his
three sisters residing in Louisville, Ky., that he was fully
reconciled to his fate. Wild Bill, at the time of his death,
was 48 years of age. He is described as a grave, taciturn
man, hever provoking a quarrel, but when aroused by an
affront, a terrible man; using in a fight both revolver and
rifle with wonderful accuracy. His friends have always
ee that he ever took an unfair advantage of an an-
gonist.

Kate and Laura, Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—Among the
various works of art in Cincinnati, the one referred to is
regarded as the most notable—the Tyler Davidson
fountain, in Fifth street (140 feet wide), between Vine
and Walnut. It stands on @ freestone esplanade, 60 feet
wide by 400 feet long. In the center of a por phyry-rimmed
basin, 40 feet in diameter, is the quatrefoil Saxon por-
phyry base supporting the bronze-work, whose base is
12 feet square and 6 feet high, with infant figures in
niches at each corner, representing the delights of chil-
dren in water. Its faces are ornamented with panels

containing figures in bas relief, representing the various _

uses of water to mankind. From the upper part of
the bronze base extend four great basins, one to each
side, with perforated rims. Two of the basins have jets.
From the top of the base or socle rises a column up whose
sides vines ascend, and branch at the top in palm-like
foliage. Around this column are groups of statuary;
and on its summit stands a gigantic female figure, with
outstretched arms, the water raining down in fine spray
from her figures. Four bronze figures on pedestals
around the rim of the basin serve as drinking fountains.
There are in all fifteen figures. The height of the topmost.

figure above the street is 45 feet. The work was cast in

Munich, at the royal bronze foundry, and cost nearl
$200,000. It was suggested by Mr. Tyler Davidson, and,
after his death, completed and presented to the city by
Mr. Henry Probasco. It was unvailed on October 6, 1871.
It plays during warm days from morning until midnight.
Ignoramus, Brooklyn.—ist. We suggest the purchase
of a European guide book for the purpose in view. We
have not the space tu spare for the many details desired.
2d. Opticians are generally preferred, because they make
a study of the science of optigs, and are regarded as more
skillful than ordinary practitioners, though both may
derive their Bebe rom the same sources. 3d. The
sulphur and water, for the eradication of dandruff, may
be kept in a bottle in the proportions of one teaspoonful
of sulphur to one pint of water. Wash the head with it
about twice a week, and rinse off with clear water. If the
hair be dry after using the sulphur and water, use castor

oil and brandy in the proportions of three ounces of oil te
one ounce of brandy.

Cc. M. L., Pittsburgh, Pa.—ist. ‘In shape, Cuba, the
largest of the West India group, is long, narrow, and
slightly curved. The entire coast line is about 2,200
English miles. The approach to the shores is rendered
difficult and dangerous by the reefs and shallows, which
extend often from two three miles into thesea. Bu
though the coast is peculiar, Cuba has over two hundre
ports, including sheltered landings. 2d. Havana has one
of the best harbors in the West Indies. 3d. The question
of the acquisition of Cuba by the United States has been
before the public, more or less, since 1848, when President

- Polk authorized the American Minister at Madrid tooffer

$100,000,000 for it; an offer that was peremptorily rejected.

Lena M., Bloomfield, N.J.—The game of chess origi-
nated in India about five thousand years ago. In the
first period of its history, the moves of the men were
almost the same as in the present game, but it was played
by four persons, and the combatants determined what

piece to move by the throw of a die. In the second period,
the game was reduced to a contest between two per-
sons, anf the element of chance was discarded. In the
third, or modern period, some changes were made in the
fundamental laws of the game, increasing the powers of
the queen and bishop, and the introduction of castling.
Alone among games its use has been sanctioned by the
tab ya of all beliefs, Catholic, Protestant, Budahist,
an oslem.

G. L. F., Chicago.—The following is a list of the com-
mercial exchanges in this city: American Horse Ex-
change, Fiftieth street and Broadway; Building Ex-
change, 12 Dey street ; Coffee Exchange, 141 Pearl street;
Consolidated Petroleum Exchange, Broadway and Ex-
change place; Cotton Exchange, Hanover square; Mari-
time Exchange, Produce Exchange Building; Mercantile
Exchange, Harrison and Hudson streets; Metal Ex-
change, Pearlstreet and Burling Slip ; Produce Exchange,
Whitehall street, Broadway, and Beaver street; Real
Estate Exchange, 57 Liberty street ; Stock Exchange, 10,
12, and 14 Broad street.

Laura Bell, East Saginaw.—We can send you “‘Wood-
ward’s Suburban and Country Houses,” containing seven
hundred designs and plans, for $1. Or “Wheeler’s Homes
for the People,” containing one hundred original designs,
with full descriptions and constructive and miscel-
laneous details, for $2. ‘‘Hussey’s National Cottage
Architecture,” containing details for all styles of low-
priced houses, with specifications and costs, will cost $4.

M. W.—The first century began with the first day
of the year 1. The second century began with the first
day of the year101. The nineteenth century began with
the first day of the ged 1801. The nineteenth century
will close with the last day of the year 1900, and the twen-
tieth century will begin with the first day of 1901.

B. T. B., Melrose, Mass.—ist. Good Friday is not a legal
holiday ; but it is observed in this city by many church
people, and within recent years the Stock and other ex-
changes have been closed. 2d. The following is the loca-
tion of all the Friends’ Meeting Houses in this city: East
Fifteenth, corner of Rutherford place; 144 East Twen-
tieth street; and 43 West Twenty-seventh street.

Cc. H. D., Hepworth, Canada.—The “Carpenter’s and
Builder’s Guide” will cost $1; ‘“Builder’s Guide and Esti-
mator’s Price Book” $2. ‘Jacques’ Manual of the House ;”
which tells how to build dwellings, barns, stables, and
y pane mn of all kinds, will cost $1. 1t contains 126
designs and plahs.

B. B. J., Jr.. Harlem.—The new wooden dry dock, 500
feet long, now being constructed at the Brooklyn Navy
Yard, is under the supervision of Civil Engineer P. C.
Asserson. Cost $575,000. The new dock, it is said, will
accommodate the largest vessels in the United States
Navy.

Mrs. L. C. B., Newark, N.J.—In Maryland males of
twenty-one and females of eighteen may make a valid will
of real estate. In the same State wills are recorded by
the Register of Wills. The Register will receive the wills
of living persons for safe keeping for a fee of fifty cents.

Constant Reader, Dedham, Mass.—Miss Nellie Grant,
daughter of Gen. Grant, was married in Washington to
A. C. F. Sartoris, of England, on May 21, 1874. The wed-
ding took place at the Executive ansion, popularly
known as the White House.

L. M. T., Newark, N. J.—William Mosher and Joseph
Douglass, the supposed abductors of Charley Ross, were

shot and killed by the Van Brunts while committing a
burglary at Bay Ridge, Long Island. Date, Dec. 14, 1874.

A. M. D.—Write to St. Stephen’s Church, Twenty-
eighth street, between Third and Lexington avenues. It
is possible that the information desired may be obtained
for you there.

C. H. B., Denver, Colorado.—The “‘“Guide to Parliamen-
tary Law and Public Business” will cost 30 cents; “Cush-
ing’s Manual” 50 cents.

J. 8. D., Ossian, N. Y.—The horse named was sold to its
present owner for $40,000. The price paid by the previous
owner was $21,000. <

Harry, Lowell, Michigan.— Address a letter to the
American News Company, this city, stating your wishes.

Mrs. L. M., Toledo, Ohio.—Letters of correspondents are:
answered in the order in-which they are received.

Charles, Nashville, Tenn,—The best French brandy is
generally recommended.

R. W. R., Richmond, Va.—Rheims, a city of France, is
pronounced as if spelled reemz.

In Dispute, Brooklyn, N. Y.—It is not usury to take
compound interest.

Washingtonian, D. C.—Jan. 1, 1900, will fall on Monday,
J. A. E., Bluffton, Ohio.—We know of none on sale.

TO CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are respect-
fully declined: ‘““A Dangerous Experiment,” “A Narrow
Escape,” ‘‘Winter,” ee “Millie's Friend,” “Tommy
Green,” ““‘The Woman He Loved.”

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

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VOL. 44—No, 27s

eet

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &3=

o

 

 

 

ee emt

 

COME TO ME, DARLING.

 

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

 

When the red sun in the clear west is glowing,

And the soft wind from the sweet south is blowing,
When the day’s trials no longer are near me,

Come to me, darling, to soothe and to cheer me!

Thou art the sun that dispels my sad hours;
Sweeter thy breath than the odor of flowers—
Only thy smile can my somber life brighten ;
Come to me, darling, my sad heart to lighten.

You, when life’s bitterness caused me to languish,
Rose like a star on the night of my anguish ;
Nothing in life like thy dear presence blesses ;
Come to me, darling, and meet my caresses.

Come joy or sorrow, I’ll part from thee never ;
Close to my bosom I'll press thee forever—

My heart is love’s fountain laid open before thee ;
Come to me, darling, and let it flow o’er thee.

THE LADY OF HARROW:

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.

 

 

——— LADY OF HARROW” was commenced in No. 25.
ack numbers can be obtained of all News agents. }

 

CHAPTER VIII. x
A RELUCTANT WITNESS.

A babel of whispering broke out.

One low, sweetly modulated voice was heard above
them all, uttering two sinister words.

It was Doctor Zeiber, who, as if to himself, mur-
mured :

Foul play 9”

They cut through Nell Ryder’s heart like a knife.

She clung to Ned’s hand, looking up in his honest
brown face frantically.

He seemed lightning-struck, and took no heed of
Nell.

That dreamy voice fell upon the buzz, first like a
lump of ice into boiling water, then like that lump of
ice swelling the caldron full until it burst.

“Poison!” ‘Poison!’ ‘Fonl play!”
threateningly vituperated the bystanders.

Ellice Fleming’s eyes went like lightning from face
to face, her ears were pricked for the worst.

Her lithe body began to quiver and to oscillate like
@ tiger’s in sight of its prey.

The coroner was seen to speak, but the noise effect-
ually drowned his words.

Then he beckoned in the police, and they forcibly
restored quiet; after which, much ruffied.in his tem-

per, he proceeded with his investigations. _

“Doctor Harvey, be good enough to explain to the
jury the properties of hydrate of chloral.’

“Gentlemen, hydrate of chloral is an anodyne of a
very late discovery, and has some of the useful
properties of chloroform and ether. When taken in
@ moderate dose it alleviates nervous pains, induces
sleep—or, as in the case of tetanus, deadens the sen-
sibilities, until the paroxysm is past. When taken in
excess, it acts on the aoe as a violent poison. It
is to be regretted that hydrate of chloral has become
a favorite agent with the common people, for the re-
lief of trifling pains, and can -be procured at any
pda yt without a prescription. Unaware of its
deadly properties, it is not unfrequently fatal to the
oy consumer who exceeds the limits of a safe

ose.’ %

“Ts = more than a dose in the bottom of that

“No, but there remain the insoluble particles of
enough to kill two men.”

The coroner beckoned the two doctors near, and
conferred with them in rapid and excited whispers.

He was recommending a post-mortem examination
of the stomach of the deceased.

They agreed, saying that they would forward it
_ en analytical surgeon in London for his
opinion.

Tn five minutes theywere locked in with the dead
man. ‘

The coroner onee more spread the mysterious
document before him, and sent his brocding eye ina
hawk-like quest round the room.

“Nell Ryder, come forward !”’ said he.

With the start and the shiver of some poor soul
shoved into an icy well, the girl obeyed; but while
her hands loosened theirclinging clasp of her lover's,
her eyes flew up to his in a passionate glance of love
and trust.

“Were you with the deceased when he died?’

“Yes,” sighed poor Nell.

“What did he say to you when he was dying?’

She started; a horrible thought seized her; she
ee white as death, and wheeling her head, plunged

er eyes like needles into Browning’s.

He looked at her sorrowfully, but did not flinch.

Then she stretched out one little toil-worn hand
sag her, and he took it and nursed it against his

eart.

Strengthened, she faced the awful man of authority
with firmness.

“He spoke about his sweetheart, Ellice Fleming,
and wandered a good deal in his mind,” said she.

“What did he say,’ demanded the coroner, with
stern eye probing her, “about Ned Browning ?”’

She glared at him horrified, wonder-struck, as if
she saw a vision.

“A bout—about—Ned Browning!” faltered she.

“What did he say?” reiterated the determined
voice.

Dead silence, while Nell glared on.

“What did he say ?” once more asked the coroner.

ne began trembling so that she could scarcely
stand.

Her hard, nursed by Ned Browning, worked con-
yulsively; her teeth, clenched together before, began
now to chatter in her head.

“Answer me, upon your oath, woman—what did
your brother say about Ned Browning ?”

“T— can’t—can’t—tell,” stammered she,
fainting.

“You must!” said the coroner, in a.terrible voice.
“JT have it here, word for word !”

Nell Ryder staggered back ; her hands flew up, her
mouth care ; with frantic eyes she glared at him
and at the fatal pacer he had tapped.

“Oh, Heaven ‘” she screamed.

Then all ina moment she composed herself, and
confronted her tormentor sullenly.

“Tf you have it there, no need to ask me,”’ said she.

‘You must testify to the truth of what is reported,”
said the coroner, between his teeth.

‘Must I?” with a flicker of the darkening eye.

“Tt is said that he used certain words to you. They
were these: ‘Did you see Ned ? - He’s been the
death of me—mind that! Don’t you marry him.’ Did
he use those words? Yes or no.”

She stood, a terrible impersonation of fear, quail-
ing, palpitating, horror-struck—yet obstinately silent.

The people held their breath, and wild with excite-
ment, stared at her, and strained their ears to hear

er.

A long, painful hush; no opening of these ashen
sealed lips.
wae the hoarse, inevitable voice reiterating like a

ell:

“Yes or no?” ;

Panting, tortured stillness, her introverted fear-
glaring eye never moved. _

“Yes or no?” clashed the inevitable. ““And remem-
ber that the eye of God is upon you!’’

Oh, that my pen were a pen of fire, that I might
tell you the agony of that poor girl, in language that
would make you pity her.

Think of it!
returned from a weary absence; to see him threat-

“Murder !”

almost

ened by fell destruction, and only her hand wanting

to cast it upon him.

For you see, she thought him angel-pure of the
crime they were fastening on him; she knew him
faithful, and gentle, and brave; and he was all she
had in the world.

She stirred at last, goaded by the terrible idea of
the condemning eye of God piercing her soul, and
lifting her convulsively clasped hands in piteous ap-
peal, she panted out:

eee ! mercy! don’t ask me that!

or girl, and I

efore you, but don’t ask me that!”

“You MUST angwer!” said the coroner, furiously.
“Did he say it?”

“T won't answer!” said Neil, hoarsely.
your worst!”

“Did he not say it?’’ insisted he,
obstinacy. ‘If you keep silence after that question,
i utter alie. Acting a lie is as bad as telling one.

self.
Nell wrung her hands helplessly.

“Oh, good Lord, what am Ito do?’ screamed the
unfortunate creature; and she looked this way and

 

er brother but dead, her lover but

’m only a
are not tell alie. Strike me dead

“There, do

excited to fierce

te if you keep silence you perjure your-

A tan na a, me

that, as if she longed for the earth to swallow her

up.

“For the last time,” said the coroner, ominously,
‘yes or no?” >

“Drop by drop the blood receded from poor Nell’s
lips. A swift, fierce struggle took place in her heart.

“Say ‘No.’ What can they do?’ cried Love.

“Say ‘Yes,’ whatever comes of dt, because it is the
Truth,” whispered a cruel Conscience. :

Nell loved Truth, being a simple soul, untarnished
by the world.

But, oh! she lived for Ned Browning!

Well, she stopped panting, and thought hard.

And whai she thought came by and by to this:

“God can take care of me and Ned, without my tell-
ing a lie to help him. God help me instead!”

And then she opened her rigid lips, and spoke one
awful word. And it was:

on

And then she turned, and flung herself on Ned
Browning’s breast, and, winding her arms round his
neck, eyed him despairingly.

And he pressed her close, and laid his cheek to
hers, and wept!

And while these simple folk thus drew closer to-
gether in their misfortune, a menacing roar came
from all around them, looks of horror and vengeance
were cast by all upon the man whose accusation had
been uttered by the dead champion.

A fierce, tingling cry silenced all, and a woman
swooped forward, and confronted the sailor, with
disheveled hair and swelling bosom, and eyes that
gleamed like glittering stars.

“Ha! have I found ye, false hound!” she hoarsely
uttered, pointing in his face with outstretched,
quivering finger. “‘Murderer of my husband, you
shall meet a Villain’s death ere long on a tree that’s
pbranchless an’ rootless, aud the ban of a broken-
hearted woman shall be on your soul forevermore !”

“No, no, no, no!” sobbed and shuddered Nell, con-
vulsively tightening her clasp of herlover. “Do not
heed her, my love, my innocent ; ‘the curse causeless
en not come,’ and God knows her curse is cause-

ess !’

He only held her the closer to_ his breast, and bent
ea! anguished face upon her dear brown, shining

air.

In the meantime the coroner was whispering with
his clerk, and the people were surging like an angry
sea between Ned and the door.

“Has the coward anything to say for himself, Nell,
ye mad woman?” hissed Ellice, turning upon her
fiercely. ‘Does it not ill become Tom Ryder’s sister
to use her tongue defending his slayer? Off hands,
you shameless thing! how can you love a traitor?
Look at his craven eye that dare not leave the
ground! Look at his trem’ling hand that mixed the
poison for your brother! Oh, lass! for the Lord’s
sake, come away before I curse you, too!”

“T won’t believe it!” cried Nell, in thrilling tones.
“The lad that prays the good Lord morn and night is
not the lad to murder! Ned,” she exclaimed, with a
burst of angelic love, ‘‘mind you, whatever happens,
I believe you innocent of this crime, and the time
wll come—ay, I know it will—when they that con-
demn you this day will rue it bitterly!” and she
flashed a stern glance upon his accusers.

Ned quivered allover, and one deep sob rent his
bosom.

“Thank ye, my girl,” he said, brokenly. ‘‘Since you
think me innocent I can bear it all. I am innocent,
Nelly; I never harmed Tom!”

At this simple declaration cries of furious incredu-
lity broke from all parts of the room, and Ellice
Fleming frantically heaped her wrath upon his head
until the room rang again.

“Oh!” moaned Nell, “what hev I brought ye to, my
darling Oh, Ned you have me to thank for your
ruin!’

“No, lass, you did right,” said Ned, wiping her
streaming eyes with his own handkerchief. ‘How
could ye tell a lie ?”’

Suddenly a hand was laid on each shoulder. Ned
= a“ looked up with a great start. Ned was ar-
rested !

 

CHAPTER IX.
A SAILOR’S TRICK.

Nell set up a frantic screaming.
into the faces of his captors, and

Ned looked hard
set his teeth.

      

t

vires

et) ( \ \\\\ \ \ Wnt

 

 

‘MURDERER OF MY HUSBAND, YOU SHALL MEET A
VILLAIN’S DEATH!”

“Hush, Nelly; it arn’t no use.
give me Godspeed,” said he.
. “Oh, Ned, I’ve killed ye, killed ye with my word!”
she said, in a voice none would have known for hers,

An officer quietly unclasped her hands from about
her lover. She resisted not; but uttering one more
weak, despairing ery, tottered back, and fell like a
a of wood upon the floor.

o one interfered, while Ned darted to lift her up,
and held her unconscious form in his arms for a
long, breathless, agonized minute.

And the girl thawed from her frozen trance, and
knew it was her last embrace, and curled about him
with a despairing moan.

And all saw how marble-cold was his bronzed
— how blankly filled was his eye, and they pitied

Look up, lass, an’

im.
And they kissed each other, and whispered :
“God be with ye, Nell!”

And,

“God go with ye, Ned!”

And then the wrench came, and they were parted.

Next instant, before an inkling of his intention
came to a soul in the room, the sailor made a flying
leap, alighting on the window-sill; put his shoulder
to the casement—crash! the window-frame burst
out, the glass shattered in a shower, and he was gone!

A yell followed him, a dozen rushed to look out;
the window was on thesecond floor, at a corner, and
he was wriggling down the lead pipe.

They burst from the room, and dashed down stairs.

down the long pier like a racer.

In another minute the pier was black with the
crowd of pursuers, and all the windows within view
of it were dashed open and filled with gaping on-
lookers.

Straight as an arrow’s flight he ran, his hands

and full.

They ran helter-skelter, knocking against each
other, wasting breath to shout at him, stopping to
pick up stones.

He had a fifty yards’ start of them.

~ the are who idled about the pier, and be-
ore they could recover from their astonishment at the
apparition, or hear distinctly the yells of the pursuers,
he had run like a hare round the end of the pier,
an, ps an empty gig and flung himself into it.

t almost upset under the shock, but he hung on
stoutly till it righted itself, and then he lifted the
oars, Out with his knife and slashed the painter in
two, and was spinning down the river.

the pier with rage.

“After him, two of ye!” shrieked Chirks, the trainer,
fastening like a leech on the Ewshot crew.

Off scampered Bill Price and Sam Gurnéy to the
dozen men flocked after them.

“Once! twice! heave ho!” and the boat was on
their shoulders.

“Hurrah !” and she sat like a lance on the water.
“In, lads!” and Bill and Sam had the oars in position.

fugitive.
“Ah, that was a race, indeed!

for dear life.
eagle.

these two.
perspiration,

pursuer, his arms strung with steel, his li

literally bounded along.

When they reached the court, the sailor was flying

clenched, his mouth wide open, his respiration long

Bare-headed, hair flying, eyes glaring, he bounded

The rabble arrived in time to see him flying like a
gull a hundred yards away, and danced on the end of

shed where their famous boat was locked up, and a

“Off she goes!” and the lance was flashing after the

Yesterday’s race was for a Gold Cup, to-day’s was

The sailor leaped through the water like a gray-
hound, the champion’s boat swooped after like an

Other boats began to dot the river in the rear, as
the pursuers found them, but the race was between

On went Ned, his face white and glistening with
his eye black as coal and gk ae

g
taking water at every stroke, though it rose alf its
length out of the surf at each tremendous pull, and

On went the champion oarsmen, teeth set, heads
turning over their shoulders ever and anon to sight

the prey; four oars rising and gripping the water
with one fine effert, smoothly sheoting nearer and
nearer the distressed fugitive.

“Well pulled, Jack Tar!” yelled the people, running
tosee. “Goit! I bet on True Blue!” ?

They thought they saw a trial between’ Strength
— Training; and so they did, and a thrilling trial,

00.

Too soon poor Ned began to feel symptoms of dis-
tress. He was losing his breath.

“Ho, ho !” thought he, “I must run into some port;
wind’s failing.”

He looked wistfully at the racers. Their strokes
were as beautifully even, their course as arrow-
straight as ever. They were gaining fast!

Ned scanned both banks of the river carefully, and
sighted a glittering speck a mile or so away.

He made forit. Warily, warily he pulled, striving
to keep his distance and husband his strength at the
same time; strong and unswervingly the race-boat
glided after; imperceptibly Ned slanted for the
shore, and the racers, misunderstanding, drew ahead
on the straight course; nearer and nearer Ned
hugged the bank, until his pursuers were almost
opposite him, and then he put on a wonderful spurt,
darted ashore, and landed himself on two flying feet
exactly beneath the glittering speck which he had
sighted from afar.

He flew across a wide, level inclosure, destined one
day to be a well-kept grave-yard, and sharply eying

= * af
Pa ee

— ——~, ww
Loc tap

      

   

 

 

“YoU KNOW NOT WHAT I WANT:
TRAITOR’S BLOOD |”

I WANT THE

the great unfinished cathedral for some hole in which
to hide himself, by the time he had reached it his
intention was formed.

He vanished round a corner, just as the champion
racers sprang ashore with a grim laugh of ex-
ultation.

This fine cathedral had been in course of erection
these seven years past, and was as far from com-
pletion as ever. "
Once, when finished to the painting thereof, it had
eaught fire, and the inside had heen gutted; and
then, while the carpenters were repairing that dam-
age, the spire had been struck by lightning and
shattered half way down.

So, in discouragement they had locked the doors,
and-¢alled off the workmen, and were waiting for
some brave man to reason them out of their super-
stitious terrors before they would finish it.

There stood the shattered spire, then jagged in the
outline, glittering with fresh masonry, and there lay
the heap of fallen debris under it, like a lean-to haltf-
way up the wall.

“Got hisself into a jolly trap,” said Sam to Bill.
*“He’s dodged into the church.”

They raced across the waste ground, parted at the
cathedral wall, and met again at the grand entrance,
each having made a cireuit of one-half of the pile.
The grand entrance was composed of a massive,
oaken double-door, studded with ivon; and an outer
wicket of exquisite carving; a the door was
bolted, the wicket padlocked, and b5th locks red with
rust. ;

“Ain’t got in here!” grunted Bill, “Come—there’s
the door behind the chancel.”

cel, but it, too, was bolted on the outside, just like
the other.
to smash a window, anyhow.”

them, and found them all so gloriously gothic that a
fox couldn’t have squeezed through them.

his careass
glaring about.

“Wh-wh-where has the fellow
stuttered the enraged champion,
“Has he run for it?”

No, there was not within a mile a shrub or a fence
big enough to offer cover to a partridge
“Unless he’s a fly, an’ has walked up
hid in the spire!’ suggested Sam. :
They ran out some twenty yards, and scrutinized
the roof, first on this side, and then on that.

Vertical as a sugar-loaf, the roof could only be
ascended by feet furnished a la fly,

As for the spire, it rose sheer fifty feet, cut by two
slits by way of windows, and abruptly broken off at
top.

Tritt; as clean as a cylinder. and as hollow.
ear his impudence! he’s done us brown !” swore

ill.

They stared pyre, helplessly.

The cathedral shone in the bland sunshine, as
beautiful and bright as a palace in a dream, and told
them nothing.

The architecture was classic, the workmanship ex-
quisite, the effect grand and impressive.

For the architecture, workmanship, and effect they
cared not a button. :

They stamped about, and cursed and swore like
troopers.

The villain had tricked them, but how?

“He’s turned hisself into a fly, an’ crawled up the
steeple, an’ is now polishin’ his legs ontop, an’
fa id his heart laughin’ at us!” said Bill, bit-

erly.

Ten minutes more, and a vociferating crowd were
Clambering up the bank, and overwhelming the

‘the wall an’

sheepish champions with questions.

 

RECOMMENDED YOU.

ful pursuers, and sent for the keys.

for he scented defeat.

and shavings.

under every heap of shavings.
support a score.

nor cross-beams, and saw no living thing.

view, and still had their trouble for their ne.
Retired disorderly, digusted, discomfite
Outwitted by asailor! Bah!

 

CHAPTER X.
“FOR THY SAKE, IDOL OF MY LIFE!”

 

 

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

Sure enough, they found the door behind the chan-

And they looked at the windows, every one of | y}

Ned Browning was considerabiybigger than a fox. . \
re

 

“THAT THERE GENT WANTS A CLEVER LAD, AN’ PVE
SEE THAT YE DON’T SHAME ME.”

Anon came Mr. Mulock, ruling magistrate, on
horseback, being shy of the water, and, hearing the
report of the racers, delivered himself of a non-
judicial oath, a couple of eye-stabs to the unsuccess-

“OF course, he is inside,” quoth the coroner, sourly,

The keys arriving, the mob entered, and found the
inside of the cathedral chiefly composed of scaffolding

They sought behind every board of scaffolding, and

No Jack Tar to be seen, nor even a Jack o’ Lantern,
though the place was damp and moldy enough to

hey flocked into the spire, and peered up through
the dim cylinder, where there was neither scaffolding

Eyed the roof outside from every possible point of

Now, though Zeiber, the brilliant stranger, had

quietly smoked his meerschaum while the rest were
dashing pell-mell after him, and paced back and
forth serenely on the baicony overlooking the race,
awaiting its igssue—there was yet a secret glitter in
his tawny eye,and a hardness about the lovely
mouth which wondrously belied all that.

Back and forth, back and forth paced polished
Engelhardt, calmly enjoying his weed, and the
thoughts in his heart were wild and dark as chaos.

By and by they began to straggle back with their
news of defeat, and he listened impassively to their
tale; then he sauntered into the deserted chamber,
where still sat Nell Ryder huddledup by the window,
with a shy sparkle of satisfaction in her eye.

“Poor girl!” sighed the velvet voice. “You will
never see him again; he has escaped.”

“Thank you, sir, for the news,” said Nell, demurely;
“put I knew it before. My Ned won’t forget his
sweetheart.”

“How could he forget the only one on earth he has
to believe him innocent? Ah, my child, you are
noble! You deserve to meet him again.”

A certain involuntary flash of triumph passed over
her face, and that was enough for Engelhardt Zeiber.

He passed from Nell Ryder to Ellice Fleming, who
was drinking in with distracted looks the tale of the
outwitting of the champion racers.

“Oh, fools, fools! they have let him go free!’
moaned she. ‘‘Where was their friendship for poor
murdered Tom Ryder, the cowards? Oh, my heart!
my heart! why can [not die, and be with my own
dear love? No, I must first have blood for blood !”

She turned from them, a fierce glare in her eyes,
and stumbled against Dr. Zeiber.

“So you shall, girl,” whispered he, looking her
meaningly in the face. ‘Come here and learn how?

She stared at him, and then she quietly complied.

The young fisher girl and the gentleman of fashion
strolled together down the pier, and found a deserted
space.

“What is your will?’ demanded she.

“To show you how to attain your heart’s wish.”

“You knew not what I want. I want yon traitor’s
blood !”

“Do you know what is required to capture him?’

“Yes—gold. I have that, too, and I’ll give the last
coin of it to bring him back and hang him.”

“You have overlooked something more important
than money.”

“What is it?’

“Brain. Wit to direct; intelligence to plan.”

“But where canI find that? You see what fools

_| Ned Browning’s pursuers proved themselves.”

“You can find it in yourself.”
_“What can I do but put my curse on him and my
little money against him ?”’
é Dr. Zeiber waved his hand toward the broken win-
ow.

“Yonder is a magnet that sooner or later will draw
him back.”

“Nell? Lord save us! Will he dare?’

“Girl, I am older in the world’s ways than you,”—
she glanced at his silver locks and nodded—“and I
know all the gradations of the human heart, from
black to white. This fearless sailor, for bravado, will
return and take the girl with him.”

“Aha! will he?’ muttered Ellice, with a glint in
her eye. ‘We'll see!”

“You understand perfectly well, I perceive,” smiled
the foreigner. “Your part is to stick to Nell Ryder
night and day, concealing your hatred of her lover,
until he ventures back. Then you must deliver him
into the hands of one who wiil be at the door.”

“Sir, ’11 do what you say. May he soon fall into
the net we’ve spread for him! Nell will thank me
for it-some day. But who are you, that are so in-
terested in my affairs?’ and she looked him straight
in the face.

At the abrupt question and the full gaze, Dr.
Zeiber’s eyes fell, and one would have said that an
almost imperceptible spasm convulsed his angel-face
for one fleeting half-second, but it was hastily suc
ceeded by so warm and gracious a smile that simple
Ellice was bedazzled.

“Tl am afriend of the friendless,’” said he, gently,
“and was an admirer of the dead.”

Sudden tears blinded her eyes; his sympathy wrung
her heart.

Without another word she walked away, her head
down on her breast.

“Drat his ugly phiz!” grumbled Sam. “How did he | }))\ \\
getin? Let’s look at the windows, He knows how | <

   

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aes AAA
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HOW DARE YOU TELL IT TO ME?”

“WRETCH!

The foreign gentleman next turned up in the bar-
room of the “Jolly Neptune”’—late quarters of Ned
Browning—in confidential conversation with mine
host, Mr. Nick Mellish.

“Pho! what’s police agin a artful dodger like he?”
contemptuously propounded Mr. Mellish. ‘You’re
right there, your honor. They’ll never get him till
the moon turns to green cheese.”

“Certainly not!” said the white-haired gentleman,
with emphasis. “For one thing, they are not ac-
quainted with his appearance.”

“Wouldn’t know him if they got him in their por-
ridge. Wish I was on the staff; ’'d know him ag’in,
fast enough.”

“An excellent idea!” said the stranger, struck by
the remark.

quietly, you know, lest the police interfere and spoil
your game.”

perament, mentally dubbed the white-haired gent *‘a
scheme.
“Pm your man!” said he, with gusto.
me on, an’ I won’t disappoint you.”
“Hem!” Does Browning know you by sight?’
asked the downy bloke.
Mr. Mellish’s face fell.

“Confusion! He saw mea dozen times.
matter ?”’

somely for the loan of him.”

“You will? Sir, I call you a gentleman!
the werry cove in m
the bar when I’m 0

about the race to the customers.
sighted him once, I’ll lay a bet on it.”

let, and drawing from it a twenty-pound note.
serve me for three days, this note will be yours.”
door of the inner sanctuary, he bawled:
Larry Maguire, here!”

shuffle.

in his gray eyes, and with slender legs.

horse whisper, “that there gent wants a clever lad

don’t shame me now, ye rascal.”
of simplicity which promised the very least, yet sug

thereof could only be induced to use it.

follow.

new master.

perfumed drawing-room, with a delicate hand be
tween his own.

her robe.
sandal, with two devouring eyes fastened on his, wha
ing her lily hand to his throbbing heart ?

w red and grew pale,

“Why shouldn’t youtry it? [ll engage
to furnish funds if you’ll agree to hunt him down—

Mr. Mellish, being of an ardent and impulsive tem-

reg’lar downy bloke,” that knew a clever chap when
he met him, and enthusiastically entered into the

“You put

Does that

“That spoils you for the part. Never mind; if you
can find me one of the waiters who has seen him
without being seen by him, I will reward you hand-

Ive got
eye. Larry Maguire, wot tends
duty, he knows the figure-head
of the sailor as well as I do, by seein’ him smokin’ at
the window of his room while he were outside yarnin’
Browning never

“Send him to me; I will make it worth your while,”
said the stranger, taking out his silver-clasped we
you keep this affair a secret, and allow your man to

“All right, gov’ner, its a bargain,” quoth Mr. Mel-
lish, with beaming satisfaction. Then going to the
“Hello!
Presently a young man entéred with a light airy
He was alittle man, red-haired, with a sly sparkle
“Larry,” said the tavern-keeper, in a confidential

for a matter of two or three days, to doa delicate job
for him, an’ I’ve recommended you. See that ye

With one shy side glance the Irishman took in the
appearance of his new master, and then submitted
himself to his inspection with a demure assumption
gested a great deal of innate talent, if the possessor

“TI think this man will do,” said the stranger, having
contemplated his fine points silently for a few
seconds; and with a quiet smile he beckoned him to

Larry reached for his favorite slouch-hat, clapped
it well down on his fiery pate, and shuffled after his

Half an hour afterward Dr. Zeiber sat in a softly
In the tender half-lights of that sumptuous hour, all
its sheen and luster vailed by twilight, the face of Violet
King shone spectral pale, and vied with the wan hue of
A shining woman, all pearly white from brow to satin
wonder if he bent in humble adoration over her, press-
He told the tale in the gathering twilight. The lady

panted, and sat breathless,
aughed exultantly, and sickened with disappointment.

| “He has escaped? Wretch! how dare you tell tt to
me?” exclaimed she, snatching her hand from his to

pluck hysterically at the pearis round her throat.

He told her what he had done to recapture the sailor.

aes ii to sigh, and gave him a lovely look of grat-

‘All this is for my sake ?” she breathed, searching him
sadly with her great, hopeless eyes. .

eae thy sake, idol of my life!” he muttered, growing

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
"+--+ _____—_—__

You can secure a brilliant novel complete for 25
cents in No. 18 of THE SELECT SERIES. The story is
by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, and entitled ‘“‘Rosa-
MOND; or, SUNDERED HEARTS.”

att @~4tnee

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

EDRIES LEGACY;

PROM THE STREET 10 THE STAGE

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ** Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘* The Forsaken

Bride,” “‘ Sibyl’s Influence,” ** Geoffrey’s
Victory,” “ Witch Hazel,” etc.

 

 

{“EDRIE’S LEGACY” was commenced in No. 12.
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

Back

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
HAROLD STURTEVANT COMES TO THE FRONT.

At these startling words Edrie grew pale as the
snowy hood upon her head, while Nellie, her maid,
gave vent to a shriek of horror, then darting into
the carriage, which was waiting for her young mis-
tress, she sank frightened.and moaning into one cor-
ner of it, where she was found later in a half-dazed
state, from which it was not easy to arouse her.
‘‘What can you mean?” Edrie gasped, with hueless
lips.

“Just what I have told you, miss,” returned the
officer, but addressing her courteously. ‘‘You are
suspected and accused of the murder of Daniel
Campbell, who died from poison nearly two years
ago, and detectives have been looking for you high
and low ever since.”

“But I had nothing to do with Mr. Campbell’s
death. I did not even know that he was dead untila
year afterward, when I was told that he committed
suicide,” Edrie explained.

“That may all be true, young lady, but it does not
prove anything. ‘I have been authorized to arrest
you upon this charge, and I am bound to do my
duty, so you must come with me,” the officer respect-
fully responded, in a business-like way.

“Ah! what you mean?’ demanded the professor,
excitedly, for the third time, ‘that Miss Brown go
with you to prison this night like one common crim-
inal? I tell you, NEVER!” and the man emphasized
his assertion with an angry stamp of his foot.

“TJ would advise you, in a friendly way, not to
make any trouble, sir,’ the officer quietly remarked,
“for it will only be the worse for the young lady. It
may be discovered, upon investigation, that there is
some mistake. I hope so, truly, for her sake,” he
concluded, with a compassionate glance at the beau-
tiful face beside him.

“Surely, Professor Reiffenberg, he does not mean
that I must go to prison to-night!” Edrie said, with a
shiver of horror, and clinging closely to the arm of
her friend.

“That is what he says; but do not fear, fraulein, it
shall not be,” he answered, patting her hand reas-
suringly; ‘“‘we will haf—what you call it?—bail. I
suppose bail will not be refused, mein friend?” to
the officer.

The man thought a moment, while he studied
Edrie’s fair, troubled face searchingly. He seemed
kindly disposed toward her and yet determined to do
his duty.

“Y-e-s, I think that can be arranged, if you are
willing to give bonds large enough,” he said, at last.
“This is a grave case, you know; and even then I
shall feel it my duty to keep my eyeupon the young
lady. She will have to go on to Boston immediately
for her examination.”

“Ah! it was to Boston we were all going on the
morrow. Butcome back—we will go to the man-
ager; he will help us with the bonds,” said the pro-
fessor.

He led the way back into the opera-house and
sought the manager, who was in his private office,
and, fortunately, happened to be alone.

As they pee in a figure darted out from behind
a door, and walked quickly down the street.

It was Tom Page, who had instigated this trouble.
He had been with the officer until the moment of the
arrest, and had pointed out Edrie to him, then he
had slipped out of sight to watch the result.

This was his revenge for Edrie’s persistent rejec-
tion of his suit. He had been in communication with
a Boston detective for more than a week, vaguely
promising him information regarding the murder of
Daniel Campbell if he would be in New York and at
a certain place on a certain night.

He was cunning enough, however, to keep himself
in the background, and would have given the detec-
tive the slip at the last moment if Edrie had come to
his terms that night. But after her summary way of
dealing with him he had gone out from her presence
with his blood boiling, sought the officer, and sta-
tioned him at the private entrance to the opera-
house, where he pointed out Edrie the moment she
made her appearance.

The manager was almost as indignant as the pro-
fessor, when he learned what had occurred; but when
Edrie briefly related something of what had hap-
pened at Hollyhurst, on the seat of her flight from
the place, he looked grave, and began to think that
the matter might prove to be more serious than he
had at first apprehended.

He was very willing, however, to do what he could
for the fair girl who had done so much to increase
his fortune during the last few weeks, and he agreed
to share with the professor in giving the necessary
security for the girl’s appearance on the morrow,
when wanted.

He also slipped a handsome sum into the officer’s
hands, a8 an inducement to keep the matter as quiet
as possible until it could be investigated.

It was long after midnight before the weary girl
was free to go home, and even then she could get no
rest. She was driven almost distracted by the hor-
rible accusation. It was too dreadful to be suspected
of having caused the death of the husband of the
good woman who had befriended her in her unhappy
childhood, rescued her from a life of poverty, and
toil, and perhaps from one of shame and degrada-
tion.

She was not able to close her eyes in sleep the
whole night, and she was completely worn out when
morning broke, while Nellie seemed even more over-
come than herself.

But she was obliged to go on to Boston that day;
it had been her intentiion to go within a day or two,
for her engagement there would begin the following
week. Now, however, she was to go asa prisoner,
although the officer had considerately consented to
i at a respectful distance during the journey
thither.

The whole party left on the eight o’clock express,
which would reach Boston at five the next morning.

Mr, Richards had not been in New York during the
last few days. As before mentioned, he had been
called away on business, and was therefore ignorant
of this distressing development in Edrie’s life.

When, however, he did return, and learned of her
arrest through a note left by the professor, he was
vere much disturbed, and hastened after the party
with all possible dispatch. He could hardly wait to
get to her; the train seemed to him to be creeping
along at a snail’s pace, and the hours seemed endless.

Edrie broke down for the first time when they met,
» | and cried for very joy that he had come.

“Oh, I am so glad that you are here!” she said, as
she gave him both her hands.

“My dear little girl!” he said, tenderly; ‘‘this is
very hard for you, but do not lose courage.”

“No, no, I will not,” she answered, resolutely wip-
ing away her tears, “for I am sure you can help me
- | out of this terrible trouble, for you know you told me
that you were with Mr. Campbell on that night.”

Yes, Mr. Richards had been with Daniel Campbell
late on that last night of his life, and he was fully
convinced, in his own mind, that the man had com-
mitted suicide to escape the results of his own
crimes; but it might be difficult to prove that before
a jury, when the circumstances of Edrie’s visit to
the library, still later, and her subsequent flight from
Hollyhurst, were revealed.

“How did the officer find you? How did he identify
- | Miss Edrie Brown in Signora Edrica?’ Mr. Richards
inquired.

“That was a mystery to us all, at first,’ Edrie an-
swered, her dark eyes flashing with sudden fire, “but,
just as I was leaving New York, this note washanded
to me,’”’ and she drew a folded paper from her pockesé
and passed it to her friend.

Mr. Richards opened the note and read it with an
angry frown, his fingers instinctively moving, as if
eager to clutch the writer by the throat. The note
ran as follows:

t

‘Perhaps Miss Brown may have thought Tom Page
anidle braggart; but she has. doubtless discovered

 

 

evinced little interest during the exciting scene of
Ned Browning’s accusation and escape—though he

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

by this time that he did not threaten without a pur-
pose. Ifshe had condescended to receive his pro-

 

 

    
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
   
 
     
   
   
 
  
  
   
    
  
  
 
  
   
     
  
   
    
    
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

  
       
           
       
       
       
       
      
        

 

   

 

 

 

 

6

’
posals in a proper spirit, her present troubles would

never have overtaken her. If Miss Brown should be
doomed to capital punishment T. P. will endeavor to
be present at the last act in the drama of her life; or,
should her sentence be commuted to imprisonment
for life, he will do himself the honor of calling upon
her. when she is nicely settled in her private resi-
dence at Sherborne.”

“The wretch!” cried Mr. Richards, angrily erush-
ing the note in his hand. “I only wish that I had
him here this moment. I would make short work of
him for this.”

“You understand, this trouble was all his work,”
said Edrie, wearily. “Out of revenge because I
would not accept him.”

“Yes; the miserable villain! You ought to have
allowed me to deal with him as I wanted to when he
wrote you those other insolent notes.”

“T thought ‘the least said the soonest mended,’ ”
Edrie replied, with a wan simile.

“He has the material of a first-class criminal in
him, or Iam mistaken. I predict that he will yet
overreach himself and bring up in some penal insti-
tution, which will be no more than he deserves for
his meddling with this affair. But what has been
done for you, Edrie ?”

“Tam to be tried at the close of my engagement
here. Professor Reiffenberg and my counsel ,suc-
ceeded in getting the case put off until then.” °

‘Poor child! the worry will take all the heart out
of you—you will not be able to do yourself justice, 1
fear,” Mr. Richards said, regarding her with deep
sympathy.

“T shall endeavor to forget that I am Edrie Brown,
the supposed murderess of Mr. Campbell, when [I am
on the stage,” she said, with a shiver, and growing
very pale. ‘I must forget it,” she went on excitedly,
“for the public must not be allowed to suspect my
identity, at least until my engagement is ended. I[
could never face the gaping multitude if they did.”

Mrs, Campbell and Helena came to her at once, or
as soon as they learned of her arrival in Boston, and
gave her a hearty, loving welcome.

They grieved bitterly that she should have re-
turned only to get into such deep trouble, and as-
sured her of their unbounded faith in her innocence.

This assurance greatly comforted Edrie. She felt
that she could not have borneit if Mrs. Campbell had
believed her guilty—had believed that she would re-
venge herself in such a dreadful way for the dislike
which her husband had manifested against her.

When her engagement began her courage arose to
meet it, and she resolutely strove to divert her mind
from the coming ordeal. She threw her whole heart
into her work, and, for the time, seemed to really be-
come the character which she represented.

She had her reward, for her success was every
whit as brilliant as it had been in New York, and the
musical world was greatly excited over her wonder-
ful talents.

It was fortunate for Edrie that her engagement
was not a long one, for, if it had been, her strength
would have given out before it was completed.

It was successfully over at last, and then the re-
action came, and the poor girl was prostrated with
nervousness and exhaustion from the terrible strain
that she had endured, trying to keep up her courage,
and perform her role creditably.

The very best of counsel had been secured for her,
but even the learned and eminent lawyer looked
grave when he learned how little Edrie had to op-
pose to the overwhelming and apparently conclusive
facts which seemed to point to her as the guilty
party. a

On the last evening but one before the trial was to
come off, a card was brought to Edrie.

She had been far from well all day, and was not
dressed to receive callers, having on a simple white
cashmere neglige. But she looked very pretty,
nevertheless, the dress being very becoming, with
its pale pink satin bows down the front, and the
same delicate color lining the ruff about her neck.

A rosy flush suffused her face as she read the name
upon the card, “Harold Sturtevant,’ while a little
smile—half tender, half bitter—wreathed her lips.

“You may tell the gentleman to come up, Nellie,’
she said, after thinking a moment, and then she
sighed heavily.

She arose to meet him as he entered her pretty
parlor, and held out her white hand, which he took
in both of his.

He had called several times before, but had seen
her only once, and then but a few moments in the
presence of others. She had either been out or en-
gaged at rehearsal, and thus he had been unfortunate
in his visits.

“T was almost afraid to come, lest I should be told
again, ‘Not at home,’” he said, smiling. ‘Nellie
told me to-night that you were far from well; but T
have tried so many times to see you, and failed, that
I felt as if I could not be denied. this time..-I have
come, dear Edrie, to assure you of my belief in your
entire innocence.” This was the first time he had
ever addressed her by her first name since it had
been startled from him by their unexpected meeting
ou shipboard, and her heart gave a bound of joy as
she heard the tender cadence with which it was
uttered. ‘‘You are in deep trouble now, and what
can I do to help you?” he continued, in deep distress.
“Oh, my darling! do you not see how I love you,
and that I would even be glad to lay down my life to
save you from this? Edrie, my one love! Iam em-
boldened to tell you of this, now that you are in
trouble. When all your bright future lay before you,
when the world was bowing in homage before: you,
and fortune was lavishly pouring her gifts at. your
feet, I resolutely shut my lips; I would not speak—I
would do nothing to clog your path, though my heart
was yearning to tell you how very dear you were to
me. Dearest, [have loved you ever since that first
summer when I came from college, and found you a
sweet singing-bird in my mother’s home. [I hayvé
longed many times to tell you of it; once—twice it
was on my lips, when Daniel Campbell cut me short.
Perhaps.I ain wrong to agitate you now. I had no
thought of opening my heart to you like this when I
came here, but I could not keep it in the face of your
trouble and my desire to comfort you. Darling, will
you give me a little hope that you will try to return
my love, if you do not already? I may not be able to
shield you from even greater sorrow than yélt have
already known; but at least Ican stand beside you
and share it with you, and you will know that you
have one strong, true heart that will never fail you,
no matter what comes. Edrie, avill you accept my
love?—will you give me yours in return ?”

Edrie was weeping softly, overcome by this noble
declaration and the generous love that was ready to
shield her in the hour of her trial and humiliation.

She knew that he loved her for herself alone, else
he would never have waited until her triumphs were
all past and a great calamity about to overtake her,
before telling her of it.

She could not speak, for the confession of his noble,
generous love wholly overpowered her; but she put
out one hand to him, in a trustful, confiding way that
spoke volumes.

“My own darting!’ he cried, as he took it in a
warm, loving clasp and raised it tenderly to his lips.

As he did so her sleeve feil back, revealing her
round, white arm, and the odd bracelet in dull red
gold that he had given her that last night on ship-
board clasped about if,

A sinile of joy lighted Harold Sturtevant’s fine face,
while Edrie colored a vivid crimson.

“Tam going to confess, dear, that this has given
me courage to make the declaration I have,” the
young man said, touching the trinket fondly, ‘for I
have noticed that you wore it every night at. the
opera; I have Seen it on your arm, always here in the
same place.”

Edrie looked up, a tender light gleaming .from be-
neath her tear-laden lashes.

“You locked it upon my arm, and here it has re-
mained ever since,” she suggestively confessed.

He drew her into his arms.

“You do love me?’ he said, bending to look closer
into her eyes. “I know that you do, or you would
never thus have tacitly acknowledged that there was
a bond between us; but tell me so, Edrie; I want—I
long to hear it from your own lips.”

“Yes, I do love you, Harold; my heart has been
yours ever since that first summer at Hollyhurst; I
believe I lost it to you that first morning among the
roses, when you came upon me so suddenly,” she
concluded, with something of her old archness.

“Oh, why could I not have known of it?’ he
breathed softly, touching with his own the sweet lips
that had made the fond confession; “it would have
saved me many an anxious hour. Do you remember,
Edrie, that Christmas night when I came upon you
in the side hall and found you so distressed about
something? I was upon the point, then, of revealing
my heart to you.”

“Yes, I remember,” Edrie returned, sadly. ‘Mr.
Campbell had been saying very hard things to me
just before you came in, and, later, during that. con-
versation between him and Mrs. Campbell which I
overheard in the sewing-room, he accused me of—of
angling for you,” Edrie concluded, with crimson
cheeks and drooping eyes. “Do you wonder [ felt
humiliated, and wanted to run away ?”

“Mr. Campbell was a coarse, disagreeable man, and
far beneath my mother in every way. Was that the
reason why you ran away, Edrie?” Harold asked.

“That was one reason. I would not stay to be the
cause of discord in a family where I had been so
kindly treated. You had spoken very tenderly to me
down in the hall, and—and that had startled my own
heart into a knowledge of what was taking root
there, and I felt as if it would be almost like treach-
ery on my part to remain at Hollyhurst and allow
matters to develope when—when Mrs. Campbell
might be grieved and displeased to have you learn to
care for ine.”’

“My mother was very fond of you, Edrie.”

“T know she appeared to be, and she spoke very
kindly of me when Mr, Campbell taunted her with
being too proud to wish to have her son care fora
nameless beggar si

“Did he call you that?’ interrupted Harold, almost
fiercely.

“Yes, and really there was a great deal of truth in
what he said, if he had only said it differently,” Edrie
admitted, a cloud on her fair face; ‘but it humili-
ated me—it startled me into feeling that I might be
doing wrong to remain at Hollyhurst, and I resolved
to go away whereI would be the cause of no more
mischief or disagreement.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eGR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. aaa - WOLs 44—No, 27,

ili a iatiiae el I a

 

 

“Poor child!” said Harold. “Then your heart
wouid have prompted you to accept my love at that
time even as-you do now.”

She looked up at him, a distressed expression. on
her lovely face as asudden thought came to her.

“Oh, Harold! [ am afraid itis not right for me to
accept your great and generous love even now,” she
said, sadly. ‘I fear I shall only bring sorrow upon
you. Just think what the future may hold for me!
In another’week [ inay be a convict——”

“Hush, my darling! you shall not say it,” he re-
turned, laying his finger lightly upon her lips; and
then he folded her in a closer embrace.

“You are mine, for better or for worse,’”’ he went on.
“T claim you, in the face of everything, by right of
our true love for each other; and, Edrie, if you can
be saved from the fearful fate wuich seems hanging
over you J shall save you !”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

Harold recollected that Daniel Cainpbell had been
subject to malarial attacks, and that Dr, Sargent had
prescribed forthem. Thatvery night, after leaving
Edrie, Harold hastened to Hollyhurst, and sought an
interview with his mother. To her he briefly ex-
plained his suspicions, and asked her what had been
done with the clothing worn by Mr. Campbell on the
night when he came to his death, She informed him
that her late hushband’s garments still hungin his
clothes-closet—that they had been permitted to re-
main there undisturbed since the night of the
tragedy.

To this closet Harold went at once, and examined
various articles of clothing without finding anything
of importance. He was about to give up the search
in despair, when in the inner pocket of the vest Mr.
Campbell had worn on that memorable Christmas
night, he found a small diary or memorandum-book,
It contained notes of various business transactions
and appointments, besides many items that could in-
terest no one but the man himself.

Harold was disappointed, and sat slowly slipping
the leaves through his fingers, until he came to the
back cover. In this he discovered a pocket, and took
courage. He turned it upside down, shaking it
slightly, when one or two papers slipped out, to-
gether with a tiny envelope.

One of the papers proved to be a prescription
signed by the family physician, Dr. Edward Sargent.
Harold’s heart began to beat high with hope. 4

He next examined the envelope, and to his gréat
joy found the printed name of a certain druggist of
Boston upon it, and underneath it, written ina some-
what irregular hand, the following directions:

“Take one powder immediately after an attack, re-
peating every hour until relieved.”

Inside the envelope there were three powders, in-
closed in white paper.

A thrill of exultation ran through Harold Sturte-
vant’s nerves at this discovery, and for a moment he
felt sure that he held the proof of Edrie’s innocence
in his hands.

It was too late that night to do anything about the
matter, but the suspense was terrible. How slowly
the hours passed as he lay on his sleepless couch,
impatiently waiting for the dawn of day!

Harold said nothing to any one the next morning
regarding his discovery; but as soon as breakfast
was over he started for Boston, and entered the store
of the druggist whose name was printed on the en-
velope in his possession.

“T suppose you have copies.of all the prescriptions
that you put up,” he courteously remarked to the
man who came forward to wait upon him.

“Certainly; we are obliged to preserve copies of
everything of the kind,” was she equally courteous
reply of the gentlemanly druggist.

“Then will you kindly inform me of what ingre-
dients No. 4,932 was composed ?” Harold pursued.

The pharmacist regarded the young man with
astonishment.

“Are you sure you have not made a mistake in the
store ?” he asked.

“Oh, no,’’ Harold returned, and he read the name,
street and number from the envelope which he held
in his hand.

“But that prescription must have been put upa
great while ago to have so low a number as that.”

“Yes, sir, nearly two years ago,’ Harold answered,
quietly.

The man went into a room back of the store, but
returned almost immediately, bringing a book filled
with prescriptions.

Turning over the leaves until he came to the num-
ber which Harold had mentioned he remarked, after
examining it carefully.

“The prescription was a very simple one, to control
ague, and composed chiefly of quinine.”

“Ts your copy like this?’ Harold asked, passing
him Dr. Sargent’s prescription.

“Tt is an exact copy, sir,” the druggist replied.

“Do you always know quinine when you see it?”
Harold inquired, the light of hope gleaming in his
eyes.

“Oh, yes,” but the man’s face had a care-worn,
anxious expression as he said it.

“Does this paper contain quinine?’ and Harold
laid one of the powders in his possession upon the
show-case before the druggist.

Without a word the man unfolded the paper and
examined its contents.

A deadly paleness suddenly overspread his face,

“Good heavens!” hé exclaimed, in a shaking voice,-
“this is a heavy dose of morphine!”

“Enough to kill @ man?’ demanded Harold, in a
low, eager voice.

The pharmacist staggered back and leaned heavily
against the case of drawers behind him.

“Twice over!” he gasped. ‘Has any one died from
a dose of this?’ and his voice shook like an aged
man’s as he asked the question, while his distress
was pitiable to witness.

Harold felt reasonably sure of his ground now, but
nis heart and his pulses seemed beating like sledge-
hammers as he replied:

“Daniel Campbell died from the effects of one of
von powders; at least, I am very sure that he

id.

“Oh, I remember,” said the druggist, looking up
quickly; “it was said that he had been poisoned by
morphine; but that was a long time ago.”

“Yes; two years this coming Christmas.”

“But his death may not have been caused by one of
these powders,” said the druggist, with white, trem-
bling lips.

“There can be but very little doubt about it,” said
Harold. “How many powders does the prescription
call for?”

“Four,” replied the man, referring to his book.

“Here are three,’ returned Harold, laying the
other two beside the one he had already given the
man, and then he explained how he had found them
in a pocket of the suit which Mr. Campbell had worn
the night of his death.

“Well, but they may not have come from this
store,’ said the man, growing a trifle defiant. ~He
feared trouble for himself.

Harold quietly laid before him the envelope that
had contained the powders.

“This, with the prescription which I have, and the
copy you have, will prove where the powders came
from, I think,’’ he said, with calm assurance,

The druggist became so ghastly pale that for a mo-
ment Harold thought he was surely going to faint,

He pitied him deeply, and hastened to say:

“My dear sir, I did not come here with any inten-
tion of getting youinto trouble, but only to prove
what the powders are, for the sake of getting some
one else out of a serious difficulty. There has doubt-
less been a very graye blunder made by some one,
and its explanation may prove even more than I had
hoped it’ would. Mr. Campbell’s family have be-
lieved that he committed suicide; certain detectives
have believed that a young girl was guilty of poison-
ing him; but if it can be proved that a mistake was
made in putting up the prescription, both of these
theories will have to.be abandoned.”

The druggist was somewhat reassured by this ex-
planation, yet he still looked very mucb distressed.

“T never made such a mistake, sir. I know my
business thoroughly, and I eannot conceive how
morphine could have been put up for quinine,” he
said, thoughtfully.

“Ts this your writing on the envelope?” Harold
asked, pushing it toward him.

The man examined it. ;

“No, itis not. It is the writing of a clerk. Ah!”
he continued eagerly, and trembling with excite-
ment, as a light seemed suddenly to penetrate his
mind, “I remember—I understand it all now; I was
ill two years ago, for four weeks between Thanks-
giving and Christmas, and an assistant had to be
procured to help my clerk. He came well recom-
mended, and I supposed he was all right. This is
his writing—I will show you my books to prove it.”

He pointed out several entries in the same hand, to
prove his statement.

“More than that—look here,” he continued, his
face clearing still more.

He turned eagerly and pulled out two drawers be-
hind him. ;

“See!” he said, “this drawer is labeled ‘Quinine,’
and this one just above it ‘Morphine.’ Do you see
how easy it would be for one, not thoroughly ac-
quainted here, to make a mistake of that kind. The
clerk was doubtless careless—he thought he was put-
ting up quinine in harmless doses, when it was a
fatal portion of morphine, and they look so. nearly
alike that he did not distinguish between them. It
is dreadful. I—I am all unnerved by it sir, and I
shall henceforth keep these two drugs widely apart,
so that the same blunder can never be made again.
The clerk was a clever fellow, but, as this proves, he
must have been somewhat heedless. He went away
just as soon as I was able to get back to my business.
Poor boy! he is dead too, and perhaps it is a merey,;
for no doubt he would have suffered untold misery |
to — known that his carelessness had caused loss
of life.’’

Harold went directly to Edrieupon leaving the drug-
gist, and, the moment she saw his bright, trium-
phant face, she knew that he was the bearer of great
good news to her.

She sprang toward him with outstretched hands,
and he caught her to his breast, kissing her raptu-

as I told you I would, though I did not dream that
my task would be, comparatively, so easy. Lookup,
my love, and let me see the old bright smiles upon
your face—the glad and care-free light in your dear
eyes.”

“You—have—saved me!” Edrie breathed, as if she
could scarcely comprehend the meaning of the
words, and then she lay white and still upon his
breast.

She had fainted, for the second time in her life.

CHAPTER XXXYV.
DECISION OF THE GRAND JURY.

But Edrie’s faint lasted only afew moments. Almost
as soon as Harold laid her down upon the sofa she be-
gan to revive,

«What has happened ?” she asked, looking up at him
with wondering eyes.

“Something very, very good has happened to you, my
darling,” Harold returned, with a tender smile, as he

brought a glass of water, held it to her lips for her to

drink, and then bathed her temples with the cool
liquid. ‘Be calm, my Edrie,” he said, ‘‘andI will-tell
you all aboutit. With the evidence now in my posses-
sion you are as free from all suspicion of the charge
against youas Iam. I have discovered just how Mr.
Campbell died—there was no murder; there was no sul-
cide; it was all a terrible mistake, caused by the care-
lessness of a druggist’s clerk.”

He then related to her all that had occurred since he
left her the previous evening. ‘And now,” he said, in
conclusion. ‘‘all that remains to be done is to confide
this to your counsel who canapply to the district at-
torney to have the case dismissed.”

“Oh! and shall I not have to appear before that
dreadful jury after all!” Edrie cried, a look of reliet, that
was almost pathetic, leaping into her eyes.

“JT hope not—you are it] and worn-out with all this
worry and excitement, and not able to go into court,
and I am almost confident that the case can be quashed,
to use a technical term, and you will not need to be
made conspicuous.”

“Ob, Harold, how much I owe you! I can never be
grateful enough—how can I ever repay you?” Edrie
breathed, with a long drawn sigh of relief and content.

“By giving me this when I ask you for it,” he replied,
as he kissed one of the small white hands that he was
holding.

Edrie blushed a vivid scarlet ; then she lay grave and
thoughtful for a while.

At length she looked up, and there was acloud on her
white brow.

‘Harold, shall you want me to give up my profession?’
she asked, with an anxious glance at him,

‘Darling, I cannot have my wife public property, and
IT am in a fair way now to take care of you comfortably,
if not luxuriously; so that there will be no need of con-
tinuing your life upon the stage.”

‘A little regretful sigh fluttered from Edrie’s lips, and
the sound brought a look of pain to his face.

“Are you unwilling to resign your fame, Edrie?” he
asked. ‘Are you unwilling to give up the applause and
honors which you receive from the world, to come and
reign supreme in the home that I will make for you? do
you love your profession, darling, better than you love
me ?

“Oh, no, Harold, you know that I do not,” Edrie re-
turned, clinging to him, ‘‘but 1 do not feel that it would
be honorable in me to throw up my engagements. You
know—or perhaps you do not Know—that my contract
binds me for another year.”

“No, I did not know that; but perhaps your manager
will release you when he knows your reasons for wish-
ing it,” Harold sald, taking it for granted that, she was
as anxious as he was for her to sever her connection
with stage life.

“Possibly he might,” Edrie answered, thoughtfully,
«but I doubt it, and truly, Harold, 1 should not feel that
itewould be considerate or right for me to ask him. He
has been very kind in many ways, he has spared no ex-
pense to introduce me to the public, and if I leave him
now it will be a great injury to him financially. Dear
Harold, I think we will have to wait for a little and allow
matters to remain as they are for the present. 1 know
that it would not be right for me to leave my ‘manager
so unceremoniously. He expects me to fulfill my con-
tract with him, aiid I feel bound todo so. After that I
will willingly give up my musical career and come to
you. If you will take a disinterested view of the matter
I feel sure that you will agree with me that I am right
in deciding thus.”

Harold knew that he had asked a great deal of her;
her word was pledged, her own prospects were at their
brightest, and his conscience told him that he would
wrong both her and her manager by insisting upon her
acceding to his wishes. Still, it was no light trial to him
to contemplate waiting a whole year before he could
claim his wife, and be looked both troubled and disap-
pointed,

At a later hour that day there was a meeting between
Haroid, Mr. Richagds, and Professor Reiffenberg, and
atter a brief convegsation the three gentlemen repaired
at once to the office of Edrie’s counsel and held a long
consultation with iim.

He was jubilant Over Harold’s discoveries, for he had
become deeply interested in his fair client, although un-
S now he had telt sure that the trial would go against

er,

The next morning Edrie’s friends, and with them
the druggist whom Harold had brought as a witness,
went before the grand jury, and in the presence of the
district attorney gave all the evidence bearing upon the
ease as if is already known to the reader. The result
was a complete exoneration of Edrie, and hence a
quashing of the indictment, all the testimony unmistak-
ably proving thasyr. Campbeli’s death was the result of
a blunder oy tk mcless drug eierk,

As Mr. Richards was about to leave the court-house
his attention was attracted by a figure which had a fa-
miliar appearance, crouching in the corridor, as if
shrinking from observation.

“That rascal Page, { do believe !” he muttered, setting
his white teeth resolutely together. ‘Well, we are
well met for once,’’-Saying which he marched deliberate-
ly up to the man.

At his approach Tom Page, for it was he, lifted a face
so deathly white, and so expressive of defeated malice
and vindictiveness, that Mr. Richards involuntarily re-
coiled for a moment.

“Well, sir, what are you doing here ?” he demanded,
in a stern tone aud quickly recovering himself.

The wretch assumed an air of defiance.

“The court-house is a public place, and anybody can
come here to witness a case of public interest,” he re-
torted, sullenly.

«What possible interest could this case have for you ?”
Mr. Richards questioned, knowing well enough, yet
wishing to hear what he would say.

The man gave a short, significant laugh.

“Miss Brown could inform you upon that point; she
could tell you that she never would have been arrested
but for me,” he retorted, with a wicked leer.

“Yes, I know it. 1 have seen that vile note that you
wrote her; and so you came on from New York hoping
to see her convicted, and to glory in her downfall,” re-
marked Mr. Richards quietly, but there was something
ominous in his very quietness.

“} was bound to be even with her for the slight she
had given me,” returned Tom Page, grinding his teeth
angrily.

«You call it a slight because a lady, a thousand times
your superior, refuses to stoop to marry a low-born cur
like you, do you?” demanded Mr. Richards, in a tone
that quivered with suppressed passion. ;

“Look here! you'd better have a care how you Call
names,” retorted his companion, flushing and bridling;
“but she might go farther and fare worse, and as for
being low-born, I imagine we’re about equal on that
score. lf I’m not mistaken, Miss Brown can't lay claim
to any very exaited position in point of birth,” he con-
cluded, ironically,

Mr. Richards took no notice of this slur, although his
lips twitched spasmodically.

“Are you in Boston for any length of time?” he de-
manded.

“No, my business is still in New York.”

“Then take my advice,” returned Mr. Richards,in a
warning tone, ‘‘ get back to New York without any un-
necessary delay and stay there; never let me see your
face in Boston again, or it wiil be the worse for you.”

“Really, now,” sneered the fellow, defiantly, ‘‘ain’t
you rather arbitrary in your demands? This is a free
country, I believe, and a man may go where he likes.”

“Tt may not be a free country long, for you, if you do
not heed what I tell you,” responded his companion, in
a calm but terrible voice. ‘You call yourself Tom Page,
but—you have been known to sign the name of Philip
Prouty to a certain paper which I have seen.”

It was almost ludicrous to see how the boorish fellow
collapsed at this startling statement.

His usually florid face paled to the hue of death, and
he actually seemed to shrink and shrivel to half his
natural size beneath the gaze of his stern accuser.

He sank back breathless upon a bench at one side of
the corridor, his bravado all gone, while his frightened,
staring eyes were fixed with a look of terror upon the
man before him. :

“How—how do you know >—whpat do you mean ?” he
cried, in shaking voice. "

A little gieam of amusement shone in Mr. Richards’
eyes, for he saw that the man would be like wax in his
hands after that.

: he he continueéin a tone no less impressive than
eiore :

‘{f havea friendin New York. by the name of Philip
Prouty. He is a wealthy merchant, and it isnot many
weeks since he told me a little story that especially
claimed my interest. A young man. by the name of
Page, not many months ago, forged his name, and was
caught in the act of presenting the bogus check at the
bank, for the gentleman is one of the directors and hap-
pened to be in the building at that time, and the
cashier, having a suspicion of the young man who pre-
sented the check, submitted it to Mr. Prouty, and the
fraud was thus discovered.

“The fellow Page would have been arrested on the
spot, but for his humble confession and plea that it was
his ‘first offence.’ My friend is a kind and philanthropic
man; he madeinquiries concerning the offender, and
learned that he had always been regarded as honest by
his employers, who considered him an unusually pro-
gressive young man, and prized him for his: energy
and enterprise. So my friend forgave him the crime
upon his promising never to sin in like manner again.
Do you recognize the story, Mr. Page? I perceive you
do, and I see that it has itsinfluence upon you. Let me
further state that the bogus check is still in existence.
Would you like to see it? My. friend gave‘it to me, at
my request. after I had related to him something of Miss

 

 

rously, first upon one cheek and then upon the other.
“My darling, I have succeeded. I have saved you,

Brown’s history and your persecution of her.”
Mr, Richards drew.a wallet from an inside pocket as

 

he spoke, and taking a folded paper from it, held it up
so that Tom Page could read a name that was written
across its back.

The fellow gazed at it, alook of blank terror on his
face, while he trembled so that his knees actually
knocked together.

«And so I tell you,” Mr. Richards went on, as he care-
fully restored the paper to the wallet, and replaced it in
his pocket, ‘‘to go back to New York, where your busi-
ness is, and stay there ; and further, if you ever pre-
sume to address or in any way annoy Miss Brown again,
this check shall be produced against you and you shall
suffer the severest penalty of the law for your crime.”

Mr. Richards turned abruptly as he concluded, and
walked from the court-house, while the trembling
wretch whom he left behind, as soon as he could collect
himself sufficiently to do so, nimbly made his way out
of an opposite door. That afternoon the three o’clock
fast express on the Boston and Albany line bore Tom
Page back to New York, and neither Edrie nor Mr.
Richards ever saw him again.

A year or two later, however, they read his name in
the list of the dead who were found beneath the
smoldering ruins of a tenement-house, where he had
doubtless boarded, and which had been consumed by
fire in the middle of the night.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Do you want to read a charming Love Story? If
so, ask your Newsdealer for No. f8 of THE SELECT
SERIES, which contains the complete story of ‘‘Rosa-
MOND; Or, SUNDERED HEARTS,” by Mrs. Alex. Me-
Veigh Miller. Price 25 cents.

alii: die
—ip>- 2 -e-

[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 XV.
IS IT A GHOST?

8 the wounded lioness rushes to
\ “>, its lair to die, so poor Lena,
——, with the same instinct, stag-
*\ gered back to Elmwood-Hall.
It was the only home she had
ce <7 } there, and she was too unhappy
Kes 27 and bewildered to think that
SRR

    
 
 
    
  

B < it was Ira’s residence.
M\fe Indeed, had she done so, she
’ would not have been kept from
' going there; for, all unconscious
of his treachery, she only re-
membered that he had said he loved her when Philip
had treated her so scornfully.
To her it did not seem strange that the young man
had taken her to that lonely bank to tell her he cared
for her, or that he had kissed her, for she was too
wretched to think clearly of anything.

She only felt; with a blank despair, that Philip had
ceased to love her.

“T have been over-bold in showing him that I love
him,” she thought, ‘‘and he is disgusted with me.”
She was fortunate in entering the house unob-
served, and, gaining her own chamber, she threw
herself upon her bed, and giared at the ceiling with
dry-eyed despair.

Not one tear came to soften the hard feelingin her
heart, though all her youth seemed to have gone
from her when the morning light fell over the apart-
ment.

She rose mechanically as the dressing bell sounded,
and made her toilet for the day; but when she at-
tempted to go down to the dining-room her heart re-
volted, and she sent word to her hostess by a waitress
— she was not well, and did not want any break-

ast.

Lena remembered, with a thankful feeling, that
Gwendolin had spent the previous 1fight at the rec-
tory, and that the kindly girl was to be absent until
Thursday.

“T shall not have to answer her well-meant in-
quiries about my health until to-morrow, for which I
am very glad, as I want to be alone,’ thought the
poor girl. -

And she was delighted when a maid brought her a
message from madam that she was obliged to go
out, but that She hoped Lena would’ ‘make herself
comfortable, and order anything she needed.

The lady said that her guest must on no account
leave her room for luncheon if she were ill. She
would be alone in the house, and the meal could be
served in her apartment without any trouble.

We have said that Lena was thankful to be alone,
but she would have been alarmed had she known
that Madame Throckmorton had not left the dwell-
ing that day; and, intruth, was seated in her luxuri-
ous boudoir plotting how she could force her guest
to marry fra.

The young man had told her of Philip’s threat, and
the woman realized that her son was in a critical
situation.

“Something must be done,” she told herself. ‘“Itis
now positively necessary, for Ira’s personal safety,
that Lena shall marry him within thirty days, but
how can he make her consent to the marriage?”

Bowing her head in her hands, this woman gaye
herself up to thought, till, at the end of an hour, she
started up triumphantly, exclaiming:

“T believe Isee the way! Oh,if I have only re-
tained my former skill at imitating handwritings I
am safe. Yes, I ean easily mislead her if I can get
her to believe her father has written me. I must find
his last note and see if I willbe able to make a fac-
simile of his letters.”

She hastened to her writing-desk, and from a secret
drawer drew out a sheet of note-paper, on which was
some crabbed writing, that she carefully scanned.

After a few moments she took up her pen and imi-
tated one line, and her eyes became luminous as she
compared it with the original.

“It isexactly like it,” she said, in a breathless way.
“Now [ must pen a letter to myself which will dis-
courage that girl.”

She buried her head again, and became so en-
grossed with her own thoughts that shé was quite
unconscious of her maid’s entrance, until the girl
said for the third time: :

‘‘Madam, what dress will you wear this evening ?’

Her mistress looked up indignantly, and asked:

“What do you mean by disturbing me when I am
busy? Go away, and leave me alone!”

The maid retired to the door, but as she turned the
knob her lady’s sharp voice arrested her egress, by
ealling:

“Mary, I wish you to go to Miss Lena’s apartment,
and tell herif she feels well enongh that I would
like to have her come to my boudoir this evening,
about eight o’clock. Inform herthat I have some-
thing especial to say to her.”

The girl bowed, but as she went out she muttered:

“Tt must be something very especial, from the ex-
pression of your face. My lady, you have some
secret a preyin’ on your mind, for you have looked
as if you were planning a murder forthe last month,
and you’ve been that fretful anybody but me would
@ givin’ you warning long ago. I wish I could get at
the bottom of the trouble, for I'd have the old lady
right under my thumb if I could. I’ve heard of girls
as made a life-long place by jest findin’ out some
little misdeed of their missus’ young days. I must
try to learn what vexes madam about this poor
miss.

As she spoke, the maid tapped on Lena’s door, and
presently stood in the young lady’s presence, and de-
livered her message.

Seeing that she looked very miserable, the good-
hearted servant voluntarily offered to come and
assist her to dress before it was time for Lena to go
to madam.

“Thank you,” said Lena; “you are very kind, but I
shall notneed you, for there is nothing the matter
with me to-night.”

“Then there will be,’ thought the girl; ‘for if
madam don’t mean you mischief I am mistaken.”

She did not speak her thoughts aloud, but some-
thing warned Lena that she was about to undergo a
triai, as she tapped on madam’s door at the ap-
pointed hour.

Her hostess’ voice bade her enter, and Lena pres-
ently stood in the richly furnished apartment, feel-
ing nervous and unhappy, but utterly unprepared
for the frightful scene she was about to witness.

Mrs. Throckmorton was seated by a small round-
table, on which stood a lamp, whose dim rays cast a
feeble light over the vast chamber.

Madam was clad in a somber black robe, and her
costume, as well as the single illumination, had been
chosen to depress Lena.

Even the schemer’s voice was sorrowful as she in-
quired after Lena’s health, and requested her to be
seated.

Lena saw at once that the lady had something to
tell her, and she sank into a chair, and asked,
abruptly :

‘Why did you send for me, madam?”

Her hostess gave a nervous cough as she prepared
to tell her story.

“My dear Lena,” she said, ‘“‘your illness to-day tells

 

me that your doubts about your father-have preyed

| upon your mind, until your health has given way ;
|

and your apparent misery has decided me to putan ° ~

| end to your uncertainty.
| letter from your father.”
“Is it possible?” gasped the girl.
‘““You shall read it for yourself,’ declared madam.
‘But before you do so, for fear it may cause you to des-
| pair, I wish you to know that my noble son, Ira, has
) given you his love, and wishes to make you his wife,
in spite of your disgraced name.”

“The letter,” whispered Lena. ‘Oh, let me see it?”

Madam put her hand in her pocket and drew forth
a couple of sheets of note-paper, which she handed
to Lena, remarking:

“You will recognize the handwriting.”

as girl glanced at the pages and turned ghastly
white.

“Tt is my father’s!” she faltered, “and I had begun
to fear that he might be dead.”

‘Read what he says,” commanded madam.

Poor Lena, however, was too agitated to obey at
once; but, presently, curiosity to learn what her
father had written to this woman, caused her to read
the following words:

“My DEAR WIFE :—Without doubt you will be sur-
prised to hear from me after my long silence, but
many reasons have combined to keep me from writ-
ing to you for the past eighteen years. To tell the
truth I have been living like asavage out here where
every one is uncultivated. I pretended to marry a
woman in Texas some nineteen years ago, and our
daughter almost gaye me into the hands of our old
enemy, Phil Brown. His son came down here, mas-
querading under the name of Royallieu, and when he
wanted to marry my girl his father naturally in-
quired who I was. I chanced to learn his identity
first, and, of course, the only refuge I had was flight.
TI left San Antonio on the double-quick, and I am here
in Tubac, Arizona, without money or friends. I have
taken a new name and mean to live straight if I can;
but you must send me some funds, All you have is
mine, remember. I shall want.a thousand dollars by
the end of the month. I think you can raise it by
that time. I shall change my residence next week,
and asI have not decided where I shall go, I will
write you before the thirtieth to let you know where
to send the money.

“Tell Gwendolin that I need it, and she will see
that it comes.

“T wish I could meet you again, Carry. I have never
loved any woman as I loved you. Believe this, and
that I am ever most affectionately yours,

“ANTHONY THROCKMORTON.”

Lena read’ this letter through twice, then closed
her eyes and leaned back in her chair as if faint. |

Madame Throckmorton’s cruel black eyes glittered
with triumphant hatred, as she murmured:

“You see, Lena, that you no longer have any reason
to doubt that your father purposely deserted your
mother. You have read in his own handwriting
that he is not only a rogue, but a wicked man, who is
wholly indifferent to your suffering. You see that
he is not dead, but alive and well, and thoroughly
evilin his—— Heaven, whatis that!”

Her last words were a shriek, for close beside them,
loudly, shrilly, in tones that seemed to curdle the
blood in their veins, asupernatural voice had said:

“Ha! ha! ha!’

The strange sound was followed by a heavy bang,
as if the whole side of the house had fallen in.

“Great Heaven, itis his ghost! I know his voice!
He has come here to haunt me for my double sin
against him!” screamed madam, iu an agony of
fright, making a dash toward Lena.

As she did so the little table on which thelamp was
burning tumbled to the ground with a crash, and the
room was enshrouded in darkness.

Madam fell in a dead faint at Lena’s feet, and
glancing about her the girl suddenly became aware
that a pair of bright eyes were shining on her
through the darkness.

“Speak!” she gasped.
father ?”

Child, to-day I received a

“Yell me, are you my

 

CHAPTER XVI.
LENA FINDS A FRIEND,

In an agony of doubt, not unmingled with fear, Lena
waited to receive her answer, that she might know
whether madam had spoken truly when she cried :

“Jt is his ghost !”

“Surely she meant father’s, for we were talking of
him at that moment,” muttered the girl.

Just then her strained eyes saw something moving
in the shadowy corner. It approached her, and with
a feeling of awe she waited to hear herself addressed.

“What amItolearn? Is the mystery of my father’s
fate about to be explained ?” she wondered.

She could see the gleam of a pair of eyes, which, to her
affrighted senses, seemed-to be red in the darkness, and
she waited, in wild hope and fear, for what was to come.

There was a slow tread, a rustling sound, then, as she
realized how close to her this apparition was, an icy
hand seemed to clutch Lena’s heart and she closed her
eyes, as if to gather strength for what was to come.

When she opened them whatever had been there was
gone.

She stared wildly at the place where it was, but only
the richly papered wall met her view; the gleamin
eyes, the shadowy figure, the rustling movement h
vanished.

“Wasitaman, woman, or spirit?’ she questioned,
and, full of curiosity, dashed into madam’s dressing-
room and seized a fairy-lamp burning there, then re-
turned to the boudoir and glanced around her.

The first thing she beheld was a couple of massive
mahogany doors lying on the floor; they belonged to an
antique wardrobe, which had béen in the Throckmorton
family for five generations, and instead of being hung
with hinges, swung on iron spikes, which went in the
wood-work, by lifting the top above them.

Of course if any one raised the top accidentally, the
doors fell out, and there they were stretched on the
mossy carpet like shining pieces of black marble. °-

«Their fall made the noise we heard,” thought Lena.
“But what caused them to tumble? Who was the per-
son that screamed, and that I saw ?”

AS she questioned, Lena recalled madam’s exclama-

ii

tion : :

‘Tt is his voice, and he has come back to haunt me for
my double sin against him.” :

“What can she have meant?” wondered the girl, bend-
ing over the silent figure on the floor.

Madam was still unconscious, and Lena, with many
self-reproaches that she had not given her more atten-
tion, went to the bell and rang for the lady’s maid.

AS several moments passed and no one responded to
the summons, Lena ran into the hall and called loudly.
for assistance.

Her cry soon brought [ra and several servants to the
corridor, and everybody inquired in a breath:

“What has happened ?”

“Madam has fainted,” answered Lena, leading the
way back to the boudoir. ‘I rang for her maid, but re-
ceiving no answer I was obliged to call, for the lady re-
quires attention.”

«Where is her maid, that she does not reply to the
bell ?” angrily asked Ira, turning to the servants. ‘Some
of you lift your mistress on to the sofa, and send John
for the doctor.”

“Jf I could only find some sal volatile, or cologne, I
do not think a physician would be necessary,” said Lena,
as the servants placed the lady on the couch.

“I suppose nobody knows where they are but mother’s

 

maid, and, ®y George, I’ll teach her to be here when she
is called, henceforth,” said Ira, angrily, dashing from
the apartment.

He was a man who had not the least idea of allowing
bese geen to be regarded as anything but beasts of

urden.

«People who are paid to labor have no right to have
any feeling,” he often said.

Now he hurried across the hall to the servants’ quar-
ters with a dark frown on his face, till he suddenly
encountered a kneeling figure and saw it was the
recreant maid.

«What in thunder are you doing here ?” he inquired,
sharply. ‘Haven’t you heard your lady’s bell ?”

“N., sir; but Istarted to go to her a few moments
ago, and just asI got to her door I heard a most hor-
rible yell, and it frightened me so that I turned to run,
but hit myself against a hall chair, and am badly
hurt,

saw the girl was pale with pain. ‘I don’t believe one
word ofit. You are lying because you are afraid you
will lose your place ; but, mark me, if you again failin
your duty, you shall leave us without any warning.”
“If my lady is willing, I am,” muttered the maid.
‘Don’t talk back to me, or Pll teach you better man-
ners,” shouted Ira, striding toward her with a fierce

look.

The girl shrank from him, fearing he would strike
her, but he only pointed down the corridor and com-
manded :

“Go to your mistress ; she needs your attention.”

Without uttering a word she obeyed him, but not
pty fierce anger rising in her heart against him
and his.

While she procured madam’s smelling-salts and
cologne, and helped to restore her to her senses, this
girl regarded Lena fixedly, and wondered :

“Shall I tell her, or not ?”

Even as she asked, madam opened her eyes and re-
quested a glass of water.

“Tl get it,” said Lena, “for I see you have hurt your
foot, Mary.”

The maid’s lips quivered while the young lady moved
away, and she muttered :

“7 will do it!”

As Lena returned to madam and handed her the glass
of water, the lady drank it eagerly, then asked:

“‘My dear, who uttered that terrible cry which so
startled me when I fainted ?”

“Wedo not know, but the erash was caused by the
wardrobe doors, which have fallen to the floor and
broken the glass in their panels,”

“Why, how did that happen? Whocould have been
in there ?”

“I have no idea,” replied Lena; then, bending her
head, she gazed in madam’s eyes earnestly, and queried :
“Whom did you think it was, madam ?”

She inquired that she might know whether it was of
her father that this woman had been speaking when
rs ae the strange words which preeeded her

aint.

“To what sin did she refer, and why should madam
believe father. would haunt her, if she knows that he
is alive ?” Lena wondered; and something of her eager
curiosity was revealed in her eyes a8 she fixed them on
her hostess, ‘

 

“A pretty excuse!” brutally exclaimed Ira, though he -

 

 

 

  

 

 

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VOL. 44—No. a7.

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 8

 

 

The woman met her gaze, and saw from its anxiety
that a great deal depended on her answer; so she
thought a momeut before she said:

“T was thinking of my first husband when I cried out,
‘It is his voice, and he has come back to haunt me for
my double sin against him.’”

Lena's face showed she was disappointed by this
speech, and her hostess regarded her with half-closed
eyes as she continued:

“You will understand what I meant when I tell you
I never loved Mr. Chancellor, and always felt my second
marriage was a Sin against his memory.”

Lena accepted this statement in silence, for she did
not believe it.

“J think,” said madam, just then. ‘1 would like to re-
tire if you will leave me alone with Mary.”

“Good-night,’” murmured Lena, rising at once; but
she paused to say a few kindly words to the white-faced
maid before she quitted the apartment, never thinking
that by so doing she would greatly affect her future.

Lena slept but little that night, for she was in a state
of great perplexity about the strange incident which
had so alarmed madam ? ~

She had gained no clew to the mystery the next day,
when, atter luncheon, she prepared to go fora walk. As
she adjusted her hat she heard a faint tap on the door,
and in response to her low ‘Come in,” madam’s maid
entered.

«Well, Mary,” said Lena, kindly, “how is your foot
to-day ?”

At this word of sympathy the girl’s lips quivered, and
she said:

“Sure, miss, you are the only one that has thought of
it, and Lam glad I came here to do you a kindness.”

“You are going to do me a kindness!” reiterated
Lena, astonished.

“Yes, miss; I made up my mind that I would when
you got me that glass of water for madam last evening ;
and if you willsit down I will tell you what I know.”

Lena sank into a.seat, and murmured : :

«You must sit, too, on account of your foot; rest there,”
she added, firmly, when she saw the girl was about to
refuse.

“Thank you,” Said Mary, gratefully, taking a chair;
then, after a moment’s pause, she continued, uneasily :

“You must -not think me too bad if ‘I tell you thatlI
know all about why you are here. I know, also, that
madam hates you because she fears you. I went into her
room yesterday to ask her what dress she would wear
to dinner, and there she sat, witha sheet of note paper
before her, on which were a few written words, and she
would copy a letter from it, and then look a long while
at another; and you could not have told her writing
from the one she was imitating. 1 never saw anything
like it in my life. [ could not imagine why she was
doing it, but when I heard her read it to you last night,
I knew in a minute why she had taken the trouble.
She wanted to make you believe the letter was your
father’s.”

“How came you to hear her read it ?” gasped Lena.

“Sure, miss, if you tell, she will want to murder me.
But I made up my mind I would know her little game;
so I hid myself in her wardrobe to hear what she would
tell you, when you came in the evening. Just as she
got to the part about your father being a villain, a hor-
rid mouse darted across her dresses right over my face,
and then I gave the yell which so scared you all; andl
leaped up against the top of the cupboard with such
force that the doors fell out, and, striking my foot,
lamed me.

“And those were your eyes I saw, which looked like
red jewels ?” asked Lena, who could not help laughing
to think of the fright they had had trom such a simple
cause.

“Yes, miss,” replied Mary, “and madam did not tell
you a word of truth about that letter. Isaw her write
some of the words in it, so it is no wonder she thought
she was haunted by your father’s ghost when I
shrieked.” ;

“Great Heaven, if this is true, what am I to think!”
questioned Lena, with an excitement that was almost
awe,

“You are frightened to think she is so bad ?”

“Yes, yes, and—did you read that sheet from which
she copied ?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember much aboutit. I was so
surprised to see her copying the writing that I did not
think of the words.”

“Can’t you recall any of them ?” begged Lena, for she
knew if the girl could, that her father’s relationship to
madam might be explained.

“There was something in it,” Mary said, slowly,
“about madam being surprised to hear from him after
all these years. He said he had just heard his father
was dead, and that he must meet her to settle their
property. I did notread any more, for she looked up
and saw me.”

“Oh, if you only had I would know all,” groaned Lena.
“T would give ten years of my life to obtain that letter.”

Her earnest tone struck a chord of sympathy in the
girl’s heart, and she said, quickly :

“I thought you would want to see it, and I have

lanned a way to have you get it. If you say so, lll steal
oe madam’s desk to-night, after everybody is in

ed.

Lena stared at the temptress in bewilderment, and
hesitated before she spoke.

Is it not written, ‘‘He who hesitates is lost ?”

Alas! poor Lena well might have been appalled by her
future, so it was no wonder she looked frightened, while
she gazed at Mary and mentally questioned :

“What can I tell her to do 2?”

CHAPTER XVII.
‘SHE IS HIS LOVE, AFTER ALL.”

Lena was conscious that a crisis in her life had come.

The possession of that letter meant a revelation of her
— past—meant her mother's future happiness or
misery,
She knew it would tell her (what she sought to learn
above all else in the world) whether her father were the
noble man she had respected and loved, or the base
creature madam had pictured.

“} would risk my life to read it,” she thought. Yet she

hesitated about_consenting to Mary’s plan of securing |
it,

" She reasoned that she was beneath madam’s roof;
that she had partaken of the woman’s hospitality, and
the idea of rifling her desk seemed hideous to her.

Her high sense of honor recoiled from the thought, as
it would have done from a lie, and she at last said, im-
pulsively :

“No, no, you must not do this; good could not come
from such evil conduct.”

“But, miss, she has deceived you, lied to you, and you
would only outwit her. Allis fair in love and war.”

“Oh, do not tempt me!” implored Lena. ‘I want the
letter so, I can scarcely resist stealing it myself. Butl
must not—no, no, no!”

Her evident agitation distressed the maid.

“Tl tell you what, miss, she said. ‘You go and take
a long walk, and think about this, and [licomein this
evening and hear what you want me to do.”

‘How good you are!” cried Lena, impulsively taking
the girl's hand. ‘1 do not know why you are so kind to
me.’

“Because you are a real lady, and not above thinking
a poor person has some feeling,” answered Mary. ‘You
and Miss Gwendolin are the only ones that have spoken a
nice word to me since I have been in the house; and
one expects goodness from such a saint as she is, but
you—you’re just as jolly as anybody else, so it is more
surprising in you.”

«| intend to follow your advice,” said Lena. ‘‘I shall
go for a walk, and when I come back I'll tell you what I
have decided to do.”

«That is right, miss,” said the girl, ‘‘But one moment.
Here I’ve been talkin’ sol ent rely forgot what I came
here for ; it was to give you this letter, which the post-
man just brought.”

As she spoke she handed Lena an envelope, at which
ae lady had only to glance to know.it was from
lilda.

“This is the one mother told me to expect, and which
is to tell me all about Philip,” she thought, as she said
aloud, ‘“Thank you, Mary.”

She scarcely waited for the girl to leave the room be-
fore she tore off the enyelope, and read what Hilda had
written.

She learned from the epistle that General Royallieu
had called on Mrs. Ramon, and had informed her of
Philip’s accident, but that from his manner and afew
words he had spoken, both the lady and her adopted
daughter had been led to believe that the young man
had shot himself purposely.

“Tf he did try to kill himself,” Hilda wrote, “I know
the reason. Your mother was called from the room for
a moment, and the general told me that his son, in his
deliriums, had repeatedly begged you to forgive him,
even if he could not love you. The general asked me if
I thought you loved his son, and whenI said yes, he
shook his head, and insisted that I should tell you,
‘Philip does not return your affection.’ He hinted at
something which it would be egotistical for me to
write you.”

Lena clenched her teeth as she read this, for she
knew Hilda intended to intimate that the general had
said Philip loved her,

“Can it be. so?” drearily wondered the girl, thinking of
Philip’s coldness to her,

Putting away the thought, she read the end of Hilda's
note, which stated; :

“Your mother is so worried at the idea of your being
away off there with strangers, that she has begged her
brother to give her money enough to send me to take
care of you. I shall start by the end of April, unless we
hear before that you are coming back.

‘Lena, I wonder whether you recognize the fact that
your mother is utterly without funds? In her old age
she is threatened with poverty unless you and [ can find
some way to support her. We must do so, for her
brother becomes colder to her every day.”

Lena star. d atthe letter as if it were a serpent that
had stung her, ;

‘Poor little mother, to think of her struggling with
poverty!’ she groaned. ‘i must do something for her,

ut what ?”

A yoice seemed to hiss in her ear:

“If Philip is false, why do you not marry Ira, and so
insure your mother a comfortable old age ?”

Shuddering, the girl put the suggestion from her, and
rising, went out in the street.
—It was a beautiful April day, and the air was heavy
with perfume from budding flowers.
- Lena wended her way down toward the river, and as
she saw it sparkling before her, she felt a yearning de-
sire to go out on its bosom.

She had rowed and sailed a boat ever since she was a
little child, so she felt no fear of the water, and perceiy-

ingan old man mending a net near a row-boat, she

went up to him and asked if she might hire it.

“No, but Pll let you use it for a couple of hours,” re-
turned the sturdy fellow, giving her an admiring glance.

Then he picked up a pair of oars beside him, and
having placed them in the little craft, proceeded to
loosen it from its mooring.

He cut Lena’s thanks short by saying:

“You remind me of my granddaughter, who died last
year, so you're welcome. And now be Careful when the
steamers come that they don't catch you in their swell,
for you’ll be swamped if they do.”

oo be careful,” promised Lena, as she glided over the
tide.

The soft lapping of the water seemed to soothe her,
and she muttered :

“It is evident that Mary is right. Madam hates me,
and she must have some occult reason in wishing me to
marry Ira, and for traducing my father. She has proved
that she thinks all is fair in love and war, by copying
that letter, so why should I not take advantage of the
opportunity I have to disconcert her plans ?”

She bowed her head upon her hand in her soliloquy,
and her oars lay forgotten at her feet.

“It seems dishonorable,” she soliloquized, ‘‘and in any
other case it would be; but I feel it is my duty to my
father to gain possession of that letter, and to learn all I
can about him. Then I will know what plans to follow
for the future. If father is the evil creature madam
makes out, I should be very grateful to Ira for asking
me to marry him, and it would be best for me to become
his wife for mother’s sake, and yet——”

Yet she felt that stealing the coveted epistle would be
horribly dishonorable.

“It is like stabbing a person in the back to stay in her
house and take advantage of her,” she thought.

At this moment a loud whistle close beside her caused
her to look up, and she beheld a steamer bearing down
upon her. .

She had been so engrossed with her thoughts, that
she had been totally unconscious of its approach, until
the bow almost touched her.

They had not seen her till too late to alter their course,
but now she heard a shout which commanded her
attention.

«Pull to the right—pull for your life!” cried Philip,
and, looking up, she saw him on the shore, gesticulating
toward her.

He had been watching her for several moments, and
now, aS her eyes met his, the great steamer slowly
loomed up between them, then glided on, leaving a
whirlpool of foam behind her, and a little craft floatitig
bo tom up On the bosom of the heaving river.

«The steamer did not strike the boat, but it was up-
set by the swell!” joyously exclaimed Philip, as he saw
it. Then he questioned: ‘‘Where is Lena?”

Just then he saw her dress floating on the water, but
she was not swimming, and as he knew she could do so,
he understood she was injured.

In an instant his coat and shoes were lying on the
sand, and he was dashing through the water to her
rescue.

All his doubts -were forgotten; in this moment of
peril he only felt that he would give his life to save hers,
for she was his love after all.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WHAT WILL THEY THINK OF HER?

The task was difficult even for an expert swimmer,
for the waves were tossing furiously, and after he
had started from the shore the wind seemed to blow
in a perfect gale.

 

 

The opposition vf the elements would have driven

| back any less determined man, but Phillp thought that

. the woman he loved might die, and clenching his teeth,
went on, after conquering the death-like weakness
which threatened him with insensibility.

He had utterly forgotten, in his anxiety to save her,
that he had given Lena to Ira. He only knew he loved
her with his whole heart, and that his future would be
miserable if she died.

His weak arm seemed to gain vigor at the thought,

}and he swam on till he drew near the spot where he
had perceived her.

When he reached her, he saw she was unconscious.

A slight red mark on her temple showed where the boat |

had struck her asit turned, rendering her senseless, and
placing her at the mercy of the waves.

Philip raised the slight figure on his arm, to permit
i head to rest on his shoulder, and returned to the
shore.

It was a tedious task, for he was still weak from his
recent illness, and his burden was a dead weight on his
injured shoulder.

When he arrived on terra jirma he sank down so ut-
terly exhausted that for a few moments he did not know
anything except that the pain of his wound produced a
deadly nausea.

But the fresh air soon revived his senses, and he
opened his eyes to behold Lena’s cold, white face at his
feet. With a pang of remorse that he had not been able
to take better care of her than to leave her wet and un-
conscious on the sand, he bent over her, and tried to
revive her by all the simple remedies he knew.

As he rubbed her little hands he noticed, with a
strange thrill, that they were painfully thin, and an ac-
cusing voice seemed to say to him:

“Perhaps it is your harshness that has caused her
to suffer !”

The thought-made him sad and joyous. He was sorry
that she should have felt pain, but happy to think that
perhaps she had cared enough for him to grieve.

“Poor little thing!” he thought, as he saw her lying
so helpless beside -him ; “I “wonder if I may not have
misjudged her ? Perhaps she might have explained why
she met Ira on the beach, but I never gave her any
chance to tell me why she was there. Like a madman,
I condemned her without listening to her explanation.
But I will hear all she wishes to say to me now. I will
undo the past by being everything that is generous and
kind to the poor child; and even if her own lips tell me

hat she is false

He paused, with a look of anguish, and pressed the
slim form he had raised from the ground to his breast
| tighter, as he felt he could not give her up.

“Tf 1 find she is false, I must leave here to-morrow,
and go away where I will never even hear her name,” he
muttered fiercely. ‘Ah, why is it that I love her better
than I deemed it possible that a man could love a
woman. ?”

Full of such thoughts, he impulsively bent and kissed
her fair forehead as it rested on his shoulder. At-this
moment her eyelids fluttered open, and her lips parted
with a long sigh.

Surely some evil genius must have hovered over her
at this moment, for, not being able to see Philip, she be-
lieved he was Ira, and, full of reproach, her voice rang
out:

“Tra! oh, Ira!”

Philip started as if he had been stung.

“Even in death her thoughts are all of him!” he
thought, and jealousy sprang into life again and crushed
out all sympathy for her.

For the second he almost hated her, and abruptly
placing her against a log, he rose, and motioned some
fishermen who were approaching, to come nearer. AS
they did so, he slowly walked away, a prey to the most
bitter thoughts.

Utterly unconscious of what she had done, but sur-
prised to find her position suddenly changed,
looked around to see who had put her down so abruptly,
and beheld Philip.

“You!” she cried, in astonishment.
me, Philip ?”

her. ‘There are some men approaching, who will
hear you.”

She did not hear him.

“Tell me,” she exclaimed, ‘‘Did you risk your life to
save mine ?”

“Yes!” he declared, with jealous vehemence:

«his words were a command for her to wed his rival.

friend.

‘Every time we meet he tries to show his indifference
to me,” she murmured. ‘Hilda must be right. He
cannot love me.”

Just as she arrived at this conclusion, the old man
from whom she had obtained the boat came up to her,
and said :

“You gave me a pretty bad scare, miss, when
thought the steamer was going over you.
hurt ?”

“No, but I am afraid the boat is,” replied the girl, sit-
ting up.

“No, she isn’t; she drifted ashore about five minutes
ago, just as sound as she ever was. One oar is in, and
the other will be herein afew minutes; so you see you
have nothing to worry about but yourself, and I advise
you to get home just as fast as you can, and put on dry
clothes.”

“JT will do so; and I thank you very much,” said Lena,
as she opened her pocket-book and handed him a bill,
which he refused to take, but urged her again to hurry
home.

Lena obeyed him, and within the half hour she was
in her own Chamber.

Feeling exhausted, she wrapped herself in blankets,
and threw herself on the sofa, to fall into a heavy slum-
ber, from which the ringing of the dinner-bell aroused
her. ;

Hastily making her toilet, she descended to the dining-
room to tell Madame Throckmorton and Gwendolin, who
had just arrived home, of her accident.

Both ladies expressed sympathy, but madam’s eyes
glittered wickedly as she heard how near death the girl
had ceen, and perceiving the hateful glance, Lena re-
called Mary’s words that this woman hated her,

“T wonder why it is?” muttered the young lady, as
she ascended to herchamber early that evening. ‘‘Oh,
if I only had my father’s letter I would know all. How
I wish I knew whether she has told me falsehoods or
not, or whether she is a good woman.”

As she was still pondering over the question, a gentle
tap on her door warned her that Mary had come to keep
her appointment. _ :

The maid entered hurriedly, and inquired at once:

“Well, miss, what have you decided to do ?”

‘7 don’t know,” answered Lena, with a perturbed ex-
pression.

“We must speak quickly, for fear madam may come
up,” said Mary. “I will tell you without delay that this
afternoon she changed the hiding-place of her letter. 1
was sewing in the alcove when I saw her take out your
father’s note, and heard her mutter, ‘It is no longer safe
here. Lena might findit. Yet I don’t want to destroy

I
Are you

 

 

 

Lena }

“Did you save |

“Hush !” he said, grimly, as he halted a few steps from |

qf

risked my life to save yours, that you might marry Ira!” |
So full of anguish was this thought to him, that he |

hastened from her, never dreaming she would believe |

:
it in the library safe.’”

“It must reveal everything,” breathed Lena.

“She thinks so, for she carefully placed a roll of
papers and that letter in an inlaid box, and left the
room. I peeped over the banisters, and saw her enter
the library with it, and I know it isin the safe.”

“Then I cannot getit,” said Lena, dejectedly, ‘for the
safe is always locked.”

“So itis; but, miss, when I am a friend I think of
everything. I watched where madam put her key, and
here it is.”

In triumph she held up a key before Lena’s astonished
eyes, ;

“You have it!” she gasped.

“Yes; and if I were youl’d just slip down in that
library to-night, when the folks arein bed, and read
those letters. Nobody will ever dream how you found
out what madam does not wish you to know.”

The idea fascinated Lena.

“There can be no harm to madam,” she thought,
“unless she has spoken falsely to me; and if she has,
surely i should be willing to risk my life for my father's
honor.” :

“Leave me the key,” she said aloud to the maid. ‘I do
not know whether I shall use it or not.”

“J should in your case, for that woman means mis-
chief toward you,” muttered Mary, and with a low, “I
must go now,” she quitted the room.

Lena Sat for a long time in the same attitude, then she
exclaimed :

**] will use that key, and put madam’s truth to the test.
My future course will be decided by what I learn.”

Having arrived at this decision, She waited with im-
patience for the household to be wrapped in slumber.

At twelve o’clock, Lena stole from the dark hall-way,
to encounter nothing but shadows and silence.

The candle she held fluttered and wayered, throwing
ghastly shades over the pictures and statues, as the girl
stood in the huge library.

A feeling of awe came upon her, which she afterward
felt was a warning of the terrible sorrow so soon to en-
velop her life.

With bated breath, she stole up to the safe, that
stood in a little recess, and, placing the key in the lock,

it, for I may have to copy the writing again, so I'll place

 

opened the ponderous door.

Holding her candle, she saw at once the inlaid box of
which Mary had spoken, and, drawing it out, she placed
it on her lap.

Trembling with excitement, she serted over the
papers till she found an envelope bearing her father’s
handwriting. It seemed to her that her heart almost
ceased to beat, as she removed the sheet of note-paper
from its covering, and thought:

“Tn one moment I shall know all.”

She glanced at the date of the letter, and saw it was
written from New York, five months previous. Itran:

| “DEAR MADAME THROCKMORTON :

‘‘Without doubt you will be amazed to hear from
| me after my silence during all these years, I have been
| living in San Antonio under anjassumed. name for——”
Just as she had read the last line, Lena heard foot-

steps coming down the hall.
“Oh, what will be thought of me if I am found here?

 

 

Madam will have me imprisoned for theft,” she mur-
mured, glancing at the open safe.

She knew she could expect no mercy from the woman
who hated her, and witha shiver of terror she looked
around to see if she could not find a hiding-place.

At that moment the handle of the library door turned.

with fear.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
——_—___—_—_—_—_——at> oe <@e———- - --

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}

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lt was only with a great effort that Lena restrained |
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IN THE DARK.

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

Oh, in the depths of midnight,
What fancies haunt the brain,
When even the sigh of the sleeper

Sounds like a sigh of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder
I may never well define,
_ For the thoughts that come in the shadows
Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor
Like a sleepless mourner grieves,

And the seconds drip in the silence
As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal
The hours there in the gloom,

And wonder what angel watchers
Wait in the darkened room ;

And I think of the smiling faces
That used to watch and wait,

Till the click of the clock was answered
By the click of the opening gate.

They are not there now in the evening—
Morning or noon—not there!

Yet I know that they keep their vigil
And wait for me somewhere.

 

~<a 2

DIARY OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLAA 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. ]

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Thursday, July7.—I am still at Doctor Warren’s.

- having been urged to extend my sojourn here. I find

it very pleasant here; brother and sister both exert

themselves to make my stay agreeable. He is a fine

scholar and finished gentleman, and Mrs. Dana tells

me he is engaged toa lady in a neighboring city,
whom he will bring home in a few weeks.

She showed me the lady’s picture; it was a sweet,
intelligent looking face, just such as I should have
expected him to choose. I was glad to hear of his
engagement; I feared he might be forced to marry

Miss Kesiah yet; he is so polite he could hardly re-
fuse if she offered herself. — ;

While engaged in my morning duties I heard a loud
rap at the door which made me start nervously. I
stepped forward and found on the steps aman of
some forty years, perhaps, with a disagreeable face,
covered with a quantity of bristling red hair. A
greasy black coat, worn threadbare at the elbows,
and an enormous necktie, were the most prominent
articles of dress. ‘

He bore a small satchel in his hand, and, removing

his hat, bowed very low, his mouth distended with a
grin, meanwhile, which displayed arow of very yel-
low teeth.

“T am a temperance lecturer, madam—Professor
Abel Blunt. Perhaps you have heard of me. My
name has appearedin the papers with honorable
mention.” .

I confessed my ignorance, at which he seemed sur-
prised, but continued : :

“Traveling through the country I was struck with
the beauty of this little vale, and thought I would
like to lecture here to-night. Do you think I could
get the school-house for that purpose ?”

“Indeed I do not know, sir.”

‘‘Willyou give me the names and residences of your
principal men here, that I may call oe im-
mediately and make arrangements? thought by
ealling at the school-house I could get all the infor-
mation I desired.” es

I gave the names and pointed out the residence of

uire Burke, and, with another bow, he took leave.

his afternoon Mr. Perkins called toinform me that
Professor Blunt was to lecture in the -school-room
this evening, and hoped it would be all in order.

After school we packed away the hooks and swept
the floor. When I came out I found quite a flaming
advertisement tacked up on the building, setting
forth the oratorical powers of the lecturer; and be-
fore it were gathered half a dozen men, gazing with
open-mouthed wonder oun the big letters, then speed-
ing away to spread the news.

here were so few amusements here that we all de-
cided to attend this evening, and at seven o’clock set
out, bearing a lamp. We found quite a number
assembled around the door, and the families, for a
mile or two out, were coming in, each bringing a
lamp or candle, and the school-house was soon
illuminated and well filled by an expectant audience.

For half an hour we sat waiting the coming of the
orator, the young people on the back seats having a
merry time meanwhile, laughing and whispering to
each other, and many a sly courtship was carried on
under cover of the desks.

The boys began to throw peanuts and green apples
across the room, laughing boisterously when they. hit
the mark at which they were aimed.

Several housekeepers in a clique were discussing
domestic matters, nodding their heads sagely over
new propositions and laying down old maxims with
a zest. Three men were excitedly discussing politics
in the corner, growing very warm in debate. Mrs.
Jackson was detailing a choice bit of scandal to a
few ladies, and the “Oh, my’s,”’ “Did you ever.”
“Who’d have thought it,” “I wouldn’t have believed
it,” were plenty.

Mrs. J., warming with her subject, pusked back her
Shaker sun-bonnet, clenched her hand, and bringing
it down with emphasis into her lap, continued her
tale, whatever it was. I could only hear, “they say,”
‘now don’t-tell of it,” “real grit,” etc.

At last, as every one's patience began to wear out,
Mr. Heath entered, followed solemnly by the red-
Pimp leman, whom he introduced to the au-

ence.

The professor bowed very low, with his hand on
his heart, and after glancing around on the expectant
crowd for a few moments, began deliberately :

“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow-citizens! I come be-
fore you this evening to—to—in short, to present the
important, the soul-inspiring, the heart-thrilling, the
all-engrossing theme of Temperance. Yes, fellow-
citizens, with my heart warm with love and zeal for
the cause of aS I come, the champion of
truth this night, and boldly uphold the standard of—
of truth; yes, the standard of truth, ae as itis
with the heart’s best blood of thousands who have
fallen in the conflict for right!”

But I cannot follow the eloquent lecturer through
his harangue of an hour; it was verbose, and much
of it in the same style as that I have quoted. It
abounded in allusions to lovely woman’s tears, heart-
broken wives, and lonely night-watches. His voice
at times rose to a high pitch, then sank almost to a
whisper, while he dashed about the small platform,
making furious gestures, stamping with his feet, and
beating the innocent desk till the little bell upon it
dan peer:

It was over at last, and he modestly begged a con-
tribution to aid him in carrying on his disinterested
work. He usually received from twenty to twenty-
five dollars for his lecture, he said, and he was sure

appreciative audience of this evening would not
be nd others. They might rest assured that all
they contributed, except fa sufficient for his daily
needs, be expended in the holy cause to which
he was devoting his energies.
Mr, Perkins went around with a hat, but the col-
lection was meager, amounting to only a little over

ot

three dollars. The a was very wrathy when
the sum was handed to him, and indulged in some
anathemas against the miserly set who could listen
to such an appeal, and yet steel their hearts against
his eloquence, and insult him with such a paltry
sum.

He threatened to shake off the dust of the beggarly
town the first thing on the morrow.

At this a loud hiss and stamping of feet ensued,
and the doctor hurried Mrs. Dana and myself out of

oors.

The night was dark with brooding clouds, the
thunder rolled in the distance, and belts of light
darted. hither and thither over the black mass,
making the darkness more intense after each flash.

After we reached the house we could see lights
moving rapidly in every direction, as the people
hurried homeward bearing their lamps and candles.

In half an hour the rain was pouring in torrents,
and I fear some of them got a drenching. The fury
of the shower is now spent, the rain falls with quiet
patter, the thunder only growls sullenly now and
then, and the flashes of light are faint and pale.

Monday, July 11.—Mrs. Remington sent me word
she was ready to receive me to-day, and Benny
brought my dinner in a little wicker basket; 1t was
very heatly arranged, and covered with a snowy
napkin. Afterschool I walked down the pleasant
road, Benny trotting by my side, telling of the brook
where he caught such shiners, and the hill where the
raspberries grew. Then he told me of some of
Brother Josh’s exploits, informing me that that
eS gentleman was now away from home, mother

aving sent him off because she caught him kissing
the new hired girl in the pantry!

Mrs. Remington was very gracious to me, indeed ;
gave me a seat in a cool, pleasant room, the walls of
which were adorned with half a dozen great staring
portraits of people in quaint, old-fashioned dresses,
who, she informed me, were Mr. R’s. ancestors;
pointing out with great pride one major who, she
said, had fought in the Revolution, and was after-
ward talked of for Governor of the State.

Tea was announced by a rosy-cheeked, tidy-looking
girl, and we were soon seated around a bountiful
board. I was introduced to Mr. R., a tall, well-
proportioned man, with quite a fund of common
sense. During the repast, Mr. Joshua, looking very
sullen and defiant, marched in, much to the surprise
of his fond mother, who exclaimed :

: “Why, Joshua Remington, where did you come
rom ?”’

“From the village, where I have spent the day.”

“But I thought you were going to visit your Uncle
James.”’

“Gallantry forbids that I should absent myself
from home when such attractions beam upon the
domestic circle,” he exclaimed, with a killing smile
and bow.

Mrs. R. looked vexed.

“You’re a simpleton, Josh! Pray, Miss Burton,
don’t heed his romantic speeches; he doesn’t mean
what he says.”

“Don’t I, though? Never was in more sober earnest
in my life,” placing his hand on his heart.

*‘Cease your nonsense, sir?’ said his father, sternly.
‘*You embarrass Miss Burton, and make a goose of
yourself. ‘“‘Let me hear no more of your hi-fa-lutin !”

Crest-fallen, the young man subsided into a seat,
and meekly took his cup of tea and warm biscuit. I
followed Mrs. R. to the sitting-room after tea, where
so were almost immediately joined by the son and

eir.

“My father is very posaic, Miss Burton,” he said,
with a sigh, throwing himself down on a lounge.
“He makes no allowance forthe exuberance of youth-
ful spirits, or the wealth of hidden feeling thrilling
young hearts——”

“Joshua!” exclaimed Mr. R’s voice, at the door;
“go and get the cows and help milk.”

“Where is that little unsophisticated brother of
mine? Send him, I pray thee, in my stead, and call
me not from the realms of pleasing fancy to the dull
routine of this work-a-day world!”

“Do as I bid you, sir, or I’ll beat some of the non-

 

 

 

| sense out of you with a horsewhip!”

“Tt hear the mandate and obey,” said the youth,
with a doleful air. ‘Farewell, lovely. mortal, for a
few fleeting moments. When the gross duties of life
are performed to the satisfaction of my stern parent,
I’ll haste to bask again in thy smiles,” and the irresis-
tible youth bowed himself out.

Mrs. R’s brow was dark, and she twitched out her
needle nervously, breaking the thread repeatedly.

I was considerate enongh to ask to be shown to my
room before the return of Mr. Joshua. It is a pleas-
ant chamber, and commands a fine prospect. i have
brought an interesting book from the sitting-room,
and shall enjoy readingit. Itis a warm night, but I
have two windows open.

Tuesday, July 12.—1 think I derive the most amuse-
ment from boarding here of any place yet. Mrs. R.
is so watchful and troubled about her son, his father,
stern and uncompromising, taking down the young
gentleman’s fine airs, while the youth himself is such
a mixture of foolishness and vanity (equal parts)
that it is decidedly rich. I think he must be a little
shattered in mind, for surely none but a dolt would
conduct himself as he does.

Last evening I witnessed a grand tableau, of which
IT cannot think without laughing. I had blown out
my lamp to retire, and approached to close the win-
dow, but on putting back the curtain, the night was
so lovely I sat down to enjoy ita few moments. The
moon was riding serenely in the heavens, throwing
a silvery light over every object. I heard the low
murmur of voices, and soon saw Mr. Joshua Reming-
ton and the hired girl enjoying a moonlight walk.

They paused just outside the door-yard paling, and
the girl twisted her apron-string as she said:

“Law, now, Mr. Remington, you don’t mean what
you say ; you’re only making fun of me!”

“T call the stars and bright-eyed moon to witness
to my sincerity and the depth of my passion! Ador-
able girl, here at your feet I cast myself!’ and suit-
ing the action to the word, he plumped himself down
on one knee, clasped the hand of the girl, and rolled
his eyes in a killing manner. He had just com-
menced, ‘Hear me, seraphic maiden!” when an
unexpected interruption occurred in the person of
Mrs. Remington, who came swooping down upon the
couple like an enraged goose. She was en deshabille,
and as she rushed down the walk, her cap-border
trembled with indignation.

“Josh Remington, what are you about?’ she ex-
claimed, in a tone that made the youth spring to his
feet. Giving one astonished glance at the face of the
enraged woman, he leaped over the low paling, and
gained the house, when I heard him mounting the
stairs three at atime. On reaching his own room he
locked the door with a jerk.

“Now, you hussy !” exclaimed the matron, turning
to the bewildered girl; “I’ve caught you at your
tricks, trying to inveigle my son into a clandestine
elopement, when he’s just as good as married already,
that is, he’s engaged to as fine a girl as ever trod shoe-
leather, and a deacon’s daughter, too. Go to bed
now, and in the morning pack up your duds and be
off! Iwon’t keep a girl in the house who is all the
while trying to entrap my son.”

*But, ma’am, he—”’

“Not a word, you designing minx! Don’t you sup-

ose I have seen how things were going ?—low you

ave put on airs, and tried your best to attract his
attention? Oh, you’ll march in the morning, and ’U
lock you into your room to-night to prevent another
clandestine meeting.”

The girl burst into tears, and turned toward the
house, followed more slowly by the indignant ma-
tron. :

This morning early I saw her, with a little bundle
in her hand, going slowly over the hill, in search of
some place where there will not be a suspicious mother
on the alert all the while.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

ation
<>

The Ladies’ WoveBos.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Short jackets are adorned with buttons.
Black brocaded silk is vombined with tan-colored cloth.

Turnover collars and gauntlet cuffs are novelties for
home or street dresses.

Spray brooches of oxidized silver are becoming pop-
ular.

Turndown plaitings of lace or lisse are worn in the
neck and sleeves of Empire gowns.

The handsomest made dresses for spring have wide
borders of a darker color.

There is a fancy for turning up the hem of lower skirts
on the right side, which gives an effect of weight to wool
goods.

Ribbons with metallic embroideries, in gold, silver, or
copper, are among the richest millinery goods.

The fronts of new bonnets are arched at the top in a
narrow curve above the forehead, which is more graceful
than the sharp-pointed brim of last season.

Slippers for house and evening wear are made of Suede
kid, with Louis XV. heels, and in some cases they are
banded across the vamp with narrow mbbon, while tan,
gray, and terra-cotta are the popular colors, though they
come in shades to match all evening gowns.

Nuns’ vailings come with hemstitched borders in all
the delicate evening colors; bi white vailings are im-
parse in plain goods finished with broche stripes, either

n all-over patterns or as a simple border to the plain
fabrics, while pretty white flounces for dresses have fine
silk stripes along one selvedge.

The short jackets and wraps, which will probably be
still chosen when a wrap for general wear is sought, are
of cloth, embroidered in braid or finished straight around
the hips with very little orno trimming, except ean one
on the edge, while 0 a few jackets are shown this
season with vests, and these have vests in contrasting
color, The favorite jacket for young ladies is a sailor

coat with loose “reefing” front, low sailor collar, gilt

z ;
buttons, anda black silk sailor tie, these jackets being

shown in dark navy-blue and other colors, while there
are also many jackets of white cloth finished with trim-
mings of gay Persian embroidery. Cloth mantillas in
simple shapes are found with trimmings of braid in self
color and of the finest cord fringe, and as soon as summer
comes there is little doubt that lace wraps will be worn
in the old-time Spanish mantilla shape, and in long dress
wraps that entirely cover the gown of the wearer. The
long wraps are made up over black satin and in combina-
; tion with black satin brocades, and a charming model for
along lace wrap is fitted to the figure in the back and
loose in front, being pee to a yoke of lace folds, while
in other lace wraps the silk lining is of brocaded satin,
which is used to form the long sleeve uncovered by lace,

Alice M., St. Louis, Mo.—ist. Girls of fourteen or fifteen
years of age wear their skirts reaching nearly to the top
of their shoes, and at sixteen or seventeen years they put
on long skirts, though this is decided to a great extent
by their size and development. 2d. Extremely long skirts
for little girls have gone out of style, and the general
rule, for girls from three to twelve years of age, is to
have their skirts stop half way between their knees and
the tops of their shoes, and the skirts must be amply

full. Two full widths of gingham are put in skirts for
girls of two tofour years, and three widths in those for
six-year-old girls. Cashmere skirts for girls of eight
years have three breadths laid in triple box-plaits in front
and sides, and shirred in the back, while skirts of white
nainsook have three and a half breadths for girls from
eight to ten years of age, and challie skirts for girls of
ten have four breadths. 3d. Wash dresses for girls just
in their teens are made with belted yoke waists and full
sleeves, fine tueks forming the yoke and the tops of the
sleeves, or tucks shaping the wrists, while the skirts are
of four straight breadths, simply hemmed. The skirts
should not be skimped in width, and need not be trimmed,
though tucks or insertion above the hem are in great
favor, and afford a pretty finish.

Mrs. Morse. — Simulated guimpes, of finely tucked
white cambric or embroidery, and white cambric sleeves,
are sewed in gingham and percale dresses for girls from
three to ten years of age. A square, from the top of the
shoulder-seams half way down the back and front of
finely tucked muslin, is set in plain, round waists of pink,
yellow, or blue gingham, and the long full sleeves are of
white muslin, gathered to a band, with short caps or
half-long sleeves of the gingham above. In some ging-
ham waists, a V of allover white embroidery de-
scends from the neck to the waist-line in front, while
others have two insertions of white embroidery, set in
straight down the front and back of the waist, with a
turned over rufiie of embroidery on the neck and sleeves.
There are also gathered cambric waists, with a wide em-
broidered imsertion, crossing them diagonally, set in
front and back, high on the right shoulder and low under
the left arm, while another pretty plan is to insert tucked
cambric, four or five inches wide, straight down from
collar to waist, then add revers of embroidery at the
sides of the tucking, making their points meet on the
middle of the tucked front.

May Belle.—A stylish-looking redingote, of the Direc-
toire order, has a narrow skirt, partly opened up the center
back to form long tabs, with the front double-breasted,
and coat sleeves, while the cuffs, collar, vest, and hip
pieces are of a contrasting material from the main gar-
ment, and covered with braiding, embroidered galloon, or
velvet. The number of this pattern is 4150, and the price
is 30 cents.

Nettie S., Providence, R. I.—Night-gowns are usually
made with yokes, though some new ones have full fronts

shirred at the neck, and lapped over on one side, with the
opening trimmed, and the fullness either gathered at the
waist or held by ribbons from the side seams, while in-
sertion, beading, tucking, valenciennes, torchon, or
medici lace are the favored trimmings,

Miss Stella B.—Square cards are much used, and are
quite large enongh for the transmission of all that a lady
ordinarily wishes to say in giving or accepting an_in-
vitation, while the day of the week and address are often
printed on these cards.

Mrs. S. V. T,, Albany, N. Y.—We can furnish a book
entitled “Home Recreations; or, How to Amuse the
Young Folks,” for twenty-five cents.

> @ =<

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W, FOSTER.

Tale of a Dog.

Mr. Slimpurse—“Ah! Good-evening, Dick. ,Is your
sister in ?”

Little Dick—‘‘Guesso.”

“IT say, Dick, here’s a nickel to get some candy. Ino-
tice that big dog of your father’s is untied. He’s pretty
cross, isn’t he ?%

“Awful. Pa always ties him up when Mr. Fatpurse is
in town; but Mr. Fatpurse is away now, and the dog is
loose for exercise.”

re
Beofersional Courtesies.

Actor (in country town)—‘‘I hope you won’t object to
announcing in your paper that this will probably be the
last chance to see me outside of the great cities, as I
have received an offer from the Gotham Theater for
next season, at $500 a week.”

Editor—“Fll print it with pleasure. And, by the way,
please announce from the stage that now is the time to
subseribe for the Pumpkinville Trumpet, as I have re-
ceived an offer of $5,000 a week to run the London
Times.”

The Baggage-Smasher’s Fate.

First Baggage-smasher—‘‘Say, Jake, I’m thinkin’ it
’ud be money in our pockets if we’d begin handlin’
trunks more kearful.”

Jake—“‘Why wud it?”

«Because the more we smash ‘em the bigger, and
-stronger, and heavier they make ’em. I’ve struck three
this mornin’ made out o’ reg’lar boiler iron. Me back’s
’most broke.”

A Manager’s Ill-Luck.

Theatrical Manager (despondently)—“I am undone!”

Wife—‘‘Mercy! Has the theater burned down ?”

«Worse! That new play on which I spent so much
money contains such a fine moral lesson that the
preachers are advising people to go see it. Now it won’t
draw enough to pay the ushers.”

Sure to Please.
Miss Jinks—‘‘Oh, you must see the photographs I had
taken at Camera & Co’s. They’re splendid.”
Miss Winks—“I knew they’d be good. Camera & Co.
have the finest retoucher in the city.”

Cause for Anxiety.

Car-wheel Manufacturer (passenger in fast express
train which is making a long stop)—‘‘What are you
striking those wheels for ?”

Man With Hammer—‘‘To see if they aresound yet.”

Car-wheel Manufacturer (nervously)—‘‘Well, please
don’t hit ’em quite so hard.”

Politics vs. Letters.

First Little Girl—“‘My pa is a great councilman, and
gives contracts for sewers and things. Everybody has
heard of him.”

Second Little Girl—‘‘My pa is an editorial writer on a
great newspaper, and helps to make history. Every-
body wil hear of him when he dies.”

A Morning Sale.

Drug Clerk—‘‘Ah! Good-morning, Mr. Oldpatron.
Haven't seen you since you went to housekeeping.”

Mr. Oldpatron—‘‘No. Have you any more of that Diges-
tion Enforce r you used to sell me ?”

‘Yes, sir. How much ?”

“T want about a quart.”

“Yes, sir. Gone back toboarding, I presume.”

No Great Advantage.

Mr, Highlive (looking up from the paper)—‘‘Well, well!
Wonders will never cease! They’ve got so now that
they can photograph in colors.”

Mrs. Highlive (glancing at his nose)—‘‘I think, my dear,
you'd better get your picture taken before the old pro-
cess. is abandoned.”

In Memoriam.

Sick Husband—“Will you see that my graveis kept
green ?”

Wife—“‘Yes, indeed, love; I'll have yow buried in the
Evergreen Cemetery, where they make a specialty of
keeping graves green without extra charge.”

A Red-Letter Day.
Stranger—‘‘Why are those girls so merry ?”
Native—‘'They belong to the Conservatory of Music,
and it has just been announced that the man who writes
the ‘Forlorn Hope Ten-Finger Exercise’ is dead.”

The Cook’s Fault.

Hungry Guest—‘Whose fault is it that I am kept
waiting so long for my order ?”

 

 

 

 

 

Waiter—‘‘The cook’s, sah. The cook don’t like me,

this mo’ning.”

“He don’t, eh ?”

“No, sah. You see, I didn’t hab no quarter to gub
him. Thanks, sah. I'll go win his affections, sah.”

Conquered.

She (after a lovers’ quarrel)—‘“I suppose you want
your presents back.”

He—‘‘Ah, no; keep them. If any of the fellows ask
about the presents, Ill explain that they were fully
paid for in hugs and kisses.”

“Shé (on second thought)—‘‘My dear, suppose we for-
get we have quarreled, and begin over again.”

Richman Penniless.

Returned Traveler—‘“Mr. Richman could draw his
check for a million when I left. How much money has
he by this time ?”

Citizen—‘‘He hasn’t any.”

“Eh? Wha Did he fail ?”

“No; he died.”

The Last Word.

Mr. Smalipay—‘‘More money for corsets! My dear,
Mr. Tiptop told me that his wife never wore corsets.”

Mrs. Smallpay—‘‘Huh! She don’t need to. She’s
bony enough without ’em.”

A Mother’s Clear Eye.

Miss De Pink—‘‘Oh, mother, that reminds me. The
other day I was riding in the cars, when that wrinkled
old lady came in, and it’s a fact that Mr. De Smart, who
didn’t know me at that time, and didn’t even see me,
jumped right up and offered the old lady a seat
Wasn’t that noble ?”

Mrs. De Pink (serenely)—‘‘He did not know you at
that time, but I happen to be aware that he has long
known the old lady. She is the grandmother of one
of the prettiest and richest girls in the city.”

Why She Left Him.

New Yorker—‘‘Is that story about a Kansas City
bride eloping with a miserable, dirty Digger Indian
true ?”

Kansas City Man—‘‘Yes, Sheleft her husband within
a week, and isnow living with savages.”

‘Hiow is it accounted for ?”

«Well, I don’t know, of course; but my opinion is
that the white husband snored. Indians never do.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

On POVERTY’S BRINK.—He was taking her home after |

the theater and a little supper at Delmonico’s,
“Darling,” said he, suddenly, as he gazed dreamily at
the silvery disk overhead, ‘‘why am I like the moon ?”
‘It isn’t because you are full, is it ?” she asked, as she
edged away from him. ®
“No,” said he, sadly. ‘It’s because I’m on the last
quarter.”—Boston Beacon,

HE WANTED AN Ax.—Tramp (to woman who has |

given him a loaf of stale bread)—‘‘Now, if yowll show
me the way to the wood-shed I’ll get the ax and——”
“Why, you dear old fellow, you mustn’t think of cut-
ting wood; you’re too weak.”
“Oh, I didn’t want the ax for that. I just thought
that I’d like to cut off a chunk of this bread—if I’ve got
strength enough.”—Time.

A WovULD-BE MISER.—Mr. Spendthrift—‘‘I am begin-
ning to bestingy. I am afraid that in time 1 will be a
miser.” z :

Friend—‘‘Have you laid up much money ?”

‘«‘Well, ’'ve not precisely laid up any money, but the
aggregate amount of debts that I have acquired during
the past year is $1,500 less than the year before.— Texas
Siftings.

AT THE SHINING PoRTALS.—St. Peter—‘‘Hello, there!
Why don’t you come in ?”

Saintly Shade (running away)—‘‘Not much; I just
caught sight of my wife inthere.—Zown Topics.

AN ACCOMPLISHED CLERGYMAN.—Mrs. Frontpew—‘‘I |

think it is shocking—the interest our minister is taking
in base-ball. Why,I saw him out playing yesterday
afternoon with alot of boys from the college.

s
Mr. F.—‘‘Oh, I don’t know that there is anything |

wrong about base-ball.”

Mrs. F.—‘‘I don’t say that it is really immoral, but by
and by he’ll get a curve pitch, as they call it, and either
leave the pulpit or want $10,000 a year.—Chicago Herald.

Old Soaker (at the club, dreamily)—“I say, waiter,
that’s the best wine I’ve had for ages. Bring another
bottle. Waiter—‘‘You have had no wine, sir. What
you drank was the Worcestershire sauce.—Town Topics,

AN Insuur.—Young Politician—‘‘Mr. Wanamaker, I
suppose there will be a number of positions vacant in
your department, and I should like to enter my applica-
tion for one of them.” ;

The Postmaster-General—“I am not so sure about
‘positions,’ but there will, I think, be plenty of chances
for work.”

Young Politician (with dignified disgust)—Work ?
oe for work? Good-day, sir.”—Philadelphia

Record.

At Delmonico’s—Mr. Pawque Pacquer (of Chicago)—
‘Waiter, bring me another knife. How the duse do you
expect me to eat with sosharpaoneas this? [lll cut
my tongue off.”"—Town Topics.

*T have just witnessed a trying scene,” said the snake
editor. ‘Been up to the court-house, I suppose,” re-
plied the horse editor. ‘No, I’ve been to a lard render-
ing establishment.”—Pittsburgh Chronicle.

FROM THE GALLERY.—Waiter—‘‘Will you have your
eggs plain, sir, or dropped, or in an omelette ?”

Actor (sadly)—‘‘Make it an omelette, waiter, I’m tired
of plain eggs; satiated, in fact.”—Lowell Citizen.

The brand-new comet which the Lick Observatory
watchers have just discovered is said to have a “slow
motion.” It might be well to arrange a match between
a the district messenger boy of the period.—N. YF.

'ribune.

—__—__>-@

THE UNINVITED GUEST,

BY ESTHER SERLE KENNETH.

“What do you say, Cleone 2?”

“T will marry Mr. Johnstone, father.”

“There is my sensible girl!’ exclaimed Mr. Grey,
never caring that, as his daughter pronounced those
words, her little hand tightened convyulsively on the
back of the chair on which she leaned, and every
trace of color forsook those soft, mobile lips.

“You're a sensible girl!” he repeated. “I was sure
you would be reasonable at last, Cleone. Now your
marriage with Mr. Johnstone sets us all right—helps
me through this pull in my business, and provides
handsomely for you, my dear. Mr. Johnstone must
be worth a hundred thousand at least. I’m very glad
you’ve got through thinking about that Will Moly-
neux, for you’ll never see him again; he’s married,
likely, and he’d be no match for you anyway. Let
me see—ten thousand dollars introduced into my
buiness now——”

“May I go now, sir?’ asked Cleone, faintly.

“Yes—yes, my dear; go and consult with your
mother about your wedding-fixings. Ten thousand
dollars 44

The library door shut, another door slammed, and
a pallid-faced girl ran, like a wild being, through the
garden, and flung herself down upon the plushy
mosses under an old elm.

“What have Idone? Oh, Will! Will!” she moaned,
burying her face among the ferns. There she lay
through the long sunset hour, prostrated with
misery.

“Only a girl’s trouble,” her father would have said;
but how it wrung the girl’s heart! Two long years
of love, and hope, and dying faith—and this was
the end!

And who was Will Molyneux? A young fellow
with whom Cleone had become acquainted up at the
mountains and brought into her home, Mr. Gray
would have said—a likely enough young man, but
poor, and it was very silly of Cleone to bind herself
to him, while Molyneux went off to the world’s end
to make his fortune.

The sun went down, and the frogs croaked about
the brooks, while the whip-poor-wills began their
complaints in the woods. This, then, was the end.
Cleone was indifferent to life. Why should she go
through the sham of that marriage? For her father’s
sake. Yes, there was something in that.

“Oh, Will! Will!”

There was no one to hear the tremulous moan. No
one in the wide world knew what she was enduring.
To acknowledge that hope was dead—to face exist-
ence, a long, dreadful blank—to know never any
more the sweet _heart-life, beside which all other ex-
istence is spiritless—no wonder that the girl’s cheek
was pale and her eyes stared in dumb misery toward
the gathering darkness. She was so young—only
twenty—and such an appalling length of dark exist-
ence stretched out before her!

If she only dared hope a little longer. But the con-
viction that this was foolish had already found an
entrance into her heart, blighting all the tender
bloom. Her father’s words were not harsher than
the cold tones of reason. Will had forgotten her.
All her tender dreams, her patient devotion, her

nightly prayers, had been in vain. The stalwart,
young strength, the fond, sweet smile, the sunny,
trusting eyes of blue, were gone out of her life for-
ever. Nothing now remained but hopelessness, and a
worldly marriage.

“Cleone! Cleone!”

It was her.mother’s voice. She started, and rose,
wearily, conscious that it had grown quite dark, and
that the stars were outin the purple sky. Dear stars,
once, when she had watched them, thinking that they
were shining upou Will also. It made her sick to
think of them now.

A night of heavy, troubled sleep, and the excite-
ments and stir of the approaching change, came close
upon her.

Mr, Johnstone, a sharp, dark, sallow man of fifty,
whatever his other faults may have been, was not
obtuse. He guessed Cleone’s secret; he knew that
her consent was given for her father’s sake, but he
admired this dark-eyed, innocent, quiet girl, and
he was determined to have her. He had long been
satiated with belles; ever since Cleone Grey had
lifted the pure depths of her eyes to his, he had
coveted possession of her. He learned of her con-
sent with secret rapture; but. treading warily his
ground, he approached her only with the attentions
of ordinary courtesy. So she was troubled little by
him, and began to look with a faint, curious interest
upon her wedding paraphernalia, as the women sum-
moned for the occasion spread betore her filmy
lengths of snowy lace and embroidery, sheeny robes
of lustrous silk and airy tulle, and wrought hems
like frost-work. For the first time in her life she had
diamonds—her father’s gift—and Mr. Johnstone
added a necklace and bracelets of pearls ; they suited
her, he said.

The weeks went by, and Cleone Grey’s wedding-
day came around.

The long parlors were dressed with garlands, the
floors spread with snowy lengths of fine white fabric,
and clusters of wax candles in gilt sconces lighted
up these bridal preparations.

In Cleone’s chamber a French maid, soliciteusly
overlooked by Mrs. Grey, was engrossed in dressing
the bride. P

“Mademoiselle’s dress is charming—echarming!”
cried Fantine, as she knelt at Cleone’s feet, looping
up a fold of the soft, white silk, aud fastening it
with a rosebud.

“Do you not like it, daughter?”

“What, mamma?’

“Do you not like-your dress ?””

“Oh, yes!” her absent eyes straying again to the
glimmmering sea, shining in the pale moon’s rays
through the open window.

‘“‘Has Fantine arranged your hair to suit you?’

“Oh, yes!” again, without a look at the mirror.

Mrs. Grey stepped back out of sight, and nervously
scanned her daughter’s face. Then she sighed.

Three gay, rosy cousins of Cleone’s came trooping
in—Madge, and Belle, and Maud.

“Lovely !”

“Charming!”

“Exquisite!”

And then they clasped their hands in rapture.

“Mamma,” said Cleone, appealingly, ‘now that I
am dressed, let me be alone for one little minute be-
fore I am married.

They looked earnestly at the girl’s pale face, and
quietly withdrew.

Cleone extinguished the light and knelt down, all
in her shimmering wedding robes, at the open win-
dow. There she looked longingly at the unanswer-
| ing sea fora moment, then dropped her head upon
| the window-ledge and tried to pray.
| *Cleone!”’

She started, and looked up at sound of the voice
| beside her. There stood her mother, in her rich dress,
| pale and grave.

*“Cleone ?”’

‘Well, mother. Is it time?’

“Wait a moment, my child,” drawing a chair be-
fore the girl, and taking her folded hands in hers
upon her knee.

“Cleone, do you think that Will Molyneux is
living ?”’

The girl’s lips broke apart with a sharp ery.

“Mother, mother—don’t !’’

Mrs. Grey looked an instant at that anguished
face, so young, so terrible in its despair; then, though
she trembled, she rose quickly, and her movements
were prompt and decisive.

“Cleone, come with me.”

They went down through the softly lighted halls:
Suddenly some one—a man, young, tall, handsome—
| stepped from a door-way, and folded the white, beau-
| tiful figure of the young girl to his heart. There was
a rapturous murmur.
| “Come, come!” whispered Mrs. Grey, urgently,
| drawing them apart and after her—after her, in at a
| side entrance of the thronged drawing-room. Here
| Mrs. Grey dropped a whisper into the ear of a sedate

gentleman who stood leaning against the door-way.

The festive company, chatting, whispering, and
j;all expectant, suddenly became aware, as they
awaited the entrance of the bridal train, that a sono-
rous voice was aiready pronouncing the words of
that marriage ceremony.

They pressed toward the spot where stood the
happy bride and Will Molyneux, while the sedate
clergyman briefly made them husband and wife,

Then came a scene of confusion. Some of the com-
pany stood aghast, others, with more presence of
mind, advanced and congratulated the bride.

Suddenly Mr. Grey came pushing through the com-

Already ?

pany:
To Will Molyneux? What
| does this mean?”

“Married 2?
| ‘It means,’ answered Mrs. Grey, as she quietly
| stepped forward to meet her excited husband, “‘that
I have given my daughter my aid in wedding the
mnman of her heart. Cleone does not love Mr. John-
stone, and I will not see her made wretched for life.”

The astonished company soon broke up. Cleone
was too happy, clinging to Will Molyneux’s arm, to
care if her father turned them both out of doors,
but Mr. Grey, though much perturbed, was soon
brought to reason by the influence of his noble wife,
and was quite effectually reconciled when he learned
that Mr. Molyneux, so unexpectedly returned, had
come back possessed of a fortune. The younger
man’s business tact and insight proved as efticacious
as Mr. Johnstone’s influence might have been in im-
proving his pecuniary affairs, and after a brief, but
| exciting period, Mr. Grey declared himself satistied
with his daughter’s marriage.

As we might naturally suppose, Mr. Johnstone was
not so readily reconciled, but he eventually put a
good face on the matter, and presented Mrs, Moly-
neux with a handsome silver table service.

 

 

>-e@~<—_—_

Items of Interest,

Grammar is evidently not highly esteemed by the
mother of a schoolgirl in a Western town. The pupil
took a note from her teacher to her mother, requesting
the latter to furnish a grammar for the girl’s use. The
note elicited the following uniquereply: “I do not de-
sire that Mattie shall ingage in grammar asI prefer her
to ingage in more yousful studies and can learn her to
| Speak and write proper myself. I have went through two
grammars and can’t say as they did me no good—I prefer
Mattie to ingage in German and drawing and vokal music
on the piano.”

For fifty years James Martin, a Pennsylvania far-
mer, remembered an offense of which the author was his
own daughter. Half a century ago she purchased an ex-
pensive dress_against his wishes, and she sent him a
comic valentine representing a miser. From that day he
never spoke to her. A short time ago he died and left
$15,000 to each of his children but this daughter, for whom
he left a sealed envelope, which, when opened, had her
old valentine inside.

Leeches are so numerous in the swamps of Assam,
India, that many persons, who stumble in the mud-holes,
fall victims to these blood-suckers. Even animals be-
come the prey of the pests. Not long ago an elephantand
his keeper, after having been missing for several days,
were found in a bog in the jungle, the man dead, with all
the blood sucked out of him, and the elephant covered
with leeches, and so weak that it died the day after it was
rescued.

To prevent over-sleeping, and thus risking the loss
of their employment, the mail carriers of Morocco resort
to a unique and perilous scheme. They tie astring toone
foot, and as they know how long a yard or two will burn,
they regulate the length of the string by the time they
have to sleep. They light the string, which burns slowly,
and when the fire comes to their foot they are painfully
reminded that it is time to arise.

The ravages of moths have been effectively checked
by & new kind of paper, which is made from cedar-wood
pulp. It is used for laying under carpets, and wrapping
wool, furs, and other things on which moths love to feast.
The paper makers get the cedar chips from the pencil
manufacturers, and the paper has been voted a great suc-
cess by everybody but the aforesaid moths.

A popular English actress, who usually enacts
comic parts, recently developed considerable tragic
ability, when she threatened to close the career of a
prominent London dentist by shooting him. He had used
her pictures as advertisements, representing her “be-
fore” and “after” adorning her mouth with a set of his
teeth.

An Australian firm has oftered a great sum to the
British government for the privilege of printing an ad-
vertisement on the backs of all the postage stamps, be-
fore the gum is put on.

A perfectly white skunk was captured the other

day by Alfred Chapman, of Berden’s Point, R. I. A white
skunk is a greater rarity than a white blackbird.