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ories by BERTHA M. CLAY, FRANCIS A, DURIVAGE,

 

W

and EUGENE T. SAWYER, Will Soon be Begu

 

Vol. 45.

LOVE MAKES A CHANGE.

 

BY MILES COPLEY.

 

“‘T am sick of the world,” he said;
“T am sick of the world and of life;
Of the double-face hypocrisy,
And the strain of the godless strife.

“T am sick of the fools that succeed ;
I am sick of the sages that fail;
Of the pitiless laughter of wealth,
And of poverty’s pitiful wail.

*“*T am sick of the devils that leer
At innocence passing by ;
I will bar my door to the world;
I will lay me down and die.”

But there came a change as he spoke,
And the mists were burned away ;

And the midnight darkness of his despair
Was turned to jocund day.

And the sun burst forth once more,
Till his glories filled the skies,

And the magical power that wrought the change
Was one look in a woman’s eyes.

Oe

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

 

 

 

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,
IM. AS. 25. =
A GRADLE MYSTERY.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘That Dowdy,” ‘Sibyl’s Influence,”
**Queen Bess,” ‘*‘ The Forsaken Bride,”

** Brownie’s Triumph,” etc.

 

CHAPTER I.
THE WAIF OF THE WATERS.

With inundation wide the deluge reigns, ;
Drowns the deep valleys and o’erspreads the foo
—WILKIE.

In the spring of 1840 two men might have been seen
riding along the bank of a swollen river, which
flowed through the central portion of Pennsylvania.
There had been heavy rains in that vicinity for more
than a week; the masses of snow which had every-
where covered the surrounding mountains had thus
been rapidly melted, and the stream, which ordi-
narily, at this point, was rather slow and sluggish,
and rarely of alarming proportions, was now wide, |
and deep, and fierce, and the inhabitants of the
thriving factory town, which we will call Franckport,
had begun to have some fears that a destructive in-
undation might ensue.

Alarming reports of trouble in other districts
abeve them were flying about the village, and these,
of course, only served to augment the prevailing un-
easifiess, which had already been caused by the ever
increasing volume of water that was being driven
through the narrow river-bed in their town.

“If this confounded rain don’t stop pretty soon
there’ll be a great deal of damage done, Mr. Welling-
tou,” gravely remarked the elder of the two men re-
ferred to, and who was evidently a farmer, judging
from his coarse frock, his sunburned face, and
bronzed and calloused hands.

“T am afraid we shall, Mr. Coffin; it won’t take but
a few feet more of water to set us all afloat,” replied
Lis companion, who was a fine looking young man of
perhaps twenty-eight years.

He was cashier of the bank in Franckport, a young
man of considerable property, energetic, enter-
prising, and bidding fair to rise to a fine position in
the world, besides being a great favorite in the com-
munity where he lived.

He had been out to look over the farm belonging to
his e«ompanion, with a view to taking a mortgage
upon it, and the owner was now driving him back to
his place of business.

“Well, my place’ll be safe enough, I reckon, what-
ever happens,” the farmer remarked, in a satisfied
tone.

“Yes, your property surely lies high and dry,” re-
plied Mr. Wellington, with a quiet smile, as he
thought of the acres and acres of rather questionable
soil in his possession. ‘If trouble comes, it will be
we who live in the village who will suffer, especially
those whose homes are near the factories.”

“T hope those dams are strong,’ Mr. Coffin con-
tinued. ‘‘Wasn’t there some talk, a while ago, about
the north shore dam being rather insecure.”

“Ye-s, [believe there was;” replied Mr. Wellington,
with an anxious face at the rapid stream on his right;
“put the company promised to have it thoroughly re-
paired, and doubtless it has been attended to before
this.’

Still the cloud did not lift from his brow, the anx-
ious look did not wholly fade from his fine eyes as he
was driven through the town, and finally alighted
before the door of the bank, and bade his companion
*sood-day.”

All day long the rain continued to pour in torrents,
the wind arose, and, before night shut down upon
that mountain village, a perfect tempest was raging.

Theriver had continued to rise, was still rising
rapidly, until it was five times its ordinary width
and was creeping into some of the streets and set-
tling in the hollows of the village. Men—the factory
laborers chiefly—went to their homes with anxious
faces; mothers kissed their little ones good-night
With astrange fear tugging at their heart-strings,
and with a prayer that God would “‘hold the floods in
his hand.” The members of the corporation were
not the least uneasy of the hundreds who went to
rest that night in Franckport, and, though the matter
had been kept secret in order to prevent a panic,
they had set men to watch the great north shore
dam, which had not been an as promised.

Darkness and gloom settled over the doomed town,
while all through the long hours of the night the
tempest continued to rage; higher and higher grew
that turbid, treacherous stream, stealing its silent
way up toward the dwellings of those sleeping hun-
dreds,

Allat once, just before the dawn, the furious clat-
ter of a horse's hoofs sounded ominously through
those quiet streets; a shrill voice arose above the
noise of the elements, like a clarion note of doom:

“To the hills! to the hills, for your lives! The
north shore dam is giving way! Fly! fly!”

That agonized voice, those ominous words, pierced
the ear of the soundest sleeper, and sent a chill of
terror’to every heart.

People seized only what they could lay their hands
upon, and poured forth from their dwellings like
bees from their hives, and set their faces toward the
bills; while at first, away in the distance, but every
moment coming nearer and nearer, could be heard
the snuilen roar and rush of the merciless waters as
they swept onward, with constantly increasing speed,
upon the track of their flying prey.

 

 

 

 

 

Eniered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1889. vy Streer é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.

New York, November 23, 1889.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too late, too late, in many instances was this at-
tempt to reach a place of safety.

There is no power so fierce, so pitiless, as a mighty
flood, and hundreds were buried beneath the seeth-
ing waters ere they had fled a dozen rods. Mothers,
with babes clasped to their breasts, were overtaken,
and fell, only to be borne onward in the arms of their
destroyer and dashed in pieces against falling build-
ings and floating timbers, or hurled into some ravine,
there to await, in the sleep that knows no waking,
the subsiding of the deluge. *

Fathers and husbands were killed outright, or
maimed for life, in the attempt to save their dear
ones. Dwellings were lifted from their foundations
and went floating along with the resistless tide, or
fell in heaps of shapeless ruins.

When morning dawned, there was only devastation
and ruin and a wide waste of waters where, only
twelve hours before, the busy town of Franckport
had stood. Here and there a building, more. sub-
stantial than others, or one standing upon higher
ground, loomed up alone, like some monument set up
to mark the spot where death and devastation had
done their fatal work.

The next day, and thirty miles below Franck-
port, the same stream, swollen by the recent rains
and floods and by the breaking away of the north
shore dam, flowed smoothly through a fertile plain
or valley, where, here and there, were scattered
lovely villas and stately mansions, while just beyond
was the city of B .

It was afternoon; the day was cool, but bright and
beautiful, and not a cloud marred the blue vault;
there was not a sign anywhere of the sad havoc that
had been so recently wrought a score and a half of
miles above that lovely region.

On the west of this fertile valley there was a gentle
rise of ground, and down the fine carriage-road, that
led through the plain to the city beyond, there might
have been seen descending, on this lovely afternoon,
a handsome landau, drawn by two sleek bay horses
in gold-mounted harness, and driven by a spruce
coachman in dark-green livery.

On the back seat of this elegant equipage there
sat a woman of perhaps twenty-four, beautiful and
stately as a goddess, but wearing the saddest face in
the world.

She was pale as snow; her eyes were downcast and

 

 

MAX GRASPED THE GIRL ABOUT THE WAIST AND LEAPED BACK TOWARD THE PLATFORM.

 

heavy from much weeping, and there was a mournful | if to bind something securely within it, was a stout

curve to her sweet lips, which quivered continually,
like those of a child who has been sorely grieved,
while every now and then a long, shuddering sigh
broke from them, telling of some recent sorrow which
she had not yet learned to calmly face.

She was robed in deepest mourning; her attitude
was dejected and listless, and she seemed utterly
oblivious of everything about her; her whole soul
appeared to be absorbed in the grief that had over-
shadowed her young life.

Leisurely the proud horses pursued their way down
the hill, the driver holding the reins and regarding
them with a look of complacency, which plainly in-
dicated the pleasure he experienced in managing
this handsome turn-out.

As they came upon level ground, a sudden curve
in the road brought them alongside the stream before
mentioned, when a sudden exclamation from the
ecoachman anda quick drawing of the reins caused
the lady to start from her sorrowful reverie and
glance up at him.

“What is it, Watkins?’ she inquired, a faint tinge
of color coming into her perfectly rounded cheeks.

The man was bending forward, his eyes fixed upon
some object before him, and he did not reply fora
moment.

“What is the trouble, Watkins?” repeated his mis-
tress, for she could not see upon what his glance
was fixed. “Is there anything the matter with the
horses ?””

“No, mum, the ponies are all right; but—whatever
may that thing be, afloating out yonder in the river?”
and he pointed with his whip toward some object
that was rising and falling upon the sunlit waves
and swiftly approaching them.

The lady sat erect and looked.

“Why,” she exclaimed, in surprise, ‘‘it looks like a
cradle, and such a queer, old-fashioned one, too!
Where could it have come from ?”’

It was true enough. There was what appeared to
be a goodly sized wooden cradle, of the color of
mahogany, and of the pattern which our grand-
mothers used to rock their babies in a hundred years
ago, with its straight, angular sides and its rounded

 

rope.

YHow very strange, Watkins!” the lady continued.
“How do you suppose it could have got there ?”’

“T can’t say, mum; but it strikes me it may have
come down from above—from Franckport, where
they’ve been having the flood,” the man replied, with
his eyes still fixed upon the strange object.

“Very likely; and it looks as if there were pillows
and blankets in it,” returned his mistress, who was

becoming quite excited over the occurrence. ‘It
was probably swept out of some house up there in
Franckport.”

“Would you mind, mum,if I was to get a nearer
view of it?’ Watkins asked, in a peculiar tone of
voice.

“No; but give me the reins; the horses may start,”
and reaching forth a small, daintily gloved hand, she
took the lines, while the man nimbly alighted, and,
vaulting over the low stone wall by the road-side,
hastened toward the river’s brink.

A puff of wind had sent the cradle nearer the bank,
and seeing this, Watkins ran down toward a point of
land that jutted into the water, and waited there for
it to float ashore, which it was soon likely to do.

He had not long to wait, for ere tive minutes had
elapsed it was within his reach and he had drawn it
high and dry upon the grass. :

“By the powers!” he exclaimed, as he peered curi-
ously within it; ‘“‘there’s a baby in it!”

His face was white and scared, and his big hand
trembled as he softly drew aside the coverlid, under-
neath the rope, and saw a beautiful babe sleeping
peacefully among its downy pillows.

He stood speechless and spell-bound for a moment,
gazing down upon the unconscious innocent; then,
sarefully lifting the cradle in his arms, he bore it
back to the place where he had left his mistress, un-
mindful of the fact that it was water-soaked, and
dripped all the way upon his immaculate livery.

‘Well, Watkins, have you found a treasure ?”’ asked
the lady, looking a trifle amused at the figure he
made with the clumsy thing in his arms. ‘‘One would
think something very precious had been stowed away
in there, by the quantity of rope wound about it.”

“And true enough, Mrs. Remington; it’s—it’s an-

top or hood, within which they could discern a white | other ‘Moses in the bulrushes,’” Watkins: responded,
pillow, while wound round and round the cradle, as as he deposited his burden by the road-side, with a

Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.
Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Conies Five Dollars.

 

I

 

4,

sigh of weariness, for it had been no light load.
“There's a baby in it!” — ;
“What!” cried the fair occupant of the carriage,

| and losing all the color which the excitement of the

adventure had called into her face.
The man drew aside the coverlid and blanket, and

| revealed to his excited mistress a pair of waxen,

chubby hands clasped over the little one’s breast.

‘Heavens! itis a baby!’ exclaimed the lady, drop-
ping the reins, and springing to her feet, her lovely
brown eyes full of startled wonder. “Is it alive?”

“Yes, mum; and sleeping as sweet as a cherub,”
responded Watkins, waxing sentimental, and as if he
were in the habit of seeing sleeping cherubs every
day.

Mrs. Remington hastily descended from her car-

riage and approached the cradle.

Bending over it, she drew the coverings still far-

| ther away, and looked upon the babe.

Then a moan of anguish burst from her white lips.
“Oh, Watkins! how like my own lost darling!” she

| sobbed.

| herself,’”’ he said ;

The kind-hearted coachman brushed a tear from
his eyes with his coat-sleeve.

‘Sure, mum, it is about the size of the little angel
‘and a sorry day it was, too, when

| ye lost her.”

At this moment the infant stirred, then opened its
eyes—great dark orbs of liquid brown—and gazed up
into the faces bending over the cradle.

For a full minute the child looked wonderingly,
first at one, then at the other; then throwing out its

 

| little hands to the beautiful woman, its little face

broke into a happy smile, and it begged, with a be-
witching little coo, to be taken up.

“Cut this rope, Watkins,” Mrs. Remington com-
manded, all the mother-love of her nature reviving
at the pretty sight.

It was no sooner said than done, and Adele Rem-

| ington, tears streaming over her cheeks, stooped and

gathered the little water-waif into her arms, and
hugged it close to her heaving bosom.
“Dear little blessing! where do you come from, and

|} to whom do you belong?’ she murmured, pressing

her quivering lips to its soft cheek.

For answer the child laughed out in babyish glee,
nestling closer into her arms, as if to show how eon-
tent it was to be with her for the present, and this
evoked a gratified smile from the beautiful lips of
its protectress.

“Watkins, we must take the child directly home;

| then you must goto the city and make inquiries

about it; perhaps some poor mother is nearly frantic
over the loss of her darling. How it could ever have
come here is more than I can understand,” said Mrs.

Remington, looking both perplexed and anxious.

“The poor thing must be one of the victims of the

| Franckport flood, mum,” said the man; “I’m sure of

it, because of the rope; its father or mother must

| have tied it in, hoping to save it in that way.”

“Perhaps so,” mused Mrs. Remington. “Maybe

| there is something in the cradle to tell who the
| child’s parents are.”

Watkins turned over the blankets and pillows in
search of some clew to the babe’s identity.

But he found nothing, save a good-sized bottle
with a few drops of milk in the bottom, showing that
some thoughtful mother had provided for her little
one’s comfort, even in the hour of peril.

There was no mark, either, upon

its clothing,

| though it was of fine material and richly trimmed
| with needle-work, proving that the child’s parents
| must have been people of means.

 

All at once, however, Watkins broke out with his
favorite expletive:

“By the powers, mum!”

“Well, Wat, what is it—what have you discovered
now ?” his mistress eagerly inquired.

He had turned the cradle upside down, and was
examining the bottom of it.

“Truth, it’s not much of a discovery, mum, though
it may prove something some time; but it is the age
of the thing that surprises me.”

“The age?”

‘Yes, mum; the cradle must have belonged to the
baby’s great grandfather, for it’s marked ‘1771.’ ”

“Seventeen seventy-one,” repeated Mrs. Reming-
ton, in surprise. ‘‘Why, that was before the Revolu-
tionary War! That cradle must be asacred heir-
loom! Putiton the front seat, then drive me home
as quickly as possible. This child will be crying with
hunger pretty soon.”

She stepped into her carriage as she spoke, the
child still clasped in her arms and cooing in a con-
tented way, as if delighted to be released from the
close quarters where it had been so long confined.

Watkins bestowed the cradle as commanded ; then,
mounting his box, turned his horses homeward and
drove back with all speed to the elegant mansion, a
mile away, which was the home of the wealthy and
aristocratic Mrs. Maxwell D. Remington.

 

CHAPTER II.
MAX IS TOLD OF HIS ADOPTION,

Adele Fontain—inheriting French blood from her
father and Scotch from her mother—had all her
life, until within a year of her marriage, when her
wealth was swept away in a business panic, been
the petted child of luxury.

She had never expressed a wish which her fond
parents had not tried to gratify; she had been
shielded from every care and ill; they had given her
every advantage that money could procure, and she
had never known a sorrow until, first. her parents
died, and then all her money melted suddenly away,
like snow beneath the sun. But in spite of all this
luxury and indulgence she was a grand and noble
girl, as well as a very beautiful one. She seemed to
possess one of those sweet, sunny temperaments that
nothing can spoil; and when sorrow and depriva-
tion came upon her, they only served to strengthen
her character and bring out the reserve force of her
nature.

At the age of twenty-one, just a year after the
death of her parents, she had married a wealthy
bachelor of forty, a gentleman of rare culture and
intelligence. They had been on board an ocean
steamer, when both were returning to this country—
Mr. Remington after a sojourn abroad of two years,
during which he had seen the greater portion of
Europe, while Adele had spent only six months in
England and France as companion and governess in
a family, who were obliged to take the ocean voyage
on account of the ill-health of the mother.

The courtship had been a short one, the marriage
was a sudden one; but Mr. Remington idolized the
young and beautiful bride, that he had won, and she
returned his affection, strange as it may seem, with
all the strength of her pure, true nature, and thus
she stepped back into her former position in the
gay world which lack of means had forced her to
shun, and which she was so well fitted to grace.

Two years later a beautiful little girl came to
brighten their home, and then it seemed asif their
cup of happiness was full.

About five months after the birth of the_little
Adele, however, Mr. Remington was suddenly
stricken with brain fever.

He barely lived through the ordeal, and when he
did finally begin to recover, his mind appeared to
have been much weakened by the dread disease.
Among other peculiarities which attended his con-
valescence, a strange jealously seemed to possess
him—a jealousy of his wife’s affection for their child.

Nothing would irritate him more quickly than to
see her fondle or kiss the little one, and he would
frequently fiy into a violent passion if he found her
in her mother’s arms.

When the child was about seven months old, and
two months after Mr. Remington’s attack, his physi-
cians advised him to try the efficacy of the universal
springs at St. Louis, Michigan.

“T fear your husband will become hopelessly insane
if he does not have some immediate change,’ the
doctor had told Mrs. Remington. ‘I have heard
these springs highly recommended, and I advise you
to go there for a few weeks.”

“T cannot go without my baby,” Adele had told him
inreply, ‘and yet, as you know, the sight of the
child annoys him exceedingly.”

“You have a nurse,” the physician replied, ‘and

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. cael VOL. 45—No 4. |

 

 

you can easily arrange to keep the little one away {

from her father—at least for atime; a few weeks
will doubtless serve to restore his mental strength,
and these vagaries will disappear.”

So the family left their beautiful home, and depart-
ed for the famous resort, and the change did indeed
appear to be very beneficial to Mr. Remington. In
less than a fortnight he had regained much in
strength, both physically and mentally, and the
young wife began to grow hopeful and happy once
more.

But the improvement was only temporary.

One morning Mrs. Remington left her husband
reading upon the veranda of their hotel, and stole
away for a little visit. to her child, who was kept en-
tirely away from her father.

Half an hour later Mr. Remington came suddenly
upon her, as she sat in a pretty summer-house in a
distant portion of the hotel grounds, having a glee-
ful frolic with her darling. The sight appeared to
completely unhinge his mind again, and for a few
moments he acted like a madman.

Startled and alarmed more than she had ever been
before, Mrs. Remington hastily put her child into
the arms of its nurse, then coaxing her husband out
into the grounds, she used all her arts to soothe and
pacify him. : Y :

He grew quiet and more like himself after a while,
and she belleved he would soon forget the occur-
rence.

But late that afternoon the nurse came running to
he mistress, asking, with white lips, if she had the
child.

“No; why,’ the mother demanded, a terrible shock
thrilling every nerve in her body.

The girl said she had rocked the little one to sleep
as usual, for her afternoon nap, and then slipped
down to the laundry for some clean clothes which
she had left airing there, and on her return found
Miss Adele gone from her crib.

The fond mother was nearly frantic over this dis-
covery.

The alarm was given, and the hotel searched from
ae cellar, but no trace of the missing child was
found. 3

Inquiry was then made for Mr. Remington.

He, too, had mysteriously disappeared, and yet no
one had seen him leave the hotel or the grounds.

All search for him proved unavailing, and it finally
dawned upon the nearly distracted wife and mother
that the insane man, in his mad jealousy, had stolen
his own child and absconded with it.

A week passed. The search went on, but no tidings
of either father or child could be obtained.

A little later, however, there came a message from
a distant town saying that the body of a man,
answering the description of Mr. Remington had been
found by a farmer among the hay in his barn.

Adele Remington hastened at once to the place,
her heart filled with terrible forebodings.

Alas! her fears proved to be but too true. She
identified the body of her husband, and then franti-
cally demanded her child.

No one could give her ary tidings of it.
mer asserted that the man had come there by stealth,
and crawled into the hay-mow, where he had died of
either exhaustion or some other disease, and it was
the merest chance in the world that had led to the
discovery of his body, only a few hours after he had
breathed his last.

No one in the neighborhood had seen him; he had
probably come to the place after dark, and slipped
into the barn just before it had been closed for the
night, and there had been no reports of any child
having been seen or abandoned anywhere.

If he had taken his little one with him, when he
had disappeared from the hotel at the Springs, as
doubtless he had, he must have disposed of it in
some very sly and cunning manner; people could
only surmise its fate, and these surmises were merely
hinted at with bated breath and in tones of tender-
est sympathy in the presence of the nearly distracted
wife and mother.

But, still hoping against hope, Mrs. Remington
continued to advertise, and employed detectives to
prosecute the search for her missing darling for
months, even after her return to her beautiful
though now desolate home.

She was nearly crushed by this double bereave-
ment, husband and babe both snatched from her at
once, and it seemed asif her sorrow-stricken heart
would never recover from the terrible blow.

It had now been nearly six months since the oe-
currence of this tragedy of her life, and her grief had
not seemed to abate one whit; all through the long
winter she, had shut herself away from every one,
brooding over the happy past and its cruel ending,
feeling as if she had no object in the world to live
for, while the thought of the long, lonely years to
come, seemed almost unendurable.

But the purposes of the all-wise Ruler were never-
theless being fulfilled, and into the midst of all this
sorrow and gloom of soul there had been swept this
little water-waif—this modern “Moses in the bul-
rushes,” as her coachman had called him, and whom
he had so strangely discovered.

All the motherly sympathies of the lovely woman
had at once been aroused by the beautiful child, and
she had driven-home, hugging it to her bosom with a
tense, greedy clasp, which told something of the
heart-hunger which she had experienced since the
Joss of her own little one; while, for the first time

since her terrible affliction, she was inexpressibly |

comforted as she felt its tiny heart beating against
her own, and listened to its contented cooing as they
rode along.

The child was a beautiful boy, about a year old she
judged, with great laughing brown eyes, and bright
auburn hair. He proved to be a sweet, good-natured
little fellow, and from the first clung to her so fondly
that she began at once to love him with all a
mother’s fondness.

She caused advertisements to be inserted in seve-
ral papers, describing the child and how he had been
found, and tried in many other ways to discover his
friends; but time went by and no one ever came to
claim him, and gradually she grew to feel that he
belonged to her, and to realize that to give him up
would be agony almost equal to that which she had
suffered in losing her own lovely little Adele.

She believed, as Watkins the coachman had sug-
gested, that he was a victim of the Franckport flood,
that he was some poor little fellow whose whole
family had been swallowed up by the angry waters,
and whose mother had, perhaps as a last resort,
snugly tucked and bound him into his strong, old-
fashioned cradle, and then cast him adrift, with the
faint hope of preserving him from the fate which she
could not escape.

“T shall adopt him as my own,” Adele Remington
said one day to a friend, who came to see her little
charge ; “I am sure that no one will ever claim him
after all this time, and I begin to feel, too, as if I had
an object to live for, with this dear little fellow to
rear and educate. Evenif he had not already won
my heart I would accept the trust as a duty, for the
sake of doing some good in the world,” and, as the
lovely woman folded the interesting child closer in
her arms and kissed his rosy cheek, her eyes and
smnile were brighter than they had been since her
own sad bereavement.

“T have even gone so far as to name him,” she con-
tinued, with a little happy laugh as the boy began to
coo and make vigorous dives with his chubby hands
after a stray lock of her glossy brown hair.

“Ah! what do you call him?’ inquired her friend.

‘Maxwell D. Remington; after my husband. Dear
little Max |!” bending to kiss again the smiling lips,
“already you are growing to be like a son to me, and
if I can rear you to be like the noble man for whom
you are named, I shall have erected a worthier monu-
ment to his memory than marble or stone.”

The tears were in her eyes, and a sob broke from her
lips, as she thus referred to her loved one, but “dear
little Max” dextrously entangled his rosy fingers in
his adopted mother’s hair, and, delighted with his
exploit, set up such a triumphant crowing that Adele
Remington laughed aloud, musically, and hugged
her little mischief-loving heir-elect to her heart with
all a mother’s fondness.

A week later and the papers were drawn up which
made him legally her own, and the heir to all the
Remington thousands which it was commonly re-
ported were numbered by hundreds.

*

* * * *

Years passed.

The child grew in strength and beauty, and Adele
Remington devoted herself to him with a faithful-
ness that proved how entirely he had won her ten-
derest love.

As he developed, it became evident that he was no
ordinary child. He was bright, keen, manly, and
affectionate, and mature far beyond his years, while
his beautiful mother became his idol.

For years he never dreamed that he owed his ex-
istence to any other; but, when he reached the age
of fourteen, she told him the story of his infancy, and
how he had been rescued from the swollen river by
the faithful Watkins, who was still in their employ.
She thought it best that he should learn the truth
from her, and thus be prepared for what she felt sure
some busybody would tell him later on.

Max regarded her wonderingly and gravely through-
out the strangely thrilling recital, reading her face
with a wistful, yearning look that went straight to
her heart.

When she had finished her story, he sat silent and
thoughtful for several minutes—so long, in fact, that
Adele Remington began to fear that she had done an
eae thing in telling him that he was not her own
child.

‘Max, my dear boy, I hope this will not make any
difference in your feelings toward me,” she began, in
a voice which quivered slightly with repressed
emotion.

She felt that it would be very hard, after all these
years, to lose the affection of this noble boy, upon
whom she had built so many fond hopes.

At the sound of her voice Max started, and she saw
that his eyes were full of tears.

He threw himself upon his knees before her, and
wound his arms about her waist.

“Mother !” he breathed, with an intensity of feeling
that thrilled her to the heart; “it does make a dif-
ference—but only to make me love you a hundred
times more !”’

“Why, Max!” she exclaimed, astonished, as she
saw how his handsome face was conyulsed with
emotion.

The far-

agitation which he could not control.

“T have had a beautiful life, mamma,” he mur-
mured; “we have been so happy together; but,”
with a slight shiver, as he wound his arms closer
about her, ‘‘what would have become of me if you
had not saved me from the river that day ?”’

“Some one else might have rescued you—probably
would, Max,” his mother replied, as she toyed fondly
with the curling locks which clustered, moist and
shining, above his flushed forehead. r

“Yes,” he answered, looking up, with a smile,
though his lips quivered as he dashed the tears from
his great brown eyes; ‘‘but there could be only one
Mamma Remington in the world. I might have fallen
into the hands of people who never would have loved
me as you love me; or, worse yet, I might have been
sent to some almshouse, to’ grow up with coarse,
rough people.”

“IT do not believe you could ever have been coarse
or rude, my Max,” murmured Mrs. Remington, ten-
derly. ‘It was born in you to be retined and gentle-
manly. [believe you must have belonged to cultured
parents.”

“T am not so sure about that—about my not grow-
ing up rude, I mean,’”’ Max responded, with unusual
thoughtfulness in one so young; ‘‘for I know that
boys who go with other boys that are rude and coarse,
are apt to grow like them; and,if I had been brought
up differently, I am afraid I shouldn’t have cared so
much for the things [ like now. At any rate, I am
glad—so glad !—that it was you who found and kept
me; and I love you—yes, a thousand times better than
I did before.”

“There, dear, we will not talk any more about it,”
Mrs. Remington said, seeing how excited he was be-
coming. “I, too, am glad that you fell to my care,
for you have been a great comfort to me. God sent
you just when my sore heart was most in need of
comfort—when [I was in danger of losing my mind.
You became the one object—the mainspring of my
life, and we have been very happy together, as you
have said.”

“You say that all this happened in Pennsylvania ?’
Max asked.

“Yes, in——, about thirty miles from Franckport,
which was almost annihilated, and where hundreds
of people lost their lives. When you were about five
years old my lawyer advised me to dispose of my
property there and come here to Chicago to live, as I
had large interests here, which, from time to time,
demanded my personal supervision. I thought it
would be better for you, too, for I knew that you
could have far better advantages here. I therefore
made the change, and feel that it was avery wise
one, although at first it was a little hard to think of
giving up the home, where, for a time, I had been so
happy.”

“IT wonder,” Max began, reflectively.

“Well, dear?’ said his mother, encouragingly.

“T wonder who my own father and mother were—I
wonder if I shall ever know ?”’

Adele Remington looked grave.

“T fear not,” she said, touching his forehead with
her lips. ‘Doubtless they both perished in the ter-
rible flood which swept so ruthlessly over the doomed
town. I endeavored, by every means in my power,
to ascertain if you had any friends living, but could
gain no information upon that point; and, Max, I
would not, if I were you, brood over the matter; it
can do no good; it will only serve to make you rest-
less, discontented, and unhappy. I have told you
this because I preferred that you should learn the
truth from me rather than from any one else; and
now let us drop the subject, go on as before, and be
as happy as we can. You are my dear, dear boy; I
could not love you more if you were veritably my
own, and I must confess that if I thought there was
the least danger of any one ever claiming and tak-
ing you from me, I should be very unhappy.
There,” she continued, more lightly, “Watkins has
come with the carriage; run away and get ready,
for you know we are going out to visit the watch
manufactory at Elgin, and there is only half an hour
to the train time.”

Max sprang to his feet, deeply interested, boy-like,
in this trip of which they had long talked: but be-
fore he went to get ready he threw his arms about
mother’s neck, kissing her on both cheeks and
ips.

“‘Mother, you are the loveliest and best mother in
the world,’ he whispered, earnestly, and then he
bounded from the room to hide the tears, which
would drop in spite of his efforts to stay them.

Mrs. Remington smiled slightly over this way of
addressing her.

Hitherto he had called her “mamma,” as she had
taught him to do in his infancy. From that day
forth he always addressed her as ‘‘mother,” and with
a certain indescribable emphasis upon. the name, as
if to him it had acquired a peculiar sacredness.

 

CHAPTER III.

AN ADVENTURE IN WHICH MAX BECOMES
A HERO.

As Mrs. Remington had told Max in the last chap-
ter, when he was five years old, she had changed her
place of residence to Chicago. :

Mr. Remington had owned considerable property
in that city, having invested his money there several
years previous to his death, and it was increasing
now in value very rapidly, and needed some one on
the spot to look closely after it.

Mrs. Remington had developed quite a talent for
business since she had been thrown upon her own
resources, and after talking the matter over with her
lawyer, had decided to give this property her per-
sonal supervision. :

She had several friends living in Chicago; there-
fore the change was not so trying as it would have
been had she gone there a perfect stranger. She was
given the warmest kind of a welcome, and soon
found herself surrounded by a circle of people who
moved in the best of society, and into which she,
ere long, found herself irresistibly drawn, although,
since her husband’s death, she had gone but very
little into company.

During the years that followed she found herself
very popular; it was not possible for so beautiful
and cultivated a woman as Adele Remington to re-
main long in the shade anywhere; she won every
heart, and suitors soon began to seek her hand, some
attracted by her beauty and real worth, others by her
large wealth, but she turned a deaf ear to all such
appeals. To every offer of marriage she returned a
quiet but firm refusal, saying that she had given the
love of her whole heart to the husband of her youth ;
she had none to give another, and she should never
marry again.

While her heart was bound up in Max, she yet did
not forget that One had once said, “The poor-ye will
always have,” and her carriage was often found in
the by-ways of that great city, where many a poor,
pinched face brightened at her coming, and blessings
for unusual comforts greeted her ears.

How often it is that out of deep sorrow the richest
fragrance of a life is poured forth for the benefit of
others.

(> * * * * *

Watkins drove Mrs. Remington and her son to the
railway station, where they were just in season to
catch the train going out to Elgin. And by the way,
Max was a great favorite with the faithful coach-
nan, who had insisted upon accompanying his mis-
tress when she made the change referred to before.

Upon their arrival at Elgin a friend of Mrs. Rem-
ington, and a member of the famous watch company
located there, met them at the station and conducted
them to those world-renowned works, where they
spent a couple of hours in a very enjoyable manner,
Max, particularly, becoming intensely interested in
the delicate construction of time-keepers, concern-
ing which he asked _many apt and intelligent ques-
tions, which Mr. Knight took evident pleasure in
answering.

The climax to the youth’s enjoyment was attained
when, just as they were about to leave the manufac-
tory, his mother put into his hands a small, square
Morocco case, saying, with a sinile:

“T am sure, Max, you will like this souvenir of our
delightful trip.’

The boy’s handsome face flushed and glowed with
happiness as he opened the case and found within it
an elegant gold watch.

“Oh, mother! is it forme?’ he asked, eagerly.

“Look on the inside of the cover, dear,” she quietly
returned.

He touched the spring, and there, on the inside of
the case, he saw the inscription, ‘“Max, from A. R.”
with the date of that very day.

Mrs. Remington, knowing of this visit, had sent an
aa the week previous to have the gift made ready
for him.

“How very good of you,” Max said, lifting a grate-
ful glance to her. “I have been wishing for a watch
this long time.”

“Tam very glad that you like it, and we will choose
a chain for it when we get back to Chicago,” she re-
plied, smiling.

Mr. Knight invited them home to lunch with him,
after which he showed them about his fine place, then
drove them for an hour around the town before leav-
ing them at the station to take their train for home.

They had a few minutes to wait before it was due,
and Mr. Knight sat in the ladies’ room, chatting with
Mrs. Remington, while Max, boy-like, wandered out
upon the platform ‘‘to look around.”

He walked down to where some men were busy
loading baggage upon a truck, preparatory to ship-
ping it upon the train.

Presently he heard a whistle, and, glancing down
the track, saw the locomotive rapidly approaching
the station.

Just at that moment his attention was attracted by
ayoung girl, who started to cross the track, and he
thought her very venturesome to attempt it when
the train was so near.

He was struck, too, by her slight and delicate ap-
pearance, while he thought that, next to his mother’s,
hers was the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

heel of her boot caughtin the crack between two
planks, and she was instantly thrown to the ground.
She gave a quick, frightened cry, and shot a glance
of terror toward the train, which in another minute
she knew would be upon her.
The engineer saw her and gave the whistle of

 

She had nearly reached the second rail, when the |

 

He dropped his head upon her shoulder, to hide the 7 alarm, while his practiced hand fell instantly upon

the lever to stop the engine; but all who were gaz-
ing, terror-stricken, upon the unfortunate girl, felt
sure that he would not be able to stop thetrain in
season to save her. ;

For an instant Max was almost blinded by the
sight; his heart leaped into his throat, his face grew
white as the collar about his neck, and. he began to
grow faint and giddy at the thought that this beauti-
ful girl was about to be killed before his eyes. d

The next moment, forgetful of self, of everything,
save her deadly peril and the need of immediate ac-
tion, he sprang to her side, bent down and, quick as
a flash of light, ripped every button on her boot from
its hole, grasped the girl about the waist and leaped
back toward the platform, where a dozen pairs of
hands were outstretched to snatch him and his half-
fainting burden from the jaws of death, just as the
panting iron monster steamed slowly over the spot
from which they had so narrowly escaped.

Max sank breathless and exhausted upon a box
that stood beside the loaded truck, and feeling as if
he should never see or hear again, for a terrible
roaring was in his ears and a blur over his eyes; but
the next moment he felt his mother’s arms about
him, while her quivering voice, sounding afar off,
murmured, brokenly :

“Max! Max! my brave, noble boy! Oh, if I had
lost you!”

He lifted his face, which was still blanched to the
hue of death, and tried to smile; but he could not
speak for the moment, for the thought of being
separated from her, and of his hair-breadth escape
from a shocking death, completely unnerved him,

The girl began to revive almost immediately, but
the shock had stricken every bit of strength out of
her, and she lay pale and still in the arms of a
motherly woman, who had been waiting to take the
train and who had rushed forward to help care for
the poor unfortunate when she saw her fainting
condition.

A crowd had gathered about the spot, and con-
siderable excitement prevailed, for the escape of
both children had been little short of miraculous,
while the praises of the noble boy, who had risked
his own life to save another, were on every tongue.

The conductor and engineer were both on the spot,
looking pale and unnerved, for nothing strikes terror
to these officers of a train like a tragedy on their
route. ;

“Where is she?’ Max asked, as soon as he could
command himself to speak ; and, rising with an effort,
for his knees were shaking with weakness, he looked
about him for the object of his care.

“Over there, with that woman in gray,” Mrs.
Remington replied, pointing her out.

‘‘Was she hurt at all?” the boy inquired, anxiously,

“I think not; but J had no thought save for you,
dear child,” said his mother, brokenly, “though,” she
added, ‘I’m afraid that sounds very selfish.”

“T am going to find out,’ Max said, and he moved
slowly toward the spot where the girl lay in the arms
of the good woman in gray.

The crowd divided to let him pass, gazing admir-
ingly on the brave boy and his beautiful mother, and
the young girl looked up as they approached, a faint
smile wreathing her pale lips, tears of gratitude
gathering in her eyes—which were as blue as the
cloudless sky overhead—as she recognized her pre-
server.

“Are you hurt?” Max inquired, kneeling beside her
and regarding her anxiously.

She shook her head. She did not seem able to
speak yet, though her sweet lips quivered and she
half put out her hand to Max, as if eager to express,
= some way, the pent-up feelings of her thankful

eart.

“‘All aboard!” the conductor shouted at this mo-
ment, and the crowd began to scatter.

“Tam very glad,” Max said, heartily, but thinking
how very pretty she was in spite of her extreme
pallor. ‘It would have been dreadful if——”

A shudder completed the unspoken thought.

“Will you tell me your name?’ he continued.
“Mine is Maxwell Remington, and I should like to
know yours.”

“Agnes Walton,” the girl answered, in a weak voice,
a slight tinge of red suffusing her cheeks as she met
his eyes.

“Thank you,’ Max returned, rising to his feet and
politely lifting his cap. “I hope the fright won’t
make you ill, either; but we’ll have to go. Good-by,”
and bowing again, he turned away, for the conductor
had again shouted, “All aboard !””

Mrs. Remington stooped down and softly kissed
the girl’s white forehead.

“God bless you, my dear!” she said, with deep
emotion. ‘I am very grateful to Him that your life
was spared.”

“Tell him—thank him,” murmured Agnes, catching
her hand and carrying it passionately to her lips,
while her eyes turned eagerly toward the retreating
form ‘ef Max.

“Yes, I will,” said Mrs. Remington, understanding
her anxiety to express her gratitude. Now, good-by,
for I inust go, too.”

She gently pressed her hand as she released it, and
then followed Max to the train, asking of Mr. Knight
as she went:

“Who is she? Do you know 2?”

“She is a poor girl who works in the watch factory.
Her mother is a widow, who does dressmaking. Her
father died very suddenly about three years ago;
¢ Mbeors one of our superintendents,” he rapidly ex-
plained.

‘Poor child! she is very young and very delicate
to have to work for herliving. She cannot be more
oo twelve, I should think,” said Mrs. Remington,
sadly.

“She is fourteen,” returned Mr. Knight.

“Just Max’s age; but that does not make it much
better.”

There was no time to say more, for every one else
was on board the train. Mr. Knight assisted Mrs.
Remington into the car, the conductor gave the
signal, and the train moved off, bearing many and
leaving many hearts overflowing with thankfulness
because a shocking tragedy had been averted, while
one could say enough in praise of the heroism of

ax.

Mr. Knight, who was a thoroughly kind man, took
Agnes Walton in his own carriage to her home, and
himself related to Mrs. Walton the story of her peril
and escape, and telling her also to keep Agnes at
home during the remainder of the week, for, he said,
she would need the rest to help her recover from the
severe shock her nervous system had received, and
her wages should go on just the same.

Before the end of the week, however, that gentle-
man was the recipient of a letter from Mrs. Reming-
ton, inclosing a check for two thousand dollars, tell-
ing him to invest it in the best way his judgment
should dictate for Agnes Walton, to be expended
upon her education, and when it was gone to apprise
her of the fact, and more should be forthcoming.

“Tam exceedingly interested in this pretty girl
whom Max saved from such a dreadful death,” she
wrote, “and [cannot bear the thought that she should
spend her young life within the walls of a factory.
She appeared bright and intelligent, and there was a
look of refinement about her which seemed to indi-
cate that she might be fitted for a higher position.
If she is inclined to study, I should deem it a privi-
lege to assist her to become a teacher, which will be
much more congenial to her than her present occu-
pation. I hope this will not be a burden to you, Mr.
Knight, but since you know these people, I feel that
you can approach them upon the subject much
better than I, who am a total stranger to them. Be
kind enough to keep me posted from time to time re-
garding the progress of my protegee, and oblige,

“Yours sincerely, ADELE REMINGTON.”

Both Mrs. Walton and Agnes were very grateful to
their unknown benefactress, and were only too glad
to avail themselves of her kindness. Thus the young
girl was spared the necessity of wasting her young
life in the wearisome factory—for wasting it surely
was, as she had been failing steadily during the last
few months, and yet it had seemed to be a necessity,
for Mrs. Walton’s health would not permit her to
support them both.

With the help of this money, however, she could
easily manage to “make both ends meet,” and Agnes
was immediately put into school, where she soon
made up her mind that it would be simply a delight
to fit herself to be a teacher.

She loved study—she was quick to learn, conse-
quently her progress was rapid, and at the end of
four years she graduated from the high school of
Elgin with honors equal to any in her class.

Mrs. Walton had managed so wisely during these
four years, that there were still five hundred dollars
of Mrs. Remington’s two thousand remaining, and
she expressed a wish to Mr. Knight that Agnes might
spend another year at some finishing school.

“She shall have two, or more, if she likes, and I
myself will bear her expenses after this money is
gone,” that gentleman had kindly replied.

He had no children of his own, and he also had be-
come deeply interested in the fair girl, who had
grown fairer and more lovely with each year, and he
was only too glad to spend some of his surplus
money in helping on the good work which Mrs. Rein-
ington had begun.

Agnes thanked him, remarking that she should be
glad of a two years’ collegiate course, and she would
accept his offer with the understanding that she
should repay whatever amount he might expend for
her, after she began to teach.

“We will talk about that later,’ Mr. Knight res-
ponded with a quietsmile; ‘““meantime we will get all
the knowledge possible into that little head, which I
suspect, by the way, is already very wise.”

In September of that same year, Agnes Walton’s
name was enrolled upon the register of one of the
most noted seminaries 1n Illinois, where she gave
herself enthusiastically to the work of preparing to
become a teacher.

{TO BE CONTINUED.)

CATARRH CURED.

A clergyman, after years of suffering from that loath-
some disease, Catarrh, and vainly trying every known
remedy, at last found a prescription which completely
cured and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this
dreadful disease sending a self-addressed stamped en-
velope to Prof. J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren St., New York
City, will receive the recipe free of charge.

7

 

MEMORIES.

BY J. 8. MILLS.

 

Once more beneath my yearning eyes
The deep-secluded vale appears ;

Once more I see the mountains rise
That, in the dimly distant years,
Beheld our bitter parting tears.

The meadow-path by which we walked
In those old days that were so sweet,
The stream that talks as then it talked,
The low-roofed church, the village street,
That once was glad beneath her feet.

Each common object seems to say
‘With me in mute complaining moan,
“ The light is parted from our day ;
She once was here, but now is gone,
And we are left alone—alone!”

I wander on, yet, as I go,
The joy to view each well-loved scene
Is vanquished by the greater woe,
To think of all that might have been,
Had a hard fate not stepped between.

Farewell, once more, my heart’s sad home;
Once more I go; yet, wheresoe’er,
Through length of weary days, I roam,
One memory, heart-enshrined, I bear,
This mountain valley green and fair.
And the sweet flower that blossomed there.

his Story Will Not be Polished in Bok-orm

A LIFE AT STAKE.

By Mrs. HARRIET LEWIS,
Author of ‘‘The House of Secrets,” ‘ Vivian
Thorne,” ‘“*The Heiress of Egremont,”
“The False Heir,” etc., etc.

 

 

(“A LIFE AT STAKE” was commenced in No. 51, Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER IX.—(CONTINUED.)

HERWELL quietly arose from
his chair and came forward,
pausing near the father and
daughter, and contemplating
them, with his arms folded
across his chest.

““My dear Miss Dare,” hesaid,
blandly, “since Sir Allyn can-
not command himself suffi-
ciently to explain what you
so naturally desire to know, I
beg you will permit me to do so for him.”

A look of aversion flitted over the maiden’s face,

 

yet not so quickly but that he who was the cause of

it remarked it. But it did not affect his imperturba-
bility.

“Allow me to commence, Miss Dare, by remarking
that my visit to Edencourt at this time is almost en-
tirely upon your account.”

Tide bowed wonderingly.

“T was your grandfather’s—Sir William Dare’s—
secretary, and I am your father’s best friend. Ata
critical period in his history—the very period to
which he alluded when declaring that there is ‘a
mystery in his life’-—I rendered him a great service.
In return for that service, which was inestimable, he
made acompact that in ten years time, when you
should have attained the age of eighteen years, he
would give you to me as my wife!”

Ilde became deathly pale, and gave a startled
glance at her father, who dared not encounter her

aze.

' “Consequently, my dear Miss Ilde, you have been
for years my betrothed wife,”’ said Therwell, quietly,
yet in a tone expressive of great satisfaction. “I
dare say that I have not all the graces which you
have pictured as belonging to your future lover, but
you would reap many advantages by a union with
me—at least, Sir Allyn would!” he added, signifi-
cantly. ‘*You can do or say nothing that will change
your destiny, and you will do well to submit and
make the best of it.’

“Ts this so, father?’ asked the young girl, incredu-
lously. ‘Tell me, has this man spoken truly ?”

“Oh, my poor little girl, forgive me! Itis so!”

Tide seemed almost stupetied by this declaration,
but only for-a moment.

“Father,” she said, “you could not have known
what you were about by promising me to Mr. Ther-
well, at a time too when I was only a little child!
You must tell him so, and send him away. If he
wants money give it him, but tell him that his de-
mand for my hand is preposterous.”

‘“‘That is easily said, Miss ide!’ declared Therwell,
with an amused laugh. “But your plan would
hardly answer to be carried into practice. You do
not know Vincent Therwell as well as your father
does. Ask him what would be the consequences of
doing as you request.”

The baronet uttered a faint, miserable moan.

Looking into his ghastly face, lide Dare began to
comprehend something of the iron hand compelling
him to do that against which his soul revolted, and
she subdued all outward sign of the deadly ter-
ror creeping into her heart, and strove to maintain a
cheerful look in order to strengthen her father.

“You had better go away Mr. Therwell,” she said,
calmly. ‘Papa is not strong enough to battle with
you, but I know that you can have no claim upon
him that will force me into a marriage with you. I
am too young to be married, and my father needs
me; so dismiss all thoughts that I will consent to
marry @ man whom J saw for the first time in my re-
membrance last night, and then under such circum-
stances as to inspire me with a profound dislike of
hin.”

“Tide,” said the baronet, faintly.

“That is very fine talk, and quite worthy of the
daughter of Sir Allyn Dare,” said Therwell, seem-
ingly unmoved; “‘but you must be as innocent as
you look if you think your protestations can-influ-
ence me. Fortunately, I did not expect that you
would fall in love with me at first sight. I am quite
willing that that gentle and pleasing emotion should
follow, instead of preeede, the marriage ceremony.”

“Do not deceive yourself, Mr. Therwell!? ex-
claimed the maiden. “I tell you that I shall never
marry you. Papa could never have seriously prom-
ised you such a strange, cruel, and unheard-of
thing. _An appeal to the law,if other means fail,
will free both my father and myself from your per-
secutions.”

“An appeal to the law?’ asked Therwell, with pre-
tended ignorance as to her meaning. ‘Who shall
appeal to the law, you or I?’

There was a singular significance in his tones,
and Ilde felt her father’s hand clutch her arm with
a sudden and painful force, as if he were experienc-
ing deadly alarm.

“T will,” she responded, haughtily. “It shall be
discovered if my poor father shall be frightened
into a morbid state of mind simply on account of
some boyish fault, the knowledge of which you hap-
pen to have become possessed. His health is infirm,
and, since he cannot be my protector, I will protect
him and myself. Ido not fear you, Mr., Therwell,
nor any harm that you can do us!”

“Indeed!” said Therwell, quietly.

Iide’s eyes flashed indignantly, the color kindled in
her cheeks, and her lip curved in scorn for the man
who would make her his unwilling bride.

“Cheer up, papa,” she said, as Sir Allyn seemed to
tremble in his chair. ‘You are not well, I know, and
Mr. Therwell shall not be permitted to disturb you
any longer.”

“Pardon me, Miss Dare,’ said the ex-secretary,
blandly, “but you seem to be laboring under some
misapprehension. You think that your father has
done nothing to merit censure, and thatif he were
notina morbid state of mind he would resent my
words and bid me begone. You think that what has
been said at this interview is too incredible to be
acted. Let me assure you that my resolve to make
you my wife is no sudden whim, no idle resolve, but
the cherished purpose of years, and you had better
brave the deadliest tiger in its native jungle than to
attempt to brave and defy me!” ‘

Though he spoke affably there was at that moment
a tigerish gleam in his usually dull eyes, and a eruel,
determined expression about his mouth, that caused
the tenderly nurtured maiden to quail momentarily
in fear.

But the next instant she was as resolute as he.

“T do brave and defy you!” she said, with a flash of
spirit.

“Oh, Ide, you know not what you say!” said her
father, sorrowfully.

“Sir Allyn is right, Miss Ilde; you know not what
you say. Refuse to marry me, and persist in that
refusal, and you will wish that you had never been
born. Has it not occurred to you that there is some-
thing terrible under all this talk of a ‘compact’ and a
‘bond?’ and Therwell’s tones grew earnest for the
first time. “Itis in my power, Ide Dare, to crush
you and your father under a burden of shame; to
hang him higher than Haman; to hunt you through
the world, where nota hand will be lifted in your

 

defense when you declare that you are the daughter

of Sir Allyn Dare of Edencourt.
will so hunt and crush you if——”

“Tide, I do not ask you to sacrifice yourself for
me,” cried Sir Allyn, in an anguished voice. ‘I can
bear anything, but I beg you to have pity upon your-
self, upon your unprotected youth and friendless-
ness.”

Iide’s arm fell lifelessly from its encircling clasp
about her father, a look of terror was depicted upon
her face, and she faltered, in a voice unlike her usual
one:

“Father, does he speak truly ?”’

Sir Allyn groaned an assent.

It was impossible longer to misunderstand how
critical was her position, and Ilde at oncerelinquished
all thoughts of the morbid state of her father’s mind,
and awoke suddenly and thoroughly to the cause of
all his gloom and despair.

He must then have committed some crime, the pun-
ishment of which had been his life-long dread. It
was in her power to save him by sacrificing herself.
Yet could she do it ? c

It was strange how, in that moment, she remem-
bered the bright handsome face of Gay Tressillian,
and the sweet hopes that his words had evoked in
her soul.

“Tide,” said her father, gently, terrified at the sud-
den look of anguish that came over her face, ‘“fde,
can you save me? If I were to perish you would die
under your burden of shame and misery. You will
save us both——"

The young girl aroused herself, and looked earn-
estly into her father’s face. It was a pale, yet high-
bred countenance, indicating a weak will perhaps,
and a soul unable to cope with troubles and difficul-
ties, but it also indicated a noble nature. Looking
thus at him, Ide felt that it was impossible that he
could have committed a crime, and the mystery of
his secret rested upon her like a funeral pall.

“Yes, papa, I can save you,” she cried, with an
effort which the baronet but dimly understood. “But
tell me that I need not blush for you. I know you
would not ask me to sacrifice myself to your enemy
without a fearful reason, but that reason, what is it ?
You have not—have not——”

“T have never committed a crime, Ide, if that be
what you ask. I cannot tell you my secret, but, if
you refuse to marry Vincent Therwell, I must die a
shameful death, and you——Ilde, I am not unworthy
of your love, save for the miserable weakness that
has been the bane of my life. Do with me as you
will. If you feel that death would be preferable to a
life with Therwell, we will die together. If you
cling to life, as is but natural, and yet hate to marry
him, we will say no more—”

“But one thing, Miss Ilde,” said the ex-secretary,
in a tone of terrible signiticance, “Remember that
your father’s life is at stake.”

“Yes, my life is at stake,’ feebly whispered the
baronet.

He looked at his daughter as the drowning man re-
gards the passing sail; Ilde’s painful indecision van-
ished, and her countenance lighted up with self-de-
votion as she said:

“Have no fears, father. I willsave you. To avert
the--the evil,’”’ and her voice faltered, ‘‘I will marry
Mr. Therwell.”

The face of the ex-secretary glowed with delight.
His eyes burned with supreme satisfaction, his lips
quivered with a smile, and he involuntarily rubbed
his hands together.

‘“‘Allow me to assure you, Miss Dare, that you have
decided well,” he said. “Of two evils you have
chosen the lesser, although I flatter myself thata
marriage with me is after all not so much to be
dreaded. You will not have to leave Edencourt, and
you will have the pleasure of knowing that you have
saved your father’s life. I desire that our marriage
take place in one month.”

“In one month ?”’

“Yes; and as soon as you have become my wife I
will burn the written bond——”

“Have you it with you?’ interrupted Sir Allyn,
eagerly.

“No. Iam too wary for that. I left it behind me.
This matter may then be considered settled, and Miss
lide is, with her own consent, my betrothed wife 2”

The maiden assented with a countenance so full of
suffering that it must have touched a heart not of
stone, and Therwell approached her, took her hand,
and pressed it gallantly to his lips.

“Tn one month, Miss Ilde, I shall claim you as my
wife. Meantime TI shall remain here to watch over
you and guard you.”

Ide drew her hand from him, then turned and em-
braced her father passionately, he shrinking fromher
caresses as One unworthy of them ; then she hastened
into her boudoir, and flung herself upon a couch,
calling again and again in her anguish upon the
name of Gay Tressillian, as if there were magic in
the sound to soothe the aching at her heart.

CHAPTER X.
SIR HUGH IS PERPLEXED.

“ Tf solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies, }
And we are fools who roam ;
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves joys must flow,
And that dear hut—our home.”—COoTTON,

The apartments of Sir Hugh Chellis, at his ances-
tral home at Hawk’s Nest, comprised a suite of
chambers at the eastern extremity of the mansion,
Miss Dorothy having appropriated to her own use
the rooms fronting to the west.

The chambers of the young baronet were emi-
nently Inxurious in all their appointments, but
every article within them testified unmistakably to
the bachelor habits of their proprietor. Costly pipes,
ornamented with rare carving, littered the inlaid
tables; a favorite silver-mounted fowling-piece in-
cumbered the white marble mantel-shelf; pictures
of celebrated actresses and prima-donnas adorned
the walls; and hosts of embroidered slippers, wateh-
cases. and tobacco pouches—the gifts of town
friends—lay in careless profusion at every ayail-
able spot.

Sir Hugh sighed as he entered his dressing-room,
for it had the same look of desolate grandeur he had
lately observed in his town chambers. The windows
had been opened, however, and the warm, sunny air
played with the lace curtains and dispelled the chilly
atmosphere that had reigned for months throughout
the apartment.

“Well,” he said, “this is better than town, after
all. How glad poor old Porrocks was te see me!
His delight almost consoled me for the cool and
suspicious manner of Aunt Dorothy. It is same-
thing to be loved by one faithful, even if humble,
heart.”

Thus musing, he proceeded to make his toilet, find-
ing a change of garments laid out for his use, and
was soon ready to return to the drawing-room. For-
getful, however, that his grand-aunt was awaiting
his coming, and, being in a thoughtful mood, he
seated himself by a window and gave himself up to
reflection.

It was a fair scene spread out before his gazé—as
fair and lovely a scene as any to be found in Wales.
The grounds about the mansion were handsomely
laid out and adorned with urns and vases of marble,
and a white statue or two gleamed from the ¢ool
shadows formed by blossoming trees. In the dis-
tance were wilder features of Welsh scenery: hills
less tall than that on which Hawk’s Nest was
perched; narrow streams tumbling hurriedly over
masses of rocks in white sheets, and sending up
fairy-like clouds of spray from below; dark ravines,
and furze-covered commons, which were desert-like
in their stillness and desolation.

Looking at all these things. the young master of
Hawhk’s Nest felt his heart stirred within him toa
feeling of tenderness for these scenes among which
his ancestors had lived and died, and amid which
his own childhood had been nurtured.

He resolved that, with the money he had obtained
from his mysterious bride, he would further improve
his home, and garner there all the enjoyments and
pleasures which wealth could purchase. He would
benefit his tenantry, he would cultivate habits of
benevolence, and take for his example a certain
noble duke, whose life is one series of kindly acts,
and whose namie is blessed wherever spoken.

So absorbed was Sir Hugh in his generous dreams
that the time passed by unheeded, but he was at
length recalled to himself when a lew, respectful
knock sounded upon the door. In reply to his sum-
mons to enter, the worthy, ruddy-faced butler, in
his quaint attire, entered the room, bowing pro-
foundly.

“T beg your pardon for intruding, Sir Hugh,” said
the old servitor, carefully closing the door behind
him, and advancing toward his young master; “but
Miss Chellis msisted upon my coming. She has
been waiting for you, sir, along time in the draw-
mg-room.”

“Ah, I had forgotten it,” interrupted the young
baronet. ‘I am very sorry to have kept her waiting.
Tell my aunt that I will join her immediately.”

“But if you please, Sir Hugh,” said the butler, hesi-
tatingly, “Miss Chellis is not pleased at your delay,
and has gone to her own rooms. She saysif you
want to see her you must come to her.”

“Very well, I will go to her,” replied the baronet,
remembering how punctilious, in regard to exacting
due respect and attention from others, was his
elderly relative, and realizing that he must have
deeply offended her by his forgetfulness to return to
her.

Porrocks shifted his position uneasily, but did not
make a movement toward the door. Evidently he
had something upon his mind, which he wished, yet
hesitated, to declare.

oe what is it, Porrocks 2?” inquired his master,
kindly.

“Tf it you please, Sir Hugh, I would like to say
something to you,” was the hesitating response.

“Speak freely, then, Porrocks,” said Sir Hugh,
with an encouraging smile. ‘‘What can I do for you?
Raise your salary, or petition Miss Chellis to relieve
you of the necessity of wearing that outlandish cos-
tume, and.to provide you with something modern ?”’

“Outlandish costume!” ejaculated the old butler,
involuntarily, in a tone expressive almost of horror.
“Outlandish, Sir Hugh?” And he glanced with com-
placent pride at his knee-breeches, buckled shoes,
silk stockings, and the queer spencer, that made his

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want anything modern. In my humble way I re-
setible Miss Chellis, sir. She prefers the good old
sensible fashions, and so do I, sir.”

Considerably amused that the somewhat theatrical
costume before him should be considered sensible,
the young baronet said:

“Then what do you want of me, Porrocks ?”’

The butler glanced toward the closed door, drew a
little nearer his master, and said, in a low tone:

“Something strange and mysterious has happened,
Sir Hugh. I haven’t dared to tell Miss Chellis, for
she’s nervous-like at times, and no wonder, poor
lady, at her age. If you hadn’t come home to-day,
sir, I should have made bold to write to you, though,
after all, you may say that I’m only an old fool to be
worried about it.”

“About what, Porrocks?” inquired Sir Hugh, con-
siderably interested by the manner and words of his
attendant.

“You know, Sir Hugh, that more’n once strangers
have asked to see Hawk’s Nest, and I’ve shown ’em
round to the best of my poor ability, for the Nest is
a place well worth seein’, and showin’, too, for that
matter. ’Tain’t often ’at you see a house at once so
ancient and in such fine repair,” said the good man,
unconsciously quoting a sentence from the speech
with which he usually entertained visitors—‘‘a house
’at’s been the abode, for hundreds of years, of one of
the most ancient families in the kingdom——”

“Yes, yes, Porrocks—but what of your mystery ?”’

“Fm coming to it, Sir Hugh. It was all along of
receiving visitors. Day before yesterday, while I
was in the housekeeper’s room giving an order for
something Miss Chellis wanted particular, one of
the servants said as acarriage was coming up the
drive as fast ag ever the horses could draw it.

* Thinking that you might have come home of a sud-

dint, sir, and been obliged to took up with one of
them hired vebicles from the village, I went to the
great hall and opened the front door wide, so as
to receive you, sir, with proper respect. The car-
riage drove up and stopped, and a lady and her maid
got out ot

“‘A lady and her maid!’ cried the baronet, turning
pale, while his heart throbbed tumultuously.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh,” answered the butler, failing to
observe his master’s sudden agitation. “One of’em
was a lady,if there ever was one, though she was
dressed in plain black silk. She wore a black silk
cloak, too, that nearly covered her dress. She came
up the steps, followed by the maid, and said that
she was stopping over to the village, and had been
driving around to look at the country, and she asked
if she might see the Nest. I answered that I would
show her around with pleasure; and I hope TI didn’t
do wrong, sir?’ added Porrocks. seeing that Sir
Hugh had covered his face with his hands, and fear-
ing that he might have incurred his displeasure.

“No, you did rightly enough, Porrocks. But you
have described the lady’s dress, and haven’t said
how she looked. Was she dark, and did she have
black hair?’

“Ff don’t know, sir. I didn’t see her face. She
wore a thick black vail that was tied like a mask
under her chin. I couldn’t tell whether she was
black or white.”

“And the maid?”

“She was vailed, too. Her face was covered with
a thick brown vail, and she might ’a had whiskers,
for aught I could tell. It was thinking of that, Sir
Hugh, after they had gone, that made me resolve
to write to you about it. I’ve heard of men that
dressed themselves in women’s clothes to gain ad-
mittance to a house that they wanted to rob. I can’t
see why they wore their vails in the house, ard
spoke so low, as if they were afraid of their voices
being heard.”’

“You showed the lady the house, then ?”

“Yes, Sir Hugh. I took her through the drawin’-
rooms, the library, and finally to the picture-gallery.
The lady staid there longest. I had to tell her all
about the Chellises, whose pictures are there, and L
must say she listened as if she had been one of the
family. When she came to your picture she asked a
great many questions—how old you were, what kind
of gentleman you were, whether you were kind-
hearted and had ever been in love, and so on. It
struck me that, p’raps, she was some lady who had
fallen in love with you, so [ told her all I could think
of about you, how you saved my son’s life once, and
how everybody loved you.”

‘“‘What did she say ?”

“Nothing, Sir Hugh, but I heard the maid whisper
something that sounded like ‘What a prize, my lady!
But the lady put up her finger in a warning kind of
way, and the maid said no more. They were cer-
tainby the most mysterious visitors that ever came to
the Nest. The lady looked at your picture fully ten
minutes, and kept a-drawin’ of me on to talk about
you. Then she sighed at last, and said she must go.
At the door the maid put a sovereign im my hand for
my trouble, and very liberal I call it. Then they
drove off in the carriage, and [ saw that they went
back the way they came to the village.”

“Did you not learn their names, Porrocks ?””

“No, Sir Hugh. They didn’t say much to each
other.” :

“I would give fifty pounds to know who the lady
was!’ cried the young baronet, perfectly convinced
that it was his mysterious bride who had visited his
home, ‘I wish yon had followed them, Porrocks.”

“So I did, Sir Hugh,” returned the worthy butler.
“Thinkin’ that the lady might be some one who was
secretly in love with you, I determined to find out
who she was; 80, as soon as [I could, I rode after
them on your bay horse, my cob not being lively
enough to follow the carriage. They had consider-
ably the start, for the idea of followin’ them didn’t
occur to me till they had been gone near an hour, but
T rode as fast as possible, and got to the village just
after the lady and her maid had left it by the express

 

 

train. I[ saw the coachman, and he told me that the
lady had come out of one train and engaged him
directly to take her to the Nest, and that she had not
been stopping at the village at all. That made me
think that she had come a purpose to visit the Nest,
and I began to be afraid I'd done wrong in showin’
her over it.”’

“So you got too late to the station?” said the
baronet, in a tone expressive of disappointment.
“Tt’s a pity you did not find out where she took her
ticket to.”

“She had a return ticket, Sir Hugh, so I was foiled
there. ButI found out from one of those fellows
that are always hanging around stations that the
lady told the guard, when he asked for her destina-
tion, that she was going to West Hoxton.”

“West Hoxton!’ repeated Sir Hugh, as if commit-
ting the name to memory. ‘‘West Hoxton! Let me
see—I have heard the name somewhere.”

“T looked it out on the map, sir, and found that it
was avery small village at the south of England.
Perhaps you know who the lady was, Sir Hugh ?”

‘Yes, [I know who she is,’ said the baronet,
thoughtfully. “That is, I think I do, though it’s
very little IT know concerning her. You're a good,
faithful fellow, Porrocks, to look after my interests
as you have done, and I know that the best reward
I can offer you is the assurance of my friendship and
confidence.”

The eyes of the old servitor glistened through
grateful tears, aud he looked toward Sir Hugh with
an expression made up of affection, tenderness, and
respect.

“Tam happy to deserve your confidence, Sir Hugh,”
he said, his voice trembling.

“You do deserve it, Porrocks,” replied his yeung
master, with earnestness. ‘‘You are a good-hearted
fellow, and one of my best friends. The Nest would
not be home without you. But, there! there!’’ he
added, hastily, as the butler’s face began to work
agitatedly; “I must go and visit my aunt, you know,
or I shall deserve her displeasure.”

He arose, held out his hand with graceful kindness
to his faithful servitor, and then turned to a pier-
glass, ostensibly to retouch some portion of his attire,
uae really to give Porrocks a chance to recover him-
self.

When that object had been accomplished he turned
round, with a gay remark, and after enjoining the
butler to say nothing to any one of the visit of the
mysterious vailed lady, he quitted the room and
sought his aunt’s apartments.

As has been said, they were situated at the opposite
extremity of the house, and to 1each them Sir Hugh
ae compelled to traverse several halls and cor-
ridors.

“I suppose,” he thought, as he walked along, ‘‘that
my -bride has walked recently where I am walking
now. Oh,if I had only been at home! I wonder
why she visited the Nest? It was the day after our
marriage that she came, and before she paid me the
promised money. Was her object to make. herself
familiar with my character and history? Did she
want to learn whether her husband bore an honor-
able reputation, or had she some fear that I had
claimed a naine [ had no right to bear? . Yes, that
must have been the reason.”

By the time he had attained this decision he had
reached the corridor from which the rooms of his
grand-aunt opened. Knocking at one of the doors,
he was bidden to enter, and he hastened to obey the
command.

The room in which he found himself was Miss
Chellis’ private parlor. It looked, like the lady her-
self, as if it might have been transplanted from a
former century. The furniture was all of the cum-
brous yet incongruous sort in vogue a hundred years
ago. There were massive tables resting upon slender
legs, which terminated in claw-feet; there were card-
tables, ungainly book-shelves, heavy damask cur-
tains, and a Turkey carpet that was evidently no
recent acquisition, and which yet looked bright and
handsome.

Yet, despite the fact that the furniture was ancient,
the room had a pleasant, home-like air which attract-
ed Sir Hugh ata glance. It might have been due to
the afternooon sunlight streaming in through the
diamond panes of the latticed window, or to the
flowers filling the parian vases on the mantel-piece,
or to the bright bits of Berlin embroidery that lay
upon the pretty work-basket in front of the easy-
chair, or to the thosand-and-one pleasant evidences
of refined feminine occupancy—but, to whatever it
was due, there was certainly an indefinable charm
that could fsver be found in the bachelor apartments
of Sir Hugh.

It may be safely said that, at this particular mo-
ment, this charm was not due to the presence of its

proprietress, for Miss Dorothy Chellis sat back in her
stuffed chair, with a displeased expression on her
countenance, and a dissatisfied and offended look in
her bright black eyes.

“So you’ve come at last, Hugh!’’ she said, ungra-
ciously, as her grand-nephew advanced.

The young baronet bowed gravely.

“T suppose I may attribute your visit to Porrock’s
intercession,” continued the little lady,even more
ungraciously. ‘I told him to tell you that [ had be-
come tired of waiting for you, and yet you have de-
layed almost an hour after receiving my message. If
you think such conduct is going to accomplish any-
thing for you—if you think it will cause me to burn
my present will and make another, you are entirely
mistaken.”

“My dear Aunt Dorothy!’ exclaimed Sir Hugh,
somewhat impatiently, a flush suffusing itself over
his fine face, “if I had hastened to you before, you
would have said that I was trying to ingratiate my-
self in your favor. I have been occupied, and have
come at my earliest convenience. As to your will,
make itin favor of the Fijis or Hottentots, if you
will, but don’t suspect me continually of designs
upon your property. Not all your money would
tempt me to lead a life of hypocrisy to obtainit. I
am rich enough, I hope, to be honest, and to say
what I mean.”

He spoke in sucha manly tone that Miss Chellis
looked at him with astonishment. She noticed then,
that though his face was pale, from the effects of
long dissipation, that it had yet a nobleness of ex-
pression she had never before observed upon it. His
blue eyes met hers with a frankness and candor that
would have been impossible had he spoken untruth-
fully, and there wasin his manner a gravity and
earnestness that reminded her of Sir Hugh’s late
father.

Unconsciously she ‘ost her offended and displeased
look, and her voice was quite soft as she said:

“You are more like your father than I thought,
Hugh. If you choose to give up your wild associates
and become a quiet country gentleman, like your
father was, I am willing to forget that you have ever
been anything else. I am not saying I shall change
my will, mind. As you are so rich and independent,
you won’t care for my money. Don’t interrupt me.
Did I understand you to say that you were going to
stay at the Nest?”

Sir Hugh replied in the affirmative.

“How long? Until you have won my affection, or
tired of your whim?”

And the little lady eyed him keenly.

“T cannot read the future,” said Sir Hugh. “I came
home with the intention of remaining here. Your
presence at the Nest made but little difference in my
resolves, although, of course, it will give me pleasure
to care for my only living relative——”

“Humph! Rather late in the day, I think.’

“But better late than not at all, Aunt Dorothy.
Still, if you have no faith in my sincerity, or if my
presence be displeasing to you, you shall not be
troubled by me. I will keep tomy own side of the
house, and shall not forget that, by my grandfather’s
will, this suite of rooms is your own for the term of
your natural life.”

“Thank you, Hugh; but your presence is not dis-
tasteful to me,” said his elderly relative. ‘I like to
study people. Youhavechanged greatly since I saw
you i two years ago. What has happened to
you

“Oh, I have awakened—that’s all.” And Sir Hugh
laughed bitterly. “I have tried my town friends, and
found that I had not chosen them well. And I have
determined to begin again.”’

Miss Chellis scrutinized his face very narrowly,
and a scarcely perceptible look of satisfaction ap-
peared in her bright black eyes.

“T am glad to hear it,” shesaid. “It is time you
began anew. But. you are young, Hugh, and can
make yourself as good and true a gentleman as your
father was. I fear, though, that you will soon tire
of what you used to call a hum-drum country ex-
istence. After town gayeties, six months a year in
the country will drag heavily. [know what you need,
nest better than you know yourself—you want a
wife.”

Sir Hugh moved back out of the sunlight, and
shaded his face with his aunt’s fan.

“Yes, you wauta wife, Hugh. The letter which
Porrocks delivered to you was a request for you to
return. I wanted to urge youto marry. If I could
see you settled down, with a family growing around
you, I should be content about your future life.”

“But I don’t want a wife.”

“You don’t know what you want. You must not
be foolish, Hugh.’ And Miss Chellis’ voice grew
harsh at the first sign of oppesition to a plan she had
been cherishiug for weeks. ‘Now, nephew, I shall
make you a proposition. If. you will bring home a
wife to the Nest, ll burn my willin favor of the
African mission.”

“But where shall I find a wife?” exclaimed the
baronet, with a forced laugh.

“Why, there are plenty of suitable young ladies. I
stipulate that your wife must be well-born and well-
bred. If you were to enter into a mesalliance, I should
never forgive you.”

Sir Hugh had been upon the point of confiding to
her the story of his secret marriage, but her latest
words chilled the confession upon his lips. Here-
membered that he knew nothing of the birth or
family of his bride, and also remembered that his
grand-aunt was a woman of strong prejudices and
indomitable pride.

“Well, Aunt Dorothy, I will think the matter over,”
he replied, with assumed carelessness, ‘‘and let you
know my decision in the course of a few weeks.”

“Remember,” said Miss Chellis, impressively, ‘‘that
the marriage is not to be a mesalliance, and remem-
ber too, that if you don’t marry, I shall keep my
present will. No wife—no mouey.”

Sir Hugh’s curiosity was stronger in his soul than
a desire to introduce a Lady Chellis to the world. As
might have been expected, when he quitted his aunt
a few minutes later, he was strong in his determina-
tion to visit West Hoxton immediately.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Pulsed in Book-Form.

The Workineman Uetective

By DONALD /. McKENZIE.

 

 

(“THE WORKINGMAN DETECTIVE” was commenced in
No. 41. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents.]

CHAPTER XLIII.
JESS HORTON’S HEROISM.

Bradshaw was only momentarily stunned by the
blow he had received. And yet that moment was suf-
ficient to place him at the mercy of his unknown
foes. Even while a dim consciousness returned to
his brain he felt a pair of handcuffs locked upon his
powerful wrists, and manacles on his ankles.

Therefore he realized that it was useless to at-
tempt further resistance.

Since he could then gain nothing by betraying the
return of consciousness, he feigned, for the time,
continued insensibility.

He heard a door open and close several times, and
at last two men bent over him, scrutinizing his face
closely for a moment. Then they lifted his form be-
tween them, bore him from the room, placed him
upon a lounge, and, without speaking a word, went
out.

They closed and locked the door after them.

The instant the sound of their footsteps had died
away, Bradshaw was upon his feet and surveying his
‘quarters. With manacled ankles it was impossible

to take a single step. Yet he could stand, leaning
against the lounge, and behold every part of the
room.

It was meagerly furnished, and had two doors and
windows. Had his hands been free, escape would
have been easy. But as it was, he could only wait
until a favorable turnin affairs should come, and in
the meanwhile lay the best possible plans for the
future. For he could not have a better opportunity
for planning than the present, when physical activity
was denied him.

Naturally he was curious to know who were his
captors.

That the carriage he had followed, supposing it to
contain Josephine Fenway and Nellie Archer, was
merely a decoy for leading him into a trap he was
certain.

Thus it appeared that the boy at the house they
had visited, expecting the girls to be there, was an
accomplice of their enemies.

Hence that Josephine and her companion were
still in great danger was to be inferred. And this
thought made. Bradshaw the more impatient at de-
lay.

He began examining his handcuffs, not with any
hope of ridding himself of them, but from sheer im-
patience at their baffling power. At that moment a
door opened, and, to his intense amazement, a wo-
man entered.

She was somewhat disguised, yet he instantly
recognized her. She closed and locked the door on
the inner side, and then came quickly up to him. Be-
fore he could utter a syllable she had removed his
manacles.

“Now run for it, Bradshaw! You ain’t safe till
you’ve left this house ont of sight!’ she exclaimed,
pointing at one of the windows.

ia you, Jess! where did you come from? And
w hy—” .

“No matter where, nor why. I’ve run a big risk
for your sake, and now, if you go and kick the dish

 

 

all over by letting them take you again, P’ll—but
nevermind. Don’t waita moment, Bradshaw! That
man will kill you rather than have you escape now!”
The strange young woman, so reckless and so
wayward, yet developing such courage and fidelity
toward the friends whose cause she had espoused,
seized the Workingman Detective by the arm aud
drew him toward the window. She flung up the sash
herself.

‘“‘Now skip!” she cried, white and breathless.
“And you?” he demanded, with his hand upon the
window-sill.

“Will follow. Those who live here are a tough
crowd. They know me, and wouldn’t interfere with
anything I did ifi——”

“It what ?” Bradshaw persisted.

“Tf Stockwell, the detective, wasn’t in the racket.
They don’t know I’m against him. They think I come
here asa pal. I told’em I was comin’ in to get some
secrets out of you, and they believed me, and let me
come in. That’s how [happen to be here. But he
is in the house, and at any minute may—— There!
eee did I tell you? Go, Bradshaw—go, for your

ife!

There had been a sudden outcry in another part of
the house, followed by the swift rush of feet. They
approached the room in which Bradshaw had been
confined, and some one tried to open it. Crash! went
a boot through alower panel. Bang! sounded a club
against an upper panel, splitting it in twain. All
this occurring with inconceivable rapidity, not al-
lowing Bradshaw time even to leap through the open
window.

The Workingman Detective, had he been alone,
would have turned to face his foes rather than seek
safety in flight. But to do this now would only im-
peril the brave young woman who had risked so
much to liberate him.

“Go, Bradshaw !” Jess Horton reiterated.

And, in obedience, he leaped out through the win-
oom She followed him nimbly, and stood by his
side.

“Don’t take to the road,’’ she rapidly enjoined.
“Here is a path that leads through a belt of woods.
Once under cover of the trees and you are safe. I
tell you, these men here wouldn’t scruple to shoot
you down in the highway, in broad daylight, They’ve
done as bold things as that for money, and you may
be sure there is big money in this game against you.
Come! They will be after us in a moment, and we
can’t outrun bullets.”

Jess did not take the lead, a fact at which Brad-
shaw wondered, since she appeared so thoroughly
familiar with the locality. But he was soon to learn
why she waited for him to strike into the foot-path,
while she followed close in his tracks.

“Run as fast as you can, and don’t tear that I can’t
keep up with you!’ she exclaimed.

And away they sped.

The distance to the belt of trees was about two
hundred yards. It had not been more than half cov-
ered by the fugitives before three men emerged from
the house and started in pursuit.

Bradshaw had never seen either of the men before.
They were plainly of the most desperate type of
criminals. And it occurred to the engineer that the
fact of Stockwell, the detective, being connected
with these rutfians was in itself an important dis-
covery.

“T have good grounds now for getting my zealous
rival in limbo,’ was Bradshaw’s reflection. And he
resolved to lose no time in thus effectually disposing
of a man whom, from the first, he had known to be
capable of any act of baseness or treachery.

But Stockwell, whether he had been in the house
at the moment or not, did not join in the pursuit.
He was too wary for that.

Their pursuers scattered, and came on with the
persistence of a hurricane. The road was deserted,
and there were no other houses in sight, save one or
two tumble-down shanties, inhabited, no doubt, by
as lawless characters as were the ruffians them-
selves.

On sped the fugitives; onward came the pursuers.
The former would soon be under cover of the trees.
The ruffians, seeing that it was impossible to over-
take them thus, in obedience to a sign from one of
their number, abruptly halted, and simultaneously a
revolver gleamed in the hand of each.

“Halt, or we’ll wing ye!’ shouted one.

Bradshaw glanced over his shoulder, and in an in-
stant realized that Jess Horton’s form caine betwixt
him and the foe who uttered the command.

“Run off to the right, or they will hit you in trying
to shoot me!” cried Bradshaw, suddenly wheeling in
his tracks, intending for her to pass him.

Instead, she, too, halted, placing her form directly
in range of the menacing pursuers, so as to shield
him. At the same time she drew a revolver, leveled
it, and fired.

The ruffian who had ordered them to halt, dropped
his weapon and staggered backward; but he did not
fall.

“Use your pistols!’ he hoarsely cried, with a wave
of his hand toward his comrades.

Instantly Jess again fired. Then, without waiting
to observe the effect of her shot, she flung herself
before her companion, thrusting the weapon into
his hands.

Three pistol-shots sounded simultaneously. Brad-
shaw felt a burning twinge across one shoulder. At
the same, time, Jess Horton—reckless, brave, true-
hearted Jess—sank, with a moan of pain, at his feet.

Sudden fire seemed to leap into Bradshaw’s veins.
The revolver she had given him, still warm from her
clasp, was clutched more tightly in his hand. He
raised the weapon and fired. A man fell. Again,
and another foe was stretched upon the earth. Only
one remained upon his feet, and he had been partly
disabled by Jess’ first shot. He turned and fled,
while another shot from Bradshaw’s steady hand
whistled past his face.

The field was clear. The Workingman Detective’s
last action had been prompted by something like an
impulse for vengeance. Now he bent over the mo-
tionless form of her who had, beyond question, saved
his life, perhaps at the cost of her own. Her face
was white as death, her dress stained with blood.
And she was as beautiful, and her blood was as red
as if she had been the pet of fortune, instead of a
criminal and an outcast.

 

CHAPTER XLIV.
A CRISIS AT THE MILLS.

Another day came and waned. It was late in the
afternoon, and affairs at the Fenway Mills had been
more traquil than upon the previous day.

The mills were still occupied by hundreds of male
operatives, who spent their time talking, smoking,
and in other idle ways. In the morning they had
started the machinery. But-wiser counsel prevailed,
and it was stopped. The men merely remained to
prevent the police taking possession, and were in
readiness to take any action that occasion called for.
Bagley, the grim-faced workinan was ostensibly in
command, but if there should be another struggle he
had no idea of attempting to control the many ele-
ments of which the striking members were com-
posed.

There was no individual who had been more prom-
inent, or exercised greater influence in the lawless
crowd than Pomby, the fireman.

In his native country he had led a certain great
labor revolt inthe mills where he was then employed,
and he was wont to boast that he knew how to bring
the bosses to terms.

It was whispered, however, that upon the occasion
of which he so frequently made boast, he had gotten
himself into difficulty, and that it was of such a
serious character that he had fled to America to
escape the consequences.

Whether this was true or not, the younger men in
the Fenway Mills were inclined to look up to him as
aman with a “long head,” and one whom the bosses
would wish they had not aroused to opposition.

It will be remembered that Bradshaw made an
announcement to his fellow workmen to the effect
that in a directors’ meeting on this day an attempt
would be made to resume work in the mills, and to
pledge to the operatives all their back pay.

Although the leaders among the latter professed
to have little faith in such action being taken, yet
the words of Bradshaw left an influence which was
largely instrumental in the suppression for the time
being of further violence.

The directors’ meeting convened in the Fenway
office at two o’clock. There was a full attendance,
and the capitalists with their ‘‘tall hats,” which had
excited such a conflict on the day previous, came
this time well guarded by police. A squad of officers.
well armed, guarded the office entrance. One would
have thought that part of the. city to be under mar-
tial rule.

The last of the directors had arrived, and the meet-
ing was barely opened, when two carriages, driven
at a furious pace, came into the court-yard. It would
have been hard to decide which arrived tirst. One
was a public hack, and the horses were flecked with
foam, indicating that they had been put to their best
speed.

Fhe other was a handsome private carriage, and
the black horses seemed little the worse for the race.

It was plain that the two vehicles had been racing
to get to the mills ahead of each other.

From the private carriage Mr. Hofmann and a well
known and notably shrewd lawyer alighted, both
going into the office.

The other vehicle kept on to the main entrance of
the mills. Only one man got out. He opened the
door without a moment’s hesitation, but was stopped
by the man on guard, who chanced to be Pete, the
fireman.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, his single eye meeting the
gaze of the intruder with malignant defiance, ‘‘you
get-a out. You sent-a by the bosses, and I have
orders——”’

The other cut the Italian short by seizing him by
the shoulder and settiug him aside. Nor did the
comer then release the fireman, but held him firmly
instead.

“No interference from you, Pete,’ said Bradshaw,
in his low, stern voice. ‘‘Now mind what Isay. I
come for your good, and for the good of the other
hands, andif you lift a hand to resist me I'll beat
you to ajelly. The moment has come when such as
you must stand from under.”

The voice of the Workingman Detective was not

 

 

 

 

 

 

took all the pluck out of the treacherous fireman.

“All—all-a right. IL not-a——” Pete stammered.
But Bradshaw had released him and was bounding
up the stairs leading to the second floor before he
could finish speaking.

At the head of the stairs Bradshaw was again
halted. This time it was by Pomby, the English-
man.

_ “Vs glad to see an old friend,’ said Pomby, ‘but
it’s no time for fooling. What is it thee wants?
Speak out!”

Bradshaw knew the men well. He knew that
Pomby was aleading spirit, and that it would be
es difficult to overcome him than to rule all the
others.

“You know what [I told you yesterday after the
stockholders’ meeting?” he asked.

“T remembers. And [I told thee we would give
thee a chance to prove it true. Mayhap thou’lt tell
us we’re to get our pay, and to go back to work?”

There was a manifest sneer behind this speech,
but Bradshaw affected not to notice it.

“No decision has yet been reached, nor has the
meeting scarcely opened for business,” he replied.

“What is’t thee wants here then? To slick over
the case to the lads, and so get them to give up the
fight? Tell us wheer ourmoney is coomin’ from and
we'll do as thee pleases. But no soft-soapin’ will go
down wi’ us now !”

“Why should I wish to side with the bosses,
Pomby? Why can’t you believe that [ am your
friend ?”’

“T’s learned to believe what I sees, and that is all.
Thou’rt slick with tha tongue, and so are the bosses,
and when a man is slick with tha tongue, look out for
that mamsay [!’

“T have no more reason for favoring the bosses, as
you call them, than have you. I have received offers
of money if I would work for them, and have re-
fused. I shail work only in the cause of my fellow-
workingmen, and never oppose them except when
they set out upon some unjust or headlong course.
And then [ oppose them for their good.”

“Thee talks well, Bradshaw. But what brings thee
here now ?”

“Call the men together in this room, and in a single
sentence I[ will tell you.”

“Allright. I'll give thee a chance.”

Pomby put his fingers to his lips and sent outa
shrill whistle. And in response the hands swarmed
into the room from every part of the factory. Brad-
shaw, well knowing the necessity of haste, yet re-
strained his impatience. The moment silence was
obtained he addressed them thus:

“The directors of the Fenway Manufacturing Com-
pany have met to decide whether to settle up the
affairs of the corporation, pay the help in full, and
resume business, or to drop the business where it is
and settle in insolvency. There is a strong element
against you, but the opposing factions are very
nearly balanced. If left to themselves, I think the
scales would turn in your favor. But your principal
enemy, Mr. Hofmann, has just arrived with legal
counsel, and he brings evidence that several among
you have heretofore been active in labor troubles,
and that some of you are ever ready to foment dis-
cord. Two or three of you have been arrested and
fined for creating disturbances. This influence,
brought to bear against you at this time, will surely
turn the scales, and what Hofmann desires will be
accomplished. Iranarace with him to get herein
time to warn you, but we arrived together. Within
a quarter of an hour his work will be done, and you
may whistle for your pay.”

“Then we'll tear down the danged mills, and break
theer heads wi’ the bricks!” Pomby’s growl inter-
rupted.

“Siop—hear me out!’ exclaimed Bradshaw, in
tones that rang from end to end of the great build-
ing, and silenced the murmur of approbation excited
by the Englishman’s words.

“There is just one chance for you to turn the scales
in your favor in spite of Hofmann’s influence. You
may tear down the mills, but the bricks won’t buy
bread for your wives and children. Listen to my ad-
vice, and act now. There isn’t one moment to lose.
I heard the new president of the company say to-day
thatif you were only wise enough to march peace-
ably out of these mills there wasn’t the shadow of a
doubt but a majority of the board of directors would
stand in your favor. Now is the time to show them
that you are reasonable men. Iam going to march
out of this mill, past the windows of the office. You
will follow. As we pass I shall call for three cheers
for the new president of the Fenway Company. You
will respond, and march on. The new president is
your friend, and the action I advise will offset the
influence of a dozen like Hofmann and his lawyer.
Come—now—AND WIN!”

Bradshaw did not wait to note the effect of his
words, but turned toward the stairs. ;

There was @ movement, en masse, to follow him.
aus the voice of Pomby was heard, and there was a

alt. ,

The crisis had come.

 

CHAPTER XLY.
THE CONFLICT OF POWER.

““Coom back, every mother’s son of tha!” Pomby
eried, in his gruff tones. And he thrust his tall form
betwixt the throng of operatives and the person of
Bradshaw.

The eloquence of the latter, with the simple logic
in which they could not help but concur, had brought
the operatives to his side of the question which
affected them all so deeply.

Yet the command of Pomby caused them to hesi-
tate.

It was a crisis in which only the most decisive and
clearest reasoning could prevail.

Bradshaw’s first impulse was to seize the obdurate
Englishman and throw him headlong to the foot of
the stairs, as he deserved.

But to do that would risk exciting the opposition
of the other hands. And, after all, the exercise of
brute strength was a poor way to gain an end under
the circumstances.

Reasoning thus, the Workingman Detective turned
back, and again faced the operatives.

“T have told you only the truth,” he exclaimed, his
ringing tones full of earnestness.

“Let him prove that he haven’t joined wi’ the
bosses and we’ll believe what he says,’’ said Pomby.

“Tf Lhave ever deceived you, you may doubt me,
and act on Pomby’s advice,’ Bradshaw continued.
“T have worked constantly to save you from loss. I
am searching for the one who is the author of the
crime which has cost you so much, and I am on his
track. But it rests with you whose advice you
choose to take—Pomby’s or mine. In mercy to your

if they had heard my plea, follow me now! Pomby,
I could throw you from the way as I might a
wooden image, but if you would rather ruin them,
and they prefer to be ruined by your blind counsel, [
shall not interfere by force. Fellow workingmen,
come with me!”

Half pleading, half a command were these words,
and behind them was the magnetism of Bradshaw’s
powerful nature.

There was an instant forward movement.

“Back, dang thee!” roared Pomby, more from ob-
stinate rage than anything else.

But the tide had been turned against him. A
stronger willthan his had won, and his speech only
served to arouse the operatives to impetuous resist-
ance.

Not more than a half dozen hung back. The others
rushed toward the staircase, the foremost seizing the
headstrong fireman and forcing him along with them.
Down the stairs in a solid mass, and out into the
spacious yard, where they formed in a column four
abreast, With Bradshaw at the head, and in this form
they marched toward the office.

The assembled policemen, seeing them advancing
in such quiet order, were, nevertheless, alarmed for
the safety of the directors, and they hastily formed
in front of the office entrance, prepared to make a
fight.

‘What was their surprise when the column of work-
ingmen, headed by Bradshaw and Pomby, upon ar-
riving opposite the office, slackened their pace, and,
removing their hats, sent up a thunderous cheer for
the new president of the Fenway Company.

Bradshaw’s voice called for the cheers, and Pom-
by’s led the shout that followed.

The Englishman, as soon as he realized that he was
beaten, with sensible diplomacy, changed his tactics
altogether.“ Having lost power on_ one side, he
aimed to regain it by going heart and soul into the
other.

On marched the column of workingmen; and,
glancing backward, Bradshaw saw a crowd of faces

-at the office windows looking out at them.

Having reached the street corner, the workingmen
halted and listened to a few words of calm advice
from the engineer.

“Goto your homes,” he said; ‘‘and if any of you
have work of any sort to do, attend to it. Keep away
from the saloons. If you go into them without
money they will kick you out; and if you have a
dollar, they will use you well only whiie it lasts.
You needn’t retort that it is none of my business
what you do, for itis. Ihave prevailed upon you to
choose @ *ourse, and you will hold me responsible
if it turns ont ill. And, therefore, I must feel sure
that you will act discreetly until the result is de-
elared.”

Pomby and Bagley drew Bradshaw aside. The
latter, grim and determined as ever, said:

“You've influenced us to do the right thing by the
bosses. Now we shall know whether they have any
honor about them or not.”

“And if they baven’t, dang them, let them look
out!” said Pomby.

“We must not expect too much. If they offer us
fair terms, we had better consider well before re-
fusing,” was Bradshaw’s caution.

“And what would thee call fair terms?”

“A resumption of business, a part of our back pay
to start with, and a pledge of the balance in weekly
installments.”

“The nabobs could as well shell out the whole at a
lick. We've waited long enough.”

 

once raised above its ordinary key. Yet there was ai not obliged to pay us a dollar.

“That is true. And, on the other hand, they are
A part of them

depth of force init, emphasized by his gaze, which

 

Wives ¢ shildren, who would quickly side with me | : e ‘
vives and ¢ : Mea | —six—seven—eight—nine

 

 

would not do so.
our friends.” é

“That is sense,” said Bagley. ‘We can’t fight ’em,
and we must do what we can. Bradshaw is right.
But they must treat us square, orit’ll take more’n
you and me to keep the mills from tumbling down.”

The operatives had most dispersed, and but for the
police, the court was nearly deserted.

Separating from his companions, Bradshaw made
his way to the Fenway mansion, which had been so
strangely deserted by Gerard Fenway and Josephine.

It will be remembered that Rags, Bradshaw’s
shrewd boy assistant, had diseovered several im-
portant points concerning the vagabond who was
supposed to be identical with the one who forced
Mr. Fenway to sign the checks.

These points, in brief, were as follows:

The vagabond was intimate with Stebbins, the
money-lender, and had entered the mansion de-
serted by Gerard Fenway. From the mansion, how-
ever, 10 vagabond was seen to come out, but onlya
“swell-looking chap,” to use Rag’s words, callin
himself James Middleton. And Rags had conclude
that James Middleton was the vagabond “fixed up.”

Bradshaw had at first intended to question Fen-
way concerning the matter, but afterward decided
first to ascertain a few more facts before doing so.
Some of these facts had been already obtained, and
he now proceeded to go in quest of others.

He believed that he was very near a solution of the
great mystery, and having, as he hoped, done some-
thing toward aiding his fellow-workmen in a victory
over the members of the mill company who were
not disposed to pay their wages, he was eager to be
ool soon to declare the results of his detective
work.

Having reached the handsome residence until
lately occupied by the Fenways, Bradshaw walked
past it several times in order to scan its exterior.

As he passed and repassed, he came near colliding
with a shabby but sharp-eyed youngster.

The boy would have passed on, but the Working-
man Detective detained him with the salutation:

‘“‘How are you, Johnny ?”

“Why do you call me Johnny ?” the boy demanded,
with a defiant look.

“Rags called you that. By his orders you are
watching fora man who went into this house sev-
eral daysago. It was by my orders that Rags en-
gaged you. [am Bradshaw, the detective. Now teil
me what you have seen.”

“T seen Middleton go in and out two or three times
to-day,” was the ready reply.

“Was he alone?’

“He had a feller with him the last time.
went away. Toward the L station.”

‘“‘Who was the stranger ?”’

“T dunno. Young, slim chap, widout any whisker
on him ’ceptin’ a mustache that he must have ter
put cream on ter keep it alive.”

‘®tebbins!” was Bradshaw’s instant conclusion.
Aloud he said:

‘“‘Have you any other report to make ?”’

“Nary a report, mister.”

“Very well. You may continue to watch, and re-
port to Rags or me all you observe.”

Bradshaw then went up to the hall-door of the
mansion and rang the bell.

The summons was answered by the same footman
who usually attended. He recognized Bradshaw im-
mediately, and in reply to the latter’s question said:

“Mr. Middleton has bought this house of Mr. Fen-
way—at least he says so. The servants still remain,
but every one goes away Saturday night.”

And the man shrugged his shoulders in a signifi-
cant fashion.

Let us encourage those who are

They just

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
+ _ > @-—4¢

A STRANGER ASTOUNDS THE PASHA.

 

On a summer afternoon, almost fifty years ago,
Sulejmann Pasha, commander-in-chief of the Egyp-
tian artillery, sat at coffee in a cafe on the Nile ter-
race in Cairo.

Sulejmann Pasha was a great chess player. In the
first few weeks after his return to Cairo he had
beaten dozens of times Ulema Reschid Aga, formerly
the champion chess player of Northern Egypt.

On this particular afternoon, Ulema Reschid Aga
was @ little late in coming to his Waterloo, and
Sulejmann Pasha was having a preliminary skirmish
with himself while awaiting his opponent’s arrival.

His diversion was interrupted by the appearance on
the terrace of a long, gaunt, bony young stranger.
The stranger strode right up to the pasha’s table,
and, after making a half-miliiary salute, said, so
loudly that every one on the terrace could hear:

“Pasha, I challenge you to a game of chess.”

All the officers on the terrace sat quite still and
stared at the thin, pale young man who stood before
their great commander. The pasha looked him over
curiously.

“T am at your service,’ was his answer, after a
long pause. ‘How high do you usually play ?”

“Sometimes for nothing, sometimes for a great
deal. You fix the stakes, pasha.”

“Well, a hundred ducats will not be too much.”

The stranger nodded and sat down. The lots were
east. The game was begun. All the officers of the
cafe left their coffee to crowd around the players.
The first few moves convinced them that the long,
bony fingers of the stranger had moved chessmen
many times before. At the end of twenty minutes
the pasha’s eyes suddenly brightened and he smiled.
He had an invincible combination. He placed his
queen before his opponent's queen. The officers be-
gan to grumble, for they thought their commander
had lost his head. Only Reschid Aga, who in the
meantime had joined the crowd of spectators, looked
happy. He had guessed his friend’s combination,
and he, too, was sure that it was invincible.

“He will take the queen,” commented the specta-
tors, anxiously.

“Then he, will be checkmated in eight moves,”
whispered back Reschid Aga.

“And if he doesn’t take her ?”

‘He will lose his own,” said the ex-champion, tri-
umphantly.

The stranger moved a pawn. Sulejmann took his
queen. The spectators thought it was all up with
the gaunt young man,and started back to their coffee.
They were called back, however, by the first words
the pasha’s opponent had spoken since he sat down
to the table.

‘Pasha, in twelve moves you will be checkmated.”

The interest of the pasha’s friends became intense,
They counted each move aloud. One—two—three—
four—and the pasha was already hard pressed. Five
: and his men were hemmed
in on all sides. Ten—the pasha tried in vain to break
the blockade by sacrificing his queen. Eleven—he
drew back his king into a corner. Twelve—and the
stranger cried out, “Checkmate !””

There was @ dead silence, and all stared at the
pasha. He thought hard for several minutes, with-
out uttering a word. Then he looked searchingly
into the stranger’s face, and said:

“Once before I have seen chess played as you play
it. Your strategy is not new to me, although I can-
not cope with it. The game that your playing
reminds me of was much finer than this. It was
played with cavalry, and infantry, and heavy artil-
lery, till the ground shook under our feet. The great
chess player from the north who was then against
me had 150,000 men. In his hands they were invin-
cible. The mad and envious interference of Hafiz
Pasha ruined his combinations, however, and gave
us the game.” ;

The pasha stopped a moment to scrutinize the
stranger’s face. It was expressionless. Then he
continued :

“Young man, you remind me of that great chess
player from the north who all but routed us at Zizib,
as you have routed me here. Young man, only one
manin the world can play chess like that. He is
Colonel von Moltke.”

“You have it,’ said the stranger, reaching the
pasha his hand. ‘I am Moltke.”

— —>-o<+-

 

 

THE advantage of good manners to the private in-
dividual who happens to possess them are very often
overlooked; and the success of a man in life is
wrongly attributed to luck when it should have been
ascribed simply to his affability and politeness.

iY

PURITY
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THE

NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. 45—No ' 4,

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 23, 1889.

 

 

~

 

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

 

 

Getting Even With an Enemy.

 

Wronged men have long memories. So John Abbot
discovered, when unexpected financial disasters
showered upon him, and as he clung to the ragged
edge of the precipice overhanging the gulf of ruin,
learned that his misfortunes had been planned by a
trusting old friend, whom, in years past, he had
grossly wronged. This was the way in which the
wronged man turned the tables upon his enemy.
It is one of the many exciting episodes in Mrs.
SHELDON’S realistic story of ‘‘MAX,” which we begin
this week.

 

AFTER THE FRAY,

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

The bone, and brawn, and the bloated bondholders
have been to the polls, and the great battle has been
fought.

The country is saved! Victory is ours! Our flag
waves in triumph! Corruption and fraud are van-
quished! etc., etc., ete.

For further particulars see any of the partisan
newspapers on the winning side. It was a hardly
fought fight. The lame, the halt, and the blind were
there. Nobody was neglected. If Brown-Sequard’s
Elixir of Life could raise the dead, Brown-Sequard
would have made his everlasting fortune, and all
the grave-yards would have been depopulated.

Nowitis allover. The victorious rooster adorns
the country sheet, and the pedraggied bird of the
opposition stands at the foot of the column, con-
demned to innocuous desuetude for the next twelve
months. .

How happy the triumphant candidates feel! The fate
of these United States rests on their shoulders! Their
hands are in the public till, and it is a good thing for
their hands, whether itis for the till or not. All the
toil and anxiety of the last few weeks count for
naught. The crisis is past, and Jones is elected!
Three cheers for Jones! Immortal honor to Jones!

Jones goes to work witha will. He turns everybody
out who held office under his predecessor. They are
all knaves and thieves. He installs his friends in their
place, and they begin to draw their salaries at once,
No matter how uneducated or incapable a man may
be, he can always draw his salary. That is one of
the duties that seems to come natural to him. And
there is nothing particularly disagreeable about it.

Jones’ wife feels the change. People who did not
know her when she was plain Mrs. John Jones, are
delighted to notice her now that she is the Hon. Mrs.
Jehn Jones. Jones’ daughters attract more young
men than they did. They don’t sit out any dances
now. They always have escorts to the opera. They
get bilious eating so much ice-cream. They can play
lawn-tennis till they sweat all the powder from their
faces, and all the crimp from their hair.

Oh, it isa fine thing to be Mr. Jones’ daughters
now ! ‘

After the fray, the banners that hung across the
street are taken down and put away. Next year they
will wave again, with the name of some other man
on them.

The turkey dinners and_the champagne suppers of
felicitation will soon be all eaten, the big guns of re-
joicing have been fired off on the hilis, and the nu-
merous bills have, we hope, been paid, and life goes
on in the old way. :

How strange it would be if there were no such
thing as a politicalelection! What would become of
the newspapers? What could men quarrel about?
How would they get their new hats? Would_there
ever be any more torch-light processions? Would
any more colossal fortunes ever be made? Would
lying cease? Would fraud die out? Would the price
of sugar come down? Would old maids all have hus-
bands?

What would be the result, any way? We pause for
a reply.

———_—___ > @<___—____

In Search of an Honest Man.

 

In Mrs. SHELDON’s intensely interesting story of
“Max” the author introduces a quaint character, old
Joe Archibald, who has many remarkable experi-
ences during a self-imposed search for an honest
man. The opening chapters appear this week.

KNOWING A GOOD THING,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

“T know a good thing when I see it.”

“That's what few can say, and tell the truth.”

These were the remarks I heard fall from two gen-
tlemen in a railway station yesterday. They opened
many old memories tome. Thatfirst phrase was the
first welcome I ever received, after long months of
trial in my boyhood to get established in my profes-
sion. Whether he spoke the truth of my ‘9b or not I
cannot say; but that was what he said of my work,
and it put new life into my heart and hands. I have
tried never to forget it, either of my workmen's jobs
or my own efforts among men. To do a thing well—
to recognize a thing that is well done, and fully ac-

knowledge it to be so.

The meanest of all meanness is to withhold the
praise thatis due. But I think many men actually
do not know a good thing when they see it, and
therefore fail to praise it. You will hear applause
start, after a singer has done well, with only a few
hands to lead off. The crowded audience waits for
those few to express an opinion. A story may be
good, but yet the thousands do not know it, and
therefore do not say it, do not read the book and
praise it, till they get the cue from a few who both
know and are generous enough to say it. A country
lass is handsome, yet how few of all her country
friends know it. Here and there some one sees that
face and is conscious of its charm, is thrilled with
pleasure in gazing upon it. sa

But for the most part envy, jealousy, stupidity, and
blindness to real beauty prevent the town knowing
that they have one of the most beautiful faces in all
the State right at home in the midst of them. One
day an artist sees the girl; a traveled stranger
catches sight of her and compares those eyes, the
contour, the complexion, the spirit that shines there,
with what he has seen in many lands, exclaiming:
‘What a wonderful face!’ Oh! ah! Why, yes! Then
everybody in town confesses it and is proud of it,
that “the prettiest dear girl in the country is a towns-
woman of ours.” j

A young fellow in Boston, some years since, went
begging up and down the streets with his little
patent device under his arm. He showed it from

 

store to store, from bank to bank; he sought the big
capitalists, and they laughed it out of hand; two
governors saw the patent, and sneered at it. The
beggar boy went hungry, slept even in a station
house, SO poor was he. .

Finally a market man,in Faneuil Hall, saw the
thing; he knew a good thing, he invested. To-day
the once mendicant inventor is a millionaire, and
the governors and financiers snatch at his patent, as
itis quoted in the stock-market, to make a few dol-
lars on its marginal fluctuations even—thbe thing they
might have owned wholly.

The whole philosophy of success is in having the
perception necessary to know what has merit, when
is the good hour, the good year, the good season. In
politics success is in knowing a good man when you
see him. The royal manager of a ward, of a city or
State election, knows ‘“‘who has the stuff in him;”
he reads men; he is not afraid of a new man of
whom nobody ever heard before, if he only sizes him
up and is sure he has the mettle in him.

All great political victories are won by selecting
new and untried men whom some one has the sharp-
ness to see are the dark horses who will come under
the wire first. The stupidity of old fogies in politics
is that they do not know young blood that has the
true color when they see it; they try to carry things
with old trotters. Youth is the great quarry.

The new story-writers, new poets, new orators, are
the coming powers. Editors who refuse them be-
cause they are yet ‘‘unknown” and pay a big price
for “the lastrun of shad” of some famous brain which
is tired all out, these editors get left behind; they
cannot pay dividends, they chill off the new fresh
life. One must keep his eyes open, evenif he be an
editor. Better things are yet to be done in literature
than even Macaulay or Byron or Harriet Beecher
Stowe ever did.

The world moves. New powers in every depart-
ment of life are constantly appearing. The Creative
God is not tired out. He can beget a Napoleon to-
morrow in a soldier’s family on Governor’s Island in
New York harbor, as readily as the same Almighty
did on Corsica years ago.

Some fifteen years ago a young man of thirty years
retired toa Hudson River palace on an ample for-
tune. It was invested well. He told me it then
yielded him $18,000 per year. ‘To-day he has been
obliged to return to the workshop of life, to go into
business again. Why? Because new inventions and
discoveries have taken the place of two-thirds of his
invested securities and they are nearly worthless.
In our times there is no standing still, with eyes
shut, arms folded, indifferent to men.

How shall we know a good thing? By having a
clear idea in your own mind; then when some one
meets it, put away prejudice, jealousy, and selfish
stupidity, and generously say, ‘Friend, I congratu-
late you. You have done it.” By studying up your
subject and seeing the failures that are now made.
What are the gingham patterns that have failed to
sell this year? What are the styles that come the
nearest to being a run? Now what is the lack?
Think it all over. You know not just what you want;
that is, yeu cannot sketch it out; but you know what
you do not want, and all round the thing you do
want. To-morrow you see the good thing. It makes
your heart thump. You snatch it—a prize! That’s
the way it’s done by smart men.

A manager cannot sing like Jenny Lind; he cannot
put on paper what he wants; he cannot even exactly
think it out. But his ears are open. He walks about
among all of you young, unknown singers, and
listens. Allyou can do is to go on with your prac-
ticing. One of these bright mornings Fame, in the
person of the shrewd manager, will hear your voice.
Eureka! I have foundit! No successful manager
cares a straw whether his prize voice is English,
German, Italian, rich, or poor. He knows when he
finds it. The same is true of every department in
the great market of talent. The best color for a
horse is the color of the best horse. The best ham-
mer and saw are the ones that do the work. Who
cares a rush for the worker’s name? Can you tell
when a tool pleases you? It would seem easy; but
it is not, and thereby most workers make a bungle
of the job of life.

 

o~

A TRYING EXPERIENCE.

BY GUY DECKER.

 

 

The ship Watchlight, homeward bound from the
Sandwich Islands, was bowling along upon her
course through the Pacific Ocean.

Among the passengers there were a beautiful
young girl named Louisa Markham, her father, and
her betrothed—a young man who for some time had
been carrying on business at Honolulu as a shipping
merchant. He was a fine-looking, promising young
fellow, with dark eyes and hair, while the girl of his
choice was well suited to one of his complexion,
being fair and blue-eyed.

The vessel had good winds all along until she
reached the vicinity of the Society Islands, where a
succession of head-winds springing up, knocked her
considerably off her course.

In a few days after a dead calm fell upon the
ocean, which lay nearly smooth and undisturbed. In
the distance a beautiful island was seen. This at-
tracted the admiring attention of the passengers,
many of whom leaned over the rail watching the
glorious prospect. There were cocoa-nut and bread-
fruit trees, Dananas, peanuts, and beautiful green
verdure, all showing magnificently in the beams of
the afternoon sun.

Presently a young lady was heard to exclaim :

“Oh, how I would like to go ashore!”

The captain, a kind, genial man, overhearing her,
touched his cap.

“You can be gratified, madam, if you wish. Who
else wants to go?”

“7? And T,” And £”

The captain soon had as many as he could take,
among them Louisa Markham, with her father and
her lover.

“There are no cannibals there, I hobe!” exclaimed
one young lady.

“Oh, no,” replied the captain, ‘‘there used to be,
but the natives are now civilized.”

In a short time the boat was ready, the captain
taking with him a gun or two, not that he thought
they would be needed, he said, but that they might
as well be taken along, in case they should see game.

All were soon in the boat, and away went the light
eho pulled by some of the best oarsmen in the
ship.

In about an hour the boat struck upon the beach.

The ladies being helped out, were full of praises of
the pretty island.

And indeed, it was a lovely sight. The sun, low in
the heavens, was shedding its radiance upon rock
and tree, its glorious rays streaming far along across
the sea, until the edges of the beach seemed tipped
with fire. ,

As the party strolled along, Louisa suddenly uttered
an exclamation, pointing to some beautiful red and
white flowers on an elevation alongside of the beach.

“T must have one of those flowers!” she exclaimed,
and laughingly letting go her lover’s arm, she darted
up the rock, which was of easy ascent.

On the top there were thick masses of shrubbery,
so that when she reached this part of the rock, her
form was hidden from sight.

Meanwhile her lover had paused a moment to
gather some curious flowers growing near the foot of
the rock. Soon, however, he darted up the elevation
after the young girl.

Reaching the top, he vainly looked for her.

There were the tall bushes, full of red and blue
flowers, silently nodding their heads, as the wind,
with a hollow sigh, blew among them, but there was
no Louisa.

“She is playing me a trick,” thought Harry, as he
glanced smilingly around him, “she is crouching
somewhere in the shrubbery.”

He waited several minutes, but she did not come.

Then he called her name.

There was no response.

He called again. No better result.

“Strange,” he muttered, ‘‘surely she would not re-
main hidden so long.”

Then he commenced an earnest search for her, but
could not find her.

In some places the bushes, trampled down, showed
where she had been, and on one of them he found a
pink ribbon fallen from her hair, but there was no
sign of the wearer.

“What could have become of her?”

Again and again he called her name, receiving no
answer.

Attracted by his voice, Louisa’s father, with
several others of the party, now joined him to learn
of the missing girl.

The old man was in agony.

The captain endeavored to console both him and
the anxious lover,

“Depend upon it,” said he, ‘“‘she is not far off. She
cannot be.”

They hurried along, trampling down grass and
bushes, and still calling, yet vainly, upon the object
of their search.

Again and again Harry looked at the little ribbon,
as if he could there find some clew to the missing
one.

The sun was now approaching the edge of the
horizon.

“Great Heaven !’’ exclaimed the old man, ‘“‘here is
night coming upon us, and she not found yet!”

Suddenly there was heard a noise which chilled
the blood in the veins of the listeners.

It was a sound between a groan and a scream, and
seemed to rise up from under their feet.

“That is my child—my Louisa!’ exclaimed the old
man. ‘Louisa! Louisa! Where are you?’

There was no response.

All stood looking at each other in surprise.

“What can it mean ?’ said one.

“Tt sounded right under our feet,” said another.

The bushes were now carefully pushed aside, the
party hoping to find some opening in the ground.

| Vain attempt.

The screaming had ceased, and meanwhile the
shades of evening were gathering. The moon had
risen.

Suddenly Harry fixed his eyes upon the summit of
a peak, about thirteen feet in the air and twénty
yards back of the rock.

“We have not looked there yet,” said he, as, with 4
forlorn hope, he dashed up the steep ascent.

The others were so sure he would find nothing
there that they did not follow.

The young man, however, did find something—an
opening, leading, he judged, far down into a deep
gorge!

“Was it possible that Louisa had fallen through
this opening ?”

Yes, he feared that such, indeed, had been the
case. There was a shred of her shawl upon the edge
of the gorge.

The blackened appearance of this gorge made him
believe that it was the crater of an extinct volcano,

Not a moment hesitating, however, he lowered
himself down through the opening, and grasping
rough protuberances—a spur of rock here, an old
root there, he commenced the descent.

It was a perilous undertaking, and on an ordinary
occasion Harry would probably have waited until he
could procure a rope to secure around his body. In
his present state of mind, however, he did not stop
to think of peril, but at once commenced descent.

This was easy enough, until he had proceeded
about ten feet below the top of the crater, when the
rock began to crumble beneath him, so that, now
and then, he was in great danger of being thrown off
and precipitated into the dark depths below.

“Harry! Harry, where are you?’ he now heard
shouted above him.

‘Here I am!” he answered.

“Do you see anything of my child yet ?”’

“No,” and his voice was husky and almost inaudi-
ble because of the choking sensation in his throat.

On he went, until suddenly, the rock giving way
beneath him, he was hurled downward.

Fortunately he contrived to grasp a root ere he
had gone far; while his feet striking a ledge, he was
safe enough for the time.

He now descended with more caution, but he had
not proceeded many steps when another projection,
upon which he had placed his feet, gave way, and
down he went.

Down—down—down, until at length he landed
upon a@ sandy bottom, not more than ten feet below
the spot whence he had fallen. The space was cir-
cular, aS well as he could determine in the faint
light. The rays of the moon, which was now di-
rectly overhead, shot into the opening, and shed a
faint radiance.

On his right, as Harry became more accustomed to
the place, he beheld a small opening, through which
he crawled, to find himself in a narrow passage.
This passage led downward. He followed it, until,
suddenly, meeting water in his way, he would not
go farther without taking off his heavy boots.

He steadily continued on when thus relieved of
the boots, shouting the name of Louisa as he ad-
vanced.

Suddenly he thought he heard a strange splashing
noise, followed by a scream like that which had
previously greeted his ears.

Undauntedly he kept steadily on, until, finally, he
came upon an object which made him pause, aston-
ished and awe-stricken. The object before him was
a huge serpent, its body bent to the form ofan S to
accommodate itself to its narrow quarters.

From head to foot this creature was covered with
bright scales, which glittered and flashed with the
brillianey of gola and silver. A few feet below the
head were appendages resembling the wingsof a
bat, but which Harry at once conjectured were fins.
With these fins the creature was constantly beating
the sides of the cavern, while with the lower part
of its body it kept up a continual splashing of the
water.

The scream which the young man had heard was
a hissing sort of noise, gushing from the serpent’s
mouth like steam from a pipe.

This mouth, as the spectator could plainly per-
ceive every time the monster turned, was provided
with teeth, long and sharp, while the inside was of
a bright red.

Projecting from it, every time the animal uttered
the scream mentioned, was along tongue, forked and
venemous looking, with prickly projections all over it.

This part of the cave was lighted by rays of light
penetrating it through an opening somewhere above,
and as Harry’s eyes became more accustomed to the
place, he noticed on the other side of the monster,
the very persen he was in search of—pretty Louisa
Markam, shrinking back against the wall.

At once the whole truth broke upon him. The
young girl had falleninto the pit, and then by fol-
lowing the passage had endeavored to extricate her-
self therefrom, believing that the narrow way would
lead her from the place.

Having proceeded a short distance, she had dis-
covered her inistake, and had started to return, when
right in her path, rose from the water the monster
serpent.

The creature it was plain was endeavoring to
arrange itself so as to spring upon her, but found it
impossible to do so, owing to the narrowness of its
quarters, which prevented its moving its body.

And so thus it had remained ever since, vainly en-
deavoring to getat the terrified maiden, who, white
and speechless, could only crouch against the wall
without daring to utter a word.

How now could Harry get to the girl?

The body of the serpent barred his way, andas it
nearly filled the whole space, he did not see how he
could pass it.

Determined, however, to make the attempt, he
dove, hoping thus to get under the creature’s body
by swimming right forward beneath the surface.

He had scarcely struck out, however, while be-
neath the water, when he felt himself clasped round
the breast by the scaly folds of the monster.

The clasp of the creature’s body was like that of a
vice, and he vainly struggled to release himself from
it.

Tighter and tighter! It seemed to him that he
could feel his ribs crack, while the horrors of suffoca-
tion fast came upon him.

His brain reeled, and a mist seemed te gather be-
fore his eyes.

Meanwhile his heart, throbbing with the force of a
trip-hammer, felt as if it would fairly burst.

Tighter and tighter! The feeling was horrible. In
vain he endeavored to regain the surface. He was
fast losing consciousness, but even in the midst of
his own fearful sufferings, he thought of the young
girl, and his chief anxiety was on her account.

Finally he felt the folds of the creature loosen
round his body. He madea tremendous effort, and
disengaging himself from the serpent, rose to the
surface.

The position of the creature was now a little
changed. Some of the hard scales of its body, which
had got caught in the rocky wall, and had thus pre-
vented its moving, had now given way so that it
could extend a good part of the forward part of its
body toward the young girl.

Harry shouted with all his eee in the hope that
those above him might hear and come to his assist-
ance.

Louisa now, for the first time, saw her lover, whose
position had hitherto been screened from her sight
by the shadow thrown upon it from the body of the
serpent.

“Oh, Harry, Harry!’ exclaimed the unselfish young
woman, “save yourself! Save yourself, and never
mind me!”

The young man, however, answered :

“No, I will save you, or perish with you in the at-
tempt !”

The serpent extended its elongated head further
and further, until its forked tongue was so near the

young girl that it could nearly dart its poison upon
ner.

Harry, by a sudden spring, now contrived to throw
himself through a bight, formed by the crooking of
the creature’s body.

In amoment he would have interposed his own
form between the serpent and the young woman,
when the latter, seeming to guess his intention,
dashed forward, and received round her own body
the scaly folds of the serpent’s form.

“Oh, Harry !” exclaimed the faithful girl, ‘once
you expressed a doubt of the strength of my devo-
tion for you, and now you shall see what it is !”

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed Harry, bounding upon the
serpent, and in his madness, fairly seizing it with
both hands.

“Oh, Heaven! Louisa, my own Louisa!”

At that moment there was a deafening crash
through the cave, and down fell the serpent, with a
ball through its body, writhing in mortal agony.

The next moment, the captain, followed by several
seamen, arrived, just as Louisa sank senseless, but
unharmed, into her lover’s arms.

There is little to add. It was discovered that the
sea-serpent had been wounded before it entered the
cave, its back being broken. The captain and his
men had lowered themselves into the cave by means
of a coil of rope, which, luckily, was found in the
boat. By meaus of this the whole party were soon
out of the place.

They returned to the ship, Louisa soon recovered
her bloom, and the young man never again doubted
her devotion.

—————__+-@~<

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

A man with a hed phull ov branes kan afford tew
be kareless once in a while, for even hiz blunders
are brilliant.

 

Experience inkreases our wizdum, but don’t reduse
our phollys.

Buty iz power; but the most treacherous one I
kno ov.

The man who haz got into the habit ov never
making enny blunders, iz altogether too good to liv
in this world.

Humility iz a good thing’ tew hav, provided a man
iz sure he haz got the right kind. Thare never iz a
time in a Kat’s life when she iz so humble az iust

 

 

before she makes up her mind tew pownce onto a
chicken, or just after she haz caught andet it.

Thay no doubt that the human hart kontains all
the pure attributes that the angels possess, but no
single human hart kontains even a moity ov them.

Sosiety iz made up ov the good, bad, and indiffer-
ent; and what makes so much trouble iz, the indif-
ferents are in the majority.

A man who iz neither good nor bad iz like an old
musket laid away, without any lock, but a heavy
charge in it.

When a man haz duna charitable thing withont
letting the world kno it, he haz dun all that an anel
kould do in the premises.

Too mutch ov the religion in this world konsists in
konfessing our sins to ourselfs and to each other.

I don’t suppose thare haz ever lived a man without
a single virtew. Even Judas Iskariot ‘“‘went and
hanged himself.”

The vanity ov most men iz so mutch more than a
match for their experienee that they seldum learn
ennything bi experience.

The pashuns are like the wick ov alighted kandle—
they don’t die out until they are burnt out.

Thare iz lots of folks who are in sich a grate hurry
tew git religion that they confess sins they ain’t
guilty ov, and overlook those that they are.

 

An Adventuress Outwitted.

The fate of an adventuress is vividly pictured in
Mrs. SHELDON’S powerful story of “MAx,’’ which we
begin this week. She is disappointed in love, des-
pised by the man she admired, despoiled of her ill-
gotten wealth, and suffers the most crushing indig-
nities that can befall an ambitious woman. Do not
neglect to read the opening installment of this most
entrancing and life-like story.

o~

IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM.

BY MAX SCUDDER.

 

 

Brown and Jones were classmates in college, and
they had expected to setup for themselves in the
same town, when their school-days were over, one
in the law and the other in the practice of medicine.
But fate decreed otherwise; as Jones, the doctor,
received an appointment as surgeonin the army,
and when the war closed, he began the practice of
his profession ina town in Indiana; while Brown
hung out his Shingle in Cincinnati. They lost track
of each other completely; and eight years after they
separated at the doors of Yale. Brown, passing
through the Indiana town, was surprised to see his
old friend’s name staring at him in gold letters from

a plate-glass window. Brown rubbed his eyes and
looked again. There was no mistake.

J. BARCUS JONES,
Physician and Surgeon.

: Office hours: 9 A. Mto4P.M.:

“That’s Barcus, as sure as guns!’ said Brown. ‘TI
thought the old boy had gone to China or the North
Pole; and here he has been in Indiana. not 150 mile’
away from me, allthe time. I wonder if he would
know me? By George! I believe I will play a joke
on him. He’ll not remember me, with all this
beard.”

So Brown went up the steps and knocked at the
doctor’s door. It was opened by a boy, who invited
him to sit down, while he summoned the doctor from
an inner room. (

In a short time the doctor made his appearance,
and Brown at once recognized him, although he had
changed considerably since they last met. He
wanted to get up and shake his arm out of joint, but
that would spoil the joke; so he introduced himself
as a wealthy speculator from Chicago, who had
heard of the doctor’s fame in the treatment of nerve
and brain diseases, and had come all the way from
that city to have him undertake his case. He stated
that for several months he had been conscious of a
loss of memory—would forget the most important
matters ; sometimes leave bills unpaid that should
be settled promptly; could not remember how many
children he had; and on one occasion, very recently,
had forgotten hisown name.

“T see,” said the doctor; “probably you have been
doing considerable mental work, without taking suf-
ficient exercise. Not a complicated case, I can as-
sure you, and one that will readily yield to my treat-
ment. I think I can prescribe, so that it will be un-
necessary for you to go tothe expense and loss of
valuable time to visit our town again.”

So Doctor Jones proceeded to compound the medi-
cine, which was to effect such gratifying results;
while Brown looked on'with deep interest, smiling
inwardly, and rubbing his hands in anticipation of
the fun he was going to have.

At last the medicine was ready, and the doctor ex-
plained to the wealthy speculator from Chicago that
there were four powders—one to, be taken in half a
wineglass of water, to be followed at once by a
second powder of another kind; the other two to be
reserved for use in case he should be threatened with
a return of his malady.

“And,” said the doctor, ‘‘as itis always well to be-
gin the treatment of such diseases at the earliest pos-
sible moment, I will have you take the first two pow-
ders at once.”

Brown had not anticipated this; butit would not
do to jeopardize his joke by retreating, so he took his
medicine like a man.

Ashe setthe empty glass down on the stand he
east a startled look at the doctor, put both hands on
his stomach, gave vent to a yell that would have
made a Comanche warrior pale with envy, and
jumped about four feet into the air.

When he came down he stood on his head, rolled
on his back, kicked his heels in the air, and pounded
the floor with his fists; water, foam, and spray mean-
while pouring out of his mouth and nose.

He gasped and choked, and gurgled and spluttered,
and fairly hissed, as the effervescent liquid forced its
way out.

When he had recovered his voice sufficiently to
speak, he bellowed :

“What in thunder do you mean, anyway? Oh,
Lord! there it goes again!” as a fresh escape of gas
took place. ‘‘Are you trying to kill me? Is this the
regular treatment for defective memory ?”

“Works like a charm,” said the doctor, admiringly.
“J think you will be all right now. However,” as he
grinned and held out his hand, “if you should ever
forget that your name is ‘Tubby’ Brown, just lake the
other seidlitz powder, mixing internally. ut I think
there will be no relapse.”

THE WEARERS OF ERMINE.

 

For centuries ermine was the royal fur of England,
and alaw of Edward III. expressly prohibited any
one, save members of the royal family, from wearing
it. Then royalty surrendered its exclusive use, but
the varying arrangements of the black tails were
still minutely prescribed. The sovereign and the
royal family are alone entitled to wear ermine trim-
mings to their robes of state in which the fur is
spotted all over with black in the proportion of a
spot to about every square inch of the trimming.
Peeresses wear capes of ermine in which the spots or
tails are arranged in rows, the number of rows de-
noting the degrees in rank. Peers have their scarlet
robes trimmed with pure white ermine without

any spots; but the rank is signified by the num-.

ber of rows or bars of ermine. The judges’ robes
are also trimmed with unspotted ermine, known in
heraldry vocabulary as miniver.

> o<—______

TO OUR LADY READERS.

We unhesitatingly recommend that useful book en-
titled, ‘“WOMEN’sS SECRETS, OR HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.”
Every woman should have it, for it answers, clearly and
concisely, numerous questions which every woman dis-
likes to ask, yet on which she would like to be, and
should be, informed. It teems with inestimable informa-
tion of especial interest to the fair sex, and [the advice,
suggestions, and hints are not ‘only all practicable, but
are characterized by sound sense.

It is not a medical treatise, though it tells how to live,
what to eat, and how to dress, what to avoid, and what to
use, to be healthy and beautiful. It is a complete book of
reference for the female sex, and should be found on every
dressing table.

There are many women who possess numerous natural
charms, yet who lack the tact and art to display those
charms to the best advantage; there are women plain in
face, yet graceful in form; others have pretty faces, but
are unsymmetrical in figure. All will learn from
““WOMEN’S SECRETS” just what they want to know—a
thousand useful hints in regard to the assistance Nature
sometimes requires in displaying women’s attractions,
so that she will always appear at her best—‘‘a thing of
beauty and a joy forever.”

For sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, postage
free, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by STREET & SMITH,
Publishers, 31 Rose street, New York.

 

 

| monies.

 

 

 

 

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

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

 

J. J. F., Haleston, Texas,—ist. The-Argentine Republic,
formerly more commonly called the Argentine Confedera-
tion, consists of fourteen provinces. The province of
Buenos Ayres is the most populous, having over half a
million population, with a capital city, Buenos Ayres, of
200,000, estimated for 1878, The population in that section
is largely European. In the province of Buenos Ayres
alone, according to the last census, there were 212,000
people of foreign birth. It is described as an “eminently
pastoral country,’ where immense fortunes have been
made in comparatively a few years, the chief wealth of
the Republic consisting in Cattle, horses, and- sheep.
Lines of steamers run to Europe, the passage occupying
about 29 days. The Republic has about 4,150 miles of rail-
way and 13,619 miles of telegraph, besides an Atlantic
cable communicating with London. The government is
a Federal Republic, modeled on the Constitution of the
United States, except that the ministry is responsible to

Congress. The laws are the same for all, native or for-
eign. Immigrants are free to naturalize themselves as

Argentines or to maintain their nationality. The Span-
iards are the dominant race, and the predominant religion
is the Catholic, but all other religions are tolerated. As
to emigrating there, you must act upon your own judg-
ment. It is stated that many of the wealthiest immigrants
now there were without a dollar when they arrived in the
Republic. 2d. Further reliable information in reference
to the resources of the country described will be found in
standard encyclopedias. 3d. Your handwriting is good.

A. J. D., Long Island.—The Colorado beetle, which
takes its name from the region where it was first discov-
ered, made its first appearance in Nebraska in 1859. Two
years later it spread over Iowa, and about the year 1865
reached the Mississippi. In 1872 it appeared in two coun-
ties of Pennsylvania; in 1873, in four counties of New

York, thirteen of the western counties of Pennsylvania,
and several of West Virginia. In 1874 their presence was
reported in seven counties of Maryland and a few coun-
ties of Virginia. In 1775, the last date you request, they
appeared in large numbers in parts of Virginia and Ma-
ryland, being. very numerous along the line of the North-
ern Central in Baltimore County, and also in Pennsylvania,
New Jersey, and New York. The beetle was known to
the earlier entomologists as an insect that found its chief
food in the vines of the wild potato, then and now com-
mon to the Rocky Mountains.

Catharine, Albany, N.Y.—The oriflamme was the banner
of the Capetian Kings of France. It was originally that
of the Abbey of St. Denis, being used in religious cere-
It was carried also by the Counts of Vexin, in
their capacity of the patrons of the monastery in the wars
which they raged for its protection. After the annexa-
tion of Vexin to the dominions of Philip I. of France, the
oriiamme was carried by himself and his successors.
Louis VI, raised it for the first time in 1124. It was not
used after the defeat of Agincourt in 1415. It was of red
or flame-colored silk, with two notches atits end, adorned
with green silk tassels, and hanging from a gilded shaft.
The Capetian Kings were the third race of French Kings,
beginning with Hugh Capet, (987). They were fifteen in
number, and reigned from 987 to 1328. ;

M. P., Alexandria, La.—ist. To make crumpets, take
one ounce of butter, one quartof milk, three eggs, as
much sifted flour as will make a batter, a little salt, and
one gill of fresh yeast. Put the butter in the milk, and

warm them together, beat the eggs very light, and add
them to the milk, stir inasmuch sifted flour as will make
a batter rather thicker than for buck wheat cakes, and salt
to taste. Lastly; stirin one gill of fresh yeast. Cover
and set them in a warm place torise. When light, bake
as buckwheat cakes, butter, and place them on the table
hot. 2d. Cuisine (French) signifies the kitchen or cook-
ing department, and the manner or style of cooking. It
is pronounced as if spelled kwe-zeen, the accent on the
last syllable.

Constant Admirer, Binghamton, N. Y.—ist. To prepare
sugar mustard, pour gradually boiling water over some
of the best flour of mustard, until it becomes of a proper
thickness. Beat it perfectly smooth, add a little salt, and

as much white sugar as will make it taste. Keep closely
covered. ‘2d. To make small bread omelets, take the
crumb of a baker’s loaf. Put it ina basin, and pour over
it as much cream as will moisten it sufficiently to make
it into a smooth paste. Season with pepper and salt, and
some grated ham. Beat fiveeggs as thick as a batter,
and stir it into the bread and cream. Have some hot but-
ter in a pan, pour in the omelets, a tablespoonful at a
time, and fry alight brown. Serve at once.

Jane Seymore, Louisville, Ky.—1st. Adam’s apple is the
projection formed by the thyroid cartilage in the neck.
It is particularly prominent in males, and is so called
from a notion that it was caused by the apple sticking in

the throat of our first parent. 2d. It was acustom among
the ancient Irish, when the father died, for his son to take
the name, lest it should be forgotten; hence the names
Fitz-hubert, Fitz-gerald, derive their origin in compli-
ance with this custom; the prefix Fitz being a Norman
word, derived from the French fils,a son. It is also used
in England of the illegitimate sons of kings and princes of
the blood ; as, Fitzroy, the son of the king, Fitzclarence,
the son of the Duke of Clarence.

NV. W. B., Belleville, N. J.—ist. New Bedford, Mass., was
formerly more largely engaged in the whale-fishery than
any other place in the world. It was begun in 1755, and

flourished until 1854, when it began to decline. At the
time of its highest prosperity about 400 whaling-ships be-
longed to the port. Now the number does not exceed 100.
The capital of the city has been largely investeéc in manu-
factures. New Bedford is situated on the west bank
of the Acushnet River, near its mouth, and is 55 miles
south of Boston. The bridge which crosses the river is
4,000 feet long.

NV. J. B.. San Jose.—ist.. The Palace Hotel, San Fran-
cisco, Cal., is the largest building of the kind in the world.

It cost, with land and furniture, $3,250,000. 2d. We can
send you a coin book, with address of dealer, etc., for ten
cents. 3d. Lt. Col. ee, M. Lazelle is the officer in
charge of war records, library, etc., War Department,
Washington, D.C, 4th. The present population of New
York city is estimated to be about 1,600,000; San Fran-
eisco about 320,000; Paris, 2,269,023; Berlin, 1,315,297.

Laura §., Orange, N. J.—ist. There are seventeen dif-
ferent school ages in the United States; the longest ex-
tends from four to twenty-one, the shortest from eight to

fourteen, and the average length of the school period is
fourteen and a half years. 2d. The school age is fixed by
the local school authorities. 3d. The number of school
teachers in the United States, according to the latest
official reports, is 272,686; England and Wales, 69,257;
France, 110,702; Prussia, 57,936.

Roland, Camden, N. J.—ist. Musical notes were first
used in 1338; they were first printed in 1502. 2d. Organs,
according to the best authority, were in use in 755; but

they were not in use in England until 951. 3d. Yale Col-
lege was first established at Saybrook, Conn. It wasin
1716 that the trustees voted to establish it permanently at
New Haven. It was named in honor of Elihu Yale, its
early patron. The first commencement in New Haven
was on September 12, 1718.

L. C. N., Boston.—ist. The Metropolitan Opera House,
this city, seats 2,898 persons; the Grand Opera House,
this city, 2,450; the Academy of Music, this city, 2,275;
and the Academy of Music, Philadelphia, 3,077. 2d. It is
stated that Albert Hall, London will accommodate
about 9,000 persons; and the Paris Opera House, 2,156.

tL. J. N., Providence, R. I.—The number of patents
issued to Alabama in 1887 was 54; Arkansas, 65; Dela-
ware, 39; District of Columbia, 210; Florida, 41; Georgia,
130; Kentucky, 245; Louisiana, 112; Maryland, 253; Mis-
sissippi, 45; Missouri, 654; South Carolina, 52; fennessee,
121; Texas, 265; Virginia, 132; West Virginia, 75.

H, A., Belleville.—We will send you “‘The Sociable; or

One Thousand Home Amusements” for $1.50; “What
Shall We do To-night,” $2; “One Hundred Amusements
for Evening Parties,” 50 cents; “How to Amuse an
Evening Party,” 30 cents. ; ““Home Recreations for Young
Folks,” 25 cents. ;

A. B. F., Freehold, N. J.—To copyright a play, send $1
to the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D.C. Send

also the name of the play, and yourown name and resi-
dence, and state whether the right is claimed as author
or proprietor. No affidavit is required.

Constant Reader, Jersey City.—Ts have an excellent

glue always on hand, fill a glass ey with broken-up glue
of the best quality, and then add enough acetic acid to
almost overfiow the jar, which keep in hot water fora
few hours until the glue is all melted.

Allopath, New Orleans, La.—ist. It is a matter of
opinion which system is the better. The first named by
you is the more generally practiced. 2d. No. 3d. Ne
difference to our knowledge

Kate P., Woodville, N. Y.—The same initials will
answer, substituting literary for leap, and yarn for year;
a@ yarn signifying a story spunoutfor the amusement of
one’s companions.

R. P., Harlem, N. Y.—A dog-cart is so called from bein
used to carry dogs, for hunting, in an open space behind.
It is usually a two-wheeled or a four-wheeled one-horse
vehicle.

A. T. B., Olean, N. Y.—The “Manual of Photography”
can be furnished for $1. If you wish it, write direct to
the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

Fannie B. and others.—For a description of a “Lemon
Party,’ see answer to ‘Florence B.” in ‘The Ladies’
Work-Box” of this number.

N. B. C., Springfield, I1l.—The article entitled, *‘A Pack
of Cards, an Almanac, anda Prayer-Book,” will be found
in No, 22 of volume 48.

Fanny B.and Others.—For a description of a Lemon
Party, see answer to Florence B.” in ‘‘The Ladies’ Work
Box” of this number.

A.C. 8., Brooklyn, N. Y.—‘‘Mayhew’s Complete Book-
keeping,” with a full set of blank books, will be sent to
you for $2.

P. C. E., Cochranton, Pa.—Eiffel is pronounced as if
spelled i-fel, the accent on the first syllable.

W. M. S., Huntingdon, Pa.—The “Taxidermist’s Man-
ual” will cost 50 cents. ]

 

 

 

 

    

     

    

  
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
     
 
    
     
     
   
    
  
 
   
 
  
  
  
   
       
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
    
  
    
 
  
 
 
    
   
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
   
  
   
    
    
     
  
 
  
  
   
 
  
   
  
 
  
   
  
  
  
    
 
    
 
   
   
 
 
  
  
   
   
  
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
   
 
   
  
    
  
 
   
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
  
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
    
  
 
 
   
   
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
    
   
  
 
    
    
 
 
  
  
  
     
  
   
 
   
  
  
     
 
    
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
    
 
 
 

 

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VOL, 45—No, 4;

exaxia THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32—>

 

 

BE PROVIDENT.

BY FRANCI68 8. SMITH.

 

Be proviiient, waste nat the.gold
That fortune showers:down ;

‘Time tarries not, you may-grow:old,
And fortune yet may frown.

For that she is a fickle jade
To all ‘tis very plain,

And when she has your great-store mad&e
Oft takes it back again.

Be provident, but do not hoard
Your wealth to look upen ;

Gixe freely what you can.afford
To every needy one

Who in deep sorrow and distress
Appeals for aid to thee;

If you’re.a Christian do no lesa,
Christ:taught sweet charity.

Be.generous, but still take heed
Your loved ones suffer nozne—
That you.come not to bitter need

When you with work are dene.
Be genereus but not unjust,

See well what you’re about,
Fer *tis a maxim that you must

For “number one” look out.

Be provident, but be not mean,
If you great wealth command,

Let selfishness not come between
You and a ready hand.

If there is danger that you may
Your run of luck outlive,

Reduce your hixuries straightway,
And then you still may give.

3

This Story Will Not te Published in Baok-Porm.

COPYRIGHTED BY STREET & SMITH, 21889.

TRESSILLIAN'S HE

By J. F. SMITH,

Author of “Stanfield Hal,” ‘‘Woman and Her
Master,” “‘Minnigrey,” etc.

 

 

 

 

{“TRESSILLIAN’S HEIR” was commenced in No. 47. Baek
Baumbers can: be obtained ef all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER XXTIL
AT THE ALTAR. ;

Lena entered the clamber of the man she had
hitherte regarded as her husband, with a firm step, ,
fire in her blood-shot eyes, and lips eompressed. The
vyow she had made over the bedy ef her murdered
brother -rese vividly to her mind,.and in the event
of the old miner’s accusation being confirmed she re-
solved to execute it to the bitter letter.

With noiseless step she approached the bed. The
drug had dere its work. Wilfred was plunged in
a slumber so profound that a piste] fired at his ear
would not have broken it.

His vietim regarded him for some moments in
silence, and then with a firm hand she unbuttoned
the wristband of the’ sleeper’s shirt, rolling up the
sleeve high asthe shoulder of the right arm. The
evidence of Wilfred’s guilt confronted her, the scar,
the mark of the bite which in her agony and shame
she had inflicted upen her brutal assailant. Her
arm was raised to strike, when the voice of her son
was heard at the door, and it fell paralyzed, the knife
falling on the floor.

“Mama! mama!
and kissed me yet.” estas ;

. Thelittle speaker had heard his mother’s step in her
room, and finding she did net return had crept out ef
bed te follow her for the accustomed kiss.

Lena pressed him to her breast with frantic tender-
ness; the strong resolve had given way. :

“Why do you cry so, mama?’ demanded the ehild.
“You will wake papa.” é

“He is too tired for that. Gote yourroom. I will
come to you,” replied his mother, kissing him.

The boy obeyed, wondering what could have oe-
curred to exeite his mother’s sorrew.

Women, when stung by the bitter sense of wrong,
wounded in their pride, or outraged in their affec-
tions, will sometimes commit actions which in mo-
ments of happy, contented confidence they would
scorn. It was so with Lena.

She saw Wilfred’s Sprinter pee lying on the dress-
ing-table; to seize and open it were the thought and
action of an instant. One letter, in a female hand,
she instinetively seized upon, and a passage in it ran
thus:

“T rely upon your promise to dismiss the artful
girl who has entangled you in a disgraceful connec-
tion. I understand all you have urged, and believe
your assurance that you never really loved her. How
could you? Those low-born, artful creatures use
every blandishment to insnare young men of family
and fortune. You say that she is worthless. What
else could you expect from her? In full reliance on
your honor and sincerity, I renew our engagement,
and will ratify it at the altar on the appointed day.”

You have not bid me goeod-night,

Every insulting word, as she perused the letter,
appeared to burn itself into the brain of the poor girl.
She had no occasion to read them twice.

“Heaven,” she murmured, casting a look toward
the sleeper, “tempt me not beyond my strength! I
dare not remain here. My poor brother’s memory,
the sense of unmerited insult and wrong will madden
me, and—— No!—no! I must fly from him, and
from myself!” ,

Dropping the letter, Lena fled from the chamber,
and soon afterward quitted the cottage, accompanied
by her boy.

Before leaving, she collected the jewels and gifts
which Wilfred ‘had given to her, and emptied her
purse upon the table beside them.

Faithful to his promise, the old miner had waited
with a carriage at the appointed spot, but nearly
three hours elapsed before he saw Lena, leading her
son by the hand, hurrying along the road toward
him, and he hastened to meet her. The forlorn crea-
ture placed her hand in his.

“T have no reliance but on you,” she said.

“And on God,” observed Truben.

“T have not forgotten Him,” she replied. ‘He has
ete me from a terrible crime by sending one of

is angels to arrest my hand.”

‘One of his angels?” repeated the old man.

Lena pointed to her child, and the miner under-
stood her.

During their ride toward London he gradually drew
from her an account of what had transpired—the dis-
covery of the scar and the letter, which she repeated
word for word.

“The heartless villain!’ ejaculated her protector.
“Not content with slaying poor Edward and destroy-
ing the honor of his sister, he must slanderher! Thank
Heaven that you resisted the temptation to take jus-
tice into your own hands. Your testimony will
supply the missing link in the chain of evidence
which will consign him to a felon’s doom, and thus
avenge your brother’s murder and your own out-
raged honor. Do you think you will have the courage
to persevere init? It will be a bitter struggle.”

“Pear not my resolution,” said Lena; “it will not
fail me.”

“Nothing then remains,” observed the miner, “but
to take measures for his arrest.”

“At the altar!” murmured the girl, through her
clenched teeth—“at ‘the altar, in the presence of his
high-vorn bride and all his noble friends. I will
repay the insults they have heaped upon me with
interest.”

It was daybreak before they arrived at the retired
house of Truben,in one of the western suburbs of
London, where Mark Benton, now a distinguished
lawyer, was waiting his uncle’s return. The pale face
of Lena flushed to the temples as she recognized
him.” It was like being confronted with the first wit-
ness of her shame. In the presence of the old miner
she felt no such embarrassment. He was a father to
her in her sorrow.

We must leave the travelers and the young lawyer
awhile to their consultation, and return to the cot-
tage and the betrayer.

When Wilfred Tressillian awoke at alate hour in
the morning from his prolonged, heavy slumber, he
felt naturally surprised at Lena’s absence.

“What cun it mean ?’’ he asked himself, as he has-
tily commenced dressing. “Ah! This explains it,”
he added, as he picked up the letter still lying on the
carpet. ‘The jealous fool has readit. Well, the ex-
planation may as well take place now as at some
future time. Sooner or later she must have known
the truth; only I wish it could have been delayed till
after my marriage.”

On ascending to the breakfast-room he was again
surprised when he beheld his gifts scattered upon
the table, and the money he had given her the pre-
ceding evening lying beside them. A feeling of dread
began to creep over him.

“Cap she have committed suicide ?” he asked him-
self. ‘‘Where is our boy?’

‘row, and Lena and her son were to

 

 

A brief examination told him that he, too, was

e *
gone, and thie somewhat reassured him. ‘Lena, he:

well knew, would mever harm-her child. Leaving
orders with the servants to keep everything in readi-
ness for the return-ef their mistress, which he said

4-would be in a few. days, Wilfred quitted the cottage,

and proceeded:as far.as Harrow, where he found his
carriage, and zeturned to London, where his presence
\was expected by Sir. John Tressillian and his friends.

The church of St. George, Hanover square, the
fashionable temple.of Hymen, was crowded with the
‘elite of Londow:society, in the midst ef whom stood

\ba@ group of gentlemen waiting the arrival of the

bride. Sir John 'Tressillian, his daughter Margaret,

| her husband, together with most of the relatives of
‘tthe family, had gathered aronnd Wilfred, whose
\| thoughts were far:away.

Till that moment he had
meyer realized how-dear ‘the little oe near Har-
im.
At last the wedding march of Mendelsohn pealed
from the organ, andthe bride, leaning on the.arm of
her father, entered ‘the church.

shoulder.

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the church, it. could’
‘scarcely have preduccd :a greater sensation among'
| the bridal party. i
“*Pshaw !” exclaimed Sir John, with a forced smile.
Possibly you, will take my:
} security, bail, or whatever you term it ?”
“Impossible, my lord?’ replied the officer, nespeet-'

“Some ridiculous debt!

fully. “Murder is net-a bailable offense.”
At:the word ‘‘murdex” the bride fainted, and was

} berne ‘to the sacristy. '
On hearing the accusation, Wilfred Tressillian

turned deadly pale.

“This is some monstrous trumped Pe: charge, :
is father,

designed to create a scandal,” exclaimed
passionately. ‘Wilfred, why do you not speak 2’

“Tndignation chokes me,” faltered the conscience- :

stricken assassin.

“Be sure you shall repent this insult to my daugh- !

ter and her family,’ observed the peer, angrily.

“What! arrest my future son-in-law at the very:

altar ?’

As neither entreaty nor threats could prevail upon
the officer to accept any of the guarantees offered for
the release of the accused, Wilfred was led by the
officer and his companion to ene of the side entrances
of the ehurch, where a carriage had been drawn up.
All three entered, and it drove off before the friends
of the guikty man had recovered from their surprise
and consternation.

As Wilfmed was about to enter the carriage, he en-
countered the stern glance of Lena, who, leaning on
the arm ef the old miner, stood watching his depart-
ure. Her features appeared calm and resolute, as
those of the fabled Nemesis, but pale as the marble
in which they .are sculptured, no yielding sentiment
of pity, or trase of love softening their expression.
He read in them nothing but scorn and hate, and his
eyes sunk bemeath the frozen intensity of her gaze.
The convictien that she had all along been cognizant
of his crime struck him forcibly, and he felt that he
was lost. The hand that struck him dewn was that
of the woman he had doubly outraged.

It is not necessary to give the examination of the
witnesses in detail. Several of the miners who had
been presert at the riot proved not only tae presence
of the prisoner among them, but described his dis-
guise, the black wig, and red beard. Lena unflinch-
imgly related the scene of the murder, following the
keutal attempt upen her honor.

At this stage of the proceedings the prisoner was
remanded, and bail which the solicitor of Sir John
offered to any amount, refused. On his second ex-
amination, Wilfred Tressillian was fully committed
to take his trial for willful murder.

Great was the excitement inthe fashionable world,
andthe scandal of the interrupted marriage. The
intended bride, accompanied by her sisters, mother,
and aw elder brother, left London almost immedi-
ately fer Paris, her father remaining to watch the
eourse of events.

 

 

 

 

 

      
  

~S

 

WS SS ROHR S
JN Nn
Ri arya

ae |

 

 

THE VOICE OF HER SON WAS HEARD AT THE DOOR,
AND THE KNIFE FELL TO THE FLOOR,

Independent of the weak affection Sir John Tres-
sillian entértained for his son, pride would have in-
duced him to spare neither money nor influence to
save him from the penalty of his crime, aud his
ancient name from dishonor. Acting under the ad-
vice of the most eminent criminal lawyers, an
attempt was made to release the prisoner upon bail,
which was tendered to an immense amount, but re-
fused by the Lord Chief Justice.

The next step was to prepare for the defense. The
baronet was in consultation with the counsel en-
gaged for the defense, when the groom of the
chambers handed him a card.

“TJ thought [ gave strict orders not to be interrupt-
ed,” said his master, angrily.

“It was not without great hesitation that I pre-
sumed to break them,” replied the domestic, respect-
fully, ‘‘but the person was so urgent, so earnest in
his statement that he could be of service to Mr. Wil-
fred, that I ventured to bring his card. Am I to dis-
miss him ?”’

Sir John was about to reply in the affirmative, but
a sudden thought restrained him. He took the card,
_ = very aristocratic one, and read the name of

nake.

“T know of nosuch person,” he observed, tossing
it on the table.

The gentlemen of the long robe took it up and
ee itin their turn. They could make nothing
of it.

Desperate and drowning men catch at straws.
Improbable as it appeared, still there might be a
chance that the strange visitor had spoken the truth,
that he had really important information to give,
and the unhappy parent decided to receive him,

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FORLORN HOPE.

Aman dressed in black, with a semi-professional
air, made his appearance in the library. His features
were hard and saturnine, butintelligent. He had an
eye like a hawk, bulky hands, and a profusion of iron-
gray hair, which fell upon the collar of his coat.
Without the slightest hesitation he took a chair,
placed his hat at his feet, and waited quietly to be
questioned.

“Well, sir,” said the baronet, somewhat haughtily.
“T have consented to receive you.”

“Of course you have,” replied the visitor, coolly.
“With a son in Newgate on a charge affecting his
life, it would have been madness to refuse an inter-
view with the only man who can save him. Hanging
in a serious affair.”

Sir John looked inexpressibly shocked.

“You say that you can prove my Sson’s innocence?”
he observed, at last.

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Mr. Snake, with a
disagreeable smile. “I am convinced of his guilt, I
merely stated that I could save him.”

“How ?” exclaimed both the counselors.

The man regarded them with a look of amused sur-

rise.

? “Humph,” he muttered, half aloud, “Cacton and
Price good enough in an ordinary case, but not quite
up to the mark in one like this.”

The gentlemen of the long robe felt annoyed at
the half contemptuous recognition and commentary
on their abilities, and the elder of the two, who was
sergeant at law; asked the speaker if he were a mem-
ber of the profession.

“Not exactly,’ was the reply, “but I know the law
and frequently have occasion to employ members of
it. My time is too valuable to be wasted by attend-
ing to such details. -Many a fee you have received
from me.”

“Why, [ never saw you before,” said the sergeant.
“At least, not to my recollection.”

“Are you always personally acquainted with your
clients?’ demanded Mr. Snake. ‘“‘Did you ever see

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

As Wilfred Tres-'
|sillian advanced te meet her, two well-dressed men:
‘stepped from the crowd of spectators and inter-
‘cepted him. !
“You are our prisoner; said the elder of the two.
jimen, at the same dime placing a hand upon his:

 

the duchess, whose diamonds you recéived from the
French count just in time for her to accompany her
‘husband to the last drawing-room? Or the lady who
employed ‘you to defend the handseme captain,
whom they hanged last session for forgery ?”

The allusion to two exceedingly private, though
mot dishonorable transactions, as far as the learned
gentleman was concerned, astonished him greatly,
and he asked no further questions.

“Now, sir,” said the baronet, “Iam ready te hear
you.”

‘When we are alone,” observed the man in black,
‘glancing significantly at the two lawyers.

““T have every confidence in them,” said Sir John.

“And [ have not the slightest,” added the former
‘speaker. ‘‘They weuld pick out the heart of my
‘secret, and persuade you that they had made the dis-
covery.”

“Tnsolent !’’

“T did not come here to handy compliments or to

NN
fy cite

 

 
    

       
   

=-|-—

    

 

 

 

“YOU ARE OUR PRISONER!” SAID THE MAN, PLACING
A HAND UPON THE BRIDEGROOM’S SHOULDER.

be insulted,’’ continued Mr. Snake, ‘‘but for business.
If you refuse to listen to me—well—your son may
die for anything Ieare. You will save a few thou-
sands, and I shall not be much poorer.”’

“But why object to the presence of these gentle-
men?” urged the baronet.

‘‘Beeause it is unnecessary,” replied the stranger,
picking up his hat and rising to depart. ‘I came to
dictate, net receive conditions. Good-morning.”

“Stay!” exclaimed the father of Wilfred, greatly
agitated, for he could not let the last hope of saving
his son escape him. “TI will listen to you.”

Mr. Snake quietly resumed his seat without a word.

“You will leave me, gentlemen, for a few minutes,”
resumed the speaker, “but do not quit the house.
Your presence may be necessary.”

Sergeant Cacton and Price withdrew, and for seve-
ral instants the baronet and his visitor regarded
each other in silence, which the former was the first
to break.

“Now, sir, what is it yeu wish to say ?””

“Simply this. Give me your bond to pay the sum
of twenty thousand pounds on the day your son is
acquitted of the charge of murder, and I answer for
his safety.”

“And how much on account?’ demanded Sir John,
sarcastically, for he imagined he had detected an
impudent attempt to blackmail him.

“Nothing,” was the calm rejoinder.

“Give me atleast an outline of your plan. Is it
bribery ?”’ urged the baronet.

“J shall bribe no one.”

After some further conversation, the compact was
agreed to. Whatever the value of Mr. Snake’s asser-
tion of ability to save Wilfred Tressillian from an ig-
nominious death, the arrangement bound his father
to nothing except in the event of success.

; soe shall I draw the bond?’ demanded the
atter.

“The bond is already drawn,” replied the gentle-
man in black, at the same time producing the paper.

Sir John perused it carefully, and found the con-
dition was clearly stated. One thing alone struck
him as singular, that the promise was to a Mr.
Preyor, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Attorney at Law.

“Ts that your name 2” he asked.

“No,” replied Mr. Snake, with a smile, “I never
operate in my own name. It is that of my solicitor.”

Before signing, Sergeant Cacton and Price were
summoned to the library, and on reading the docu-
ment, although as much puzzled as their client, pro-
nounced it perfectly legal, but only in the event of
success.

“Is it not possible to procure my son’s release with-
out the ignominy of a trial?’ asked Sir John, after
affixing his signature.

The man in black shook his head as he placed the
document in his capacious pocket- book.

“T can’t accomplish impossibilities,’ replied Mr.
Snake. “Good-morning, Sir John. Make yourself
perfectly easy. Your son will quit the court a free
man.’

With these words he picked up his hata second
time and walked out of the library with the same
eat-like stealthy face with which he had entered it,

The two members of the legal profession and their
client regarded: each other for several minutes in
silence. The great unravelers of mysteries were
mystified.

“T wish,’ observed Cacton, speaking the first,
“that the fellow had asked and received a sum on
account. I would have had him arrested as he
quitted the house for obtaining money under false
pretenses. But the fellow was too cautious for that.”

“May it not prove his sincerity ?”’

“His sincerity, yes,? replied Price, “but not his
capability. Therefore my advice is to letthe prepara-
tions for the defense goon. Powerful agencies are
at work against your son. No money has been
spared, the witnesses are so carefully guarded that
it is impossible to obtain access to them; and most
oi ogg fear we shall have Wilkins against us on the

rial.

“Ts he so skillful a lawyer ?’

 

 

          
 

 

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Ci A) i ANA. A | ay
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Wh

 

 

 

 

A MAN DRESSED IN BLACK, WITH A SEMI-PROFES-
SIONAL AIR, MADE HIS APPEARANCE IN THE LIBRARY.

“Pooh?” interrupted the sergeant. ‘His law is
nil. Itis his eloquence, his influence with the jury
that we fear. He has saved more than one rascal
from the gallows.’

After finally agreeing that no effort should be re-
laxed to obtain, and if possible tamper with the wit-
nesses, the conference broke up, and the gentlemen
of the long robe took their leave.

“Tt will kill me!” muttered. Sir John, starting from
his chair and pacing the library in great agitation.
“Tt will kill me—my crime to my eldest-born, bripg-
ing forth its bitter fruit. Too late! too late!”

What the thoughts were which suggested the last
words it might be difficult to tell, but evidently they
were working within him.

Wilfred Tressillian was treated with as much in-
dulgence as the rules of the prison would allow, but,
being the son of a very wealthy baronet, the heir of
his title, and the brother-in-law of a cabinet minister,
possibly the regulations were a little stretched in his

 

| whispered Mr. Craven, after they had quitte

 

Pe Fe ape og ?
favor. He was allowed to receive what visitors he

pleased; his counsel had access to him as a right, but
his fashionable friends stood aloof.

Like most men of wealth in his position, he received
innumerable letters containing offers of services, and
among those one name struck him as familiar—that
of the well-known detective, Burk, and he deter-
mined to send for the man.

Stephen Burk was an exceedingly astute personage,
fond of money, as most of his calling, but once en-
gaged in a cause, of strict probity; no amount of
money could induce him to sell his client. To this he
was influenced probably quite as much by prudence
as principle; reputation for integrity was his capital,
and he feund that in the long run it brought him good
interest.

He had watched the case from its first publicity with
the keen instinct of his profession ; he saw that there
was money in it, and hence his communication to the
prisoner.

“T have sent for you,” observed Wilfred Tressillian,
as the officer made his call, ‘merely to ask a few
questions.”

The man bowed, probably to conceal a smile. He
knew by experience that in certain very delicate
cases, confidence was a plant of slow growth.

“T am quite ready to answer you, sir, to the extent
of my ability,” he replied.

“Do you think you could undertake to find out
the residence of any person in the metropolis ?’’

“Undoubtedly,” answered the detective, after a
few minutes’ reflection.

“No matter how carefully concealed ?”

“No matter how carefully concealed,” replied Ste-
phen Burk; “but the process, probably, would be an
expensive one.”’

“T wish to ascertain,” resumed the prisoner, the
residence of a female named Lena Penrice.”

“The woman who lived with you for several years,
and who gave evidence before the magistrates, and
pene application to the Lord Chief Justice for
ail ?

“The same.”

“And nothing more ?” added the detective.

“Nothing,” replied Wilfred, ‘tat present.”

The words, ‘‘at present,’ showed the officer that
the speaker was dealing with him very cautiously,
and that the only means of obtaining further con-
ae were to succeed in the discovery of Lena’s
abode.

“Mr. Tressillian,” he said, “TI will deal very frankly
with you. I have studied your case attentively, and
comprehend the vital importanze of finding out the
woman. Sheistheprincipalevidence against you. I
have taken certain preliminary steps, inexpensive
ones up to the present time, and arrived at two
conclusions. First, that the woman is not to be
bought. It was hate, cold, bitter hate which prompt-
ed her evidence.”

“And the second conclusion ?”’

“That she is sustained and incited by some one to
whom money is no object. Wilkins has accepted a
brief against you; a thousand guineas at least. Are
you aware of any cause which should induce any one
to take an especial interest in your conviction ?”’

Wilfred hesitated, and seemed to refiect.

“T have no wish to force myself into your con-
fidence,”’ added the speaker.

“There may be such a cause,” answered the pris-
oner, slowly. ‘Not that I think itcan have anything
to do with it.”

“T do,” observed his visitor, firmly.

“We will waive the subject for the present,” ob-
served the guilty man, who felt satisfied of the intel-
ligence of the man whose aid he relied upon. “Occupy
yourself if you please with the whereabouts of Lena
Penrice for the present.”

CHAPTER XXYV.
MR. CRAVEN AND THE MARCHIONESS.

Frank Raymond was indefatigable in his attend-
ance upon his wounded companion, never quitting
his bedside, day or night, his watchful eye and ready
hand ministering to him in his sufferings.

Frank was not alone in his attendance upon the

 

 

4

yi
“i

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TS
SS

SS

 

 

 

 

“OH, THAT MY CURSE COULD SLAY,” EXCLAIMED THE
FEMALE FIEND, “OR THAT I DARED TO DIE!”

sufferer, for Austini, the young painter, proved a
daily visitor, and for several hours shared the task,
enabling him to snatch afew hours of repose; but
even then the devoted friend invariably remained in
the room. The slightest movement disturbed him.

It was a happy day for both our heroes when Dr.
Kinock pronounced his patient out of danger.

As Charley gathered strength, a third visitor was
admitted. Colonel Sarsfield, who bya coincidence
that appeared accidental, timed his visits during the
absence of the Hon. Mr. Craven.

If women love with more intensity than men, the
same peculiarity accompanies their hate, and the
Marchioness St. Croix proved no exception to the
rule. The thirst for vengeance, like a consuming
fever, raged in her southern blood, and one more at-
tempt was made to carry out her infernal purpose.

On one of his visits to his wounded countryman,
Mr. Craven noticed upon a table placed close to the
bed a basket of magnificent grapes. There would
have been nothing remarkable in the circumstance,
had they been ordinary grapes, but these were
Sicillian grapes, very tempting in appearance, ex-
ceedingly luscious, and rarely to be met with in the
Eternal City.”’

“Are they not superb?’ said Charley, observing
the eyes of his visitor riveted upon the basket.

“Very,” replied the Englishman, trying to appear
indifferent. ‘Have you partaken of them?”

“Not yet,’ replied the youth. “Frank thought
they might disagree with the medicine.”

“T fear so, too,” he observed, “and if you take my
advice you will abstain till you hear what the doctor
says.

Charley looked disappointed, but Mr. Craven had
proved himself too true a friend for his wishes not
to be complied with. He summoned the landlord
and directed him to place the basket in the ice-house,
and after some trifling conversa*ion he rose to depart.

“T wish, Raymond, you would see me to my car-
riage; these Roman staircases are so infernally
steep, and I felt quite a vertigo when I entered the
room. Do not let your friend touch the gra a

e
room,

Frank looked surprised.

“They come from Sicily.”

The look of surprise was changed for one of terror.

“T may bein error,” added Mr. Craven, ‘but pru-
dence is the mother of safety; and we have to guard
against a subtle enemy. You now understand why I
sent the fruitfrom theroom. Not a word to Pinxet
in his present state of weakness, for the shock might
provoke dangerous consequences. You understand
me?

“Perfectly,” said Frank, who did not draw his
breath freely till he had resumed his seat by the bed-
side of his friend.

We must now invite our readers to accompany us
to the palace of Prince Rudatini, Governor of Rome,
and cousin of the marchioness, upon whose vast in-
heritance he had long cast a covetous eye. - Hence
the immunity which enabled her to perpetrate many
an evil deed.

The residence of the prince, like the houses of most
of the nobles of the Eternal City, was a gloomy, but
magnificent, pile of architecture,.erected during the
middle ages, when defense was considered of far
greater consequence than domestic convenience.
The lofty ground floor had nota single window to-
ward the street, allof them looking into the court-
yard, from whence a stately flight of stairs led up to
the apartments above, vast, cold, and cheerless, ac-
cording to ideas of modern comfort, but rich with the
heir-looms of ages. The gilded and frescoed ceilings
glowed with the triumphs of the painter’s art, pic-
tures of inestimable value adorned the walls, and
statues of all but living beauty met the eye at almost
every turn

The governor was seated in his cabinet, pondering
over reports and a mass of papers connected with his

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

pecuniary embarrassments more than public duties,
when a domestic announced the Marchioness 8t.
Croix. A shade of annoyance passed over his fea-
tures, for he divined that she came to ask a service
which he dared not grant, much as he disliked to of-
fend her.

“Bella Marchise!” he exclaimed, rising to receive
her, and at the same time kissing the hand extended
te him, ‘‘to what good fortune am [ indebted for this
unexpected honor?”

“Prince,” she said, “I have a favor to solicit.”

“Say rather a command to honor me with,” replied
her cousin, at the same time beginning to feel un-
easy, for he guessed what was about to follow.

“That burglar Beppo is still in prison ?’

“Yes; in that of the Holy Office,’ answered the
governor, significantly.

“Your authority, if I mistake not, extends even
there,” observed the marchioness. ‘He must be re-
moved.”

“To another prison ?”’

‘Ay! To one which reveals few secrets,” said his
visitor. “I require that Beppo should be privately
strangled in his dungeon.”

Although not easily startled, her hearer looked sur-
prised at the coolness of the proposition.

“Cousin,” said the great official, gravely, ‘‘you
know me too well to believe that I would hesitate an
instant to oblige you, were the question merely the
life of a paltry peasant, but a far more serious one is
connected with it.”

“And thatis?”’

“The anger of the Pontiff, who has taken the affair
of the young Englishman into his own hands. Ifyou
take my advice you will retire to your estates in
Sicily. You will be safe there.”

“Safe !”” repeated the lady, disdainfully.

“Yes. Eyes which are anything but friendly are
watching you,and the Pontiff places every con-
fidence in this Englishman. Beware.”

“Curse him!” ejaculated the marchioness, bitterly.
“Are there no means to shake it ?’

‘None! Every way he has the advantage of us.”

Notwithstanding the mad passion for revenge
which haunted her, his visitor was too clear-sighted
not to perceive that he was really powerless to assist
her, and she therefore took her leave, with expres-
sions of friendship as hollow and deceitful as the
thing she called her heart.

On reaching her palace the Marchioness St. Croix

vas informed by her attendant that Mr. Craven had
been waiting some time in the reception-room to see
her. The intelligence surprised, but failed to alarm
her, and she mounted the ground staircase, after
giving a few whispered orders to the domestic.

The Englishman, who, from the window, had
watched her arrival, divined their purport, but he
only smiled, for he, too, had taken his precautions.

“Do you come as a friend or enemy 2?” she demand-
ed, as she entered the saloon. ‘Let us throw off all
disguise.”

“Not as an enemy,” replied her visitor, ‘‘unless you
force me to act as one. “Lady,” he added, “you
suffered in your youth a cruel and unmerited wrong
which was terribly avenged. Your husband felt this
on his death-bed.”

2 “Do not name him,” she exclaimed, with a shud-
er.

“T do it, not to pain you, but to warn you. Hence
the promise he exacted from me not to make public
the confession of the physician whom you bribed to
poison him, unless to prevent you from the repetition
of a horrible crime. Why have you sought the life of
my young countryman ?”’

“He betrayed my secret,” replied the marchioness,
fiercely.

“To save his friend from a hideous infatuation,”
continued Mr. Craven. “The attempt, fortunately
for yourself, failed, but undeterred hy the interven-
tion of Providence, you have attempted his death
a second time.”

“You have no proof of this.”

“The poisoned grapes.”

“Did he eat them ?”’ demanded the lady, eagerly.

“No. TI arrived in time to preventit. Recognizing
the fruit of your sunny Sicily, I removed the basket,
and caused its contents to be analyzed. Strychnine!”
he added, with a look of horror.

“T will pursue him to the last,’ exclaimed his
hearer, coldly. ‘I have sworn it.”

“A few words more and I have done. I make no

appeal to your womanly pity—you have long been a
stranger to such a weakness—but to your fears. I
have placed your husband’s statement, and the con-
fession of the physician, together witb your letters
to him, in the hands of the Pontiff, under seal, to be
broken only in the event of any renewed attempt
upon the life of Charles Pinxet or my own,” he added,
with a smile.
_ The Marchioness St. Croix started from her chair
in a fit of passion, so violent that it caused the
enamel mask to crack, and she stood before him in
all her moral and physical hideousness.

‘‘By the laws of Rome,” resumed the speaker, “the
punishment of the prisoner is death at the stake, and
Gregory the XVI has pledged his word, never broken
yet, that should the occasion occur, no influence or

-| intercession shall prevent its being carried out to the

terrible end.”

“Oh, that my curse could slay!” exclaimed the
female fiend, ‘or that I dared to die. Look on me,”
she continued, as afresh fragment of the mask fell
from her face, “scarred, blighted, the beauty God be-
stowed upon me destroyed, a horror to myself and
all who know me ag IT really am. My name the jest
of two ribald boys.”

“Not so,” observed the Englishman. “Be assured
a secret has never passed their lips, and never
will.

The woman shook her head incredulously.

“And now,” he added, “your decision ?” ;

“You have conquered,” muttered the intended mur-
deress, hoarsely. “I will make no further attempt,
but let them avoid me, bury their infamy in their
own frozen land. The sight of them would melt the
lava of my blood, and, despite the penalty, my hand
would reach them.”

“You have decided wisely,” observed her visitor.
“As for your instructions regarding myself, I leave
you to revoke or confirm them at your discretion.”

“T will myself conduct you to your carriage,’ re-
plied the Marchioness St. Croix, throwing a vail over
her face. “It will be the last of my hnmiliations,
and after what I have already endured I shall
searcely feel it.”

Mr. Craven quitted the palace uncovered.

The guilty woman, after the departure of her un-
welcome visitor, sat for several hours absorbed in
reflection, pondering on the bitter past, and forming
plans for the future, for her fierce spirit had been
only cowed, not subdued. She was not of atempera-
ment to accept defeat submissively.

“Fool!” she murmured, “to have employed the
mere instruments of force and muscle when the more
certain ones of the passions were at my disposal. I
will reach him yet through his heart, make his young
life a blank, his hopes a mockery, as mine have
been.”

As her plans developed themselves more clearly in
her busy brain, a ghastly smile flitted occasionally
athwart her scarred countenance.

A few weeks after the events we have described,
Charley and his friend were agreeably surprised by
the arrival of Sir Oliver Costar and his family in the
Eternal City. The baronet had taken a villa outside
the Porta del Populo, to which the wounded youth
and Frank were speedily removed.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

AN ACTRESS AS A BEGGAR.

 

One of the late Sir Francis Doyle’s sweetest and
most touching poems was a ballad (which we be-
lieve, he never published) having for its subject a
tale told to him by a fair descendant of Mrs. Jordan,
the famous actress, whose equal Macready used to
say that he had never seen on the stage. This tale

related that one winter day Mrs. Jordan passed in
her carriage @ poor woman singing with feeble voice
in the street whose stony look of hopeless misery
touched the successful actress’ tender heart. Stop-
ping her carriage, Mrs. Jordan told her footman to
invite the poor woman to call at her addressina
street close at hand.

The two women were soon alone together, and the
poor street singer told her sympathizing interlocu-
tor that she was a widow and had just been turned
out by her landlord, together with her starving chil-
dren. into the frost-bound street. Mrs. Jordan
quickly borrowed the wretched woman’s shay] and
bonnet and the skirt of her worn dress, and puttin
them on, told her to wait by the fire until she hersel
returned. In afew moments the silence of the street
was broken by a heavenly voice issuing clear and
sweet from the throat of the most exquisite ballad
singer ever heard on the English boards.

‘oe beneath a tattered bonnet, from within a greasy
sha

wl,
That unebbing tide of music filled with life the souls of

all;

And oh touch as of a spirit to their fluttered pulses
clung,

With a strange enchanting rapture, as that ragged
woman sung.”

Arrested by a voice the like of which they had
never heard, the workmen paused on their home-
ward journey to thrust pennies into the singer’s
hand. Presently the windows of the houses that she
passed opened spontaneously, and a stream of silver
fell at her feet. For three quarters of an hour she
continued to gather in the money harvest, which in-
cluded several gold pieces contributed by carriage
folk. Then she hurried to the starving widow’s side,
restored to her the borrowed bonnet, shawl and
gown, and poured a flood of money into her lap.

 

The ballad ends:
“Not in vain from out her bosom had that music torrent

leap
For beyond her earthborn hearers star-crowned angels
smiled and wept;
And a pe utterance floated from our Father’s place
of rest,
nner oS ,vheir fellow-creatures are the beings I love
eS

 

 

 

  
   

 

 
 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

AN AUTUMN SONG.

 

BY EMILIE POULSSON.
The song birds are flying,
And southward are hieing,

No more their glad carols we hear.
The gardens are lonely,
Chrisanthemums only

Dare now let their beauty appear.

The insects are hiding,
The farmer providing
The lambkius a shelter from cold.
And after October
The woods will look sober
Without all their crimson and gold.

The loud winds are calling,
The ripe nuts are falling,

The squirrel now gathers his store,
The bears, homeward creeping,
Will soon all be sleeping

So snugly, till winter is o’er.

Jack Frost will soon cover
The little brooks over;

The snow-clouds are up in the sky
All ready for snowing;
Dear autumn is going,

We bid her a loving good-by.

The Leaetue of the (iuadalape

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

 

 

(“THE LEAGUE OF THE GUADALUPE” was commenced
in No. 48.
Agents.}

Back numbers can be obtained of all News

CHAPTER XXII.--(CONTINUED.)

R. LAMAR was on the point
of making some reply to what
had just been said, when a
light flashed through the dark-
ness and voices reached their
years. A moment after, two
men were visible coming to-
ward them waving lanterns.

“Quick! here, follow me,”
eried Dick, scarcely above his
: breath, as he sprang to his
feet and almost dragged Mr. Lamar with him a few
paces back the way they had come. They went close
along the wall, Dick feeling the face of the damp
stone with his hand, until they found a large fissure
in the side of the passage into which they crept.

Dick now slipped a pistol into the hand of Mr. La-
mar, saying as he did so:

‘Keep still as a mouse till I say the word!”

They could now hear the sound of their pursuers’
feet, as they came hurrying along the dark passage.
Nearer and nearer. The light grew brighter and
their voices became more distinct, as with ejacula-
tions of anger and deep threats of vengeance they
came tramping on. Far back, too, they heard a hum
and roar of voices and feet. No doubt the entire
camp was alarmed.

‘‘He’s back here some’rs, the murderin’ villyan!”
eried one of the voices. “I don’t see what’s become
of Dick Holly. He orter ’a’ been on hand; it’s his
business to ’tend to the prisoner !”

“Oh, well, Dick’s a poor ’scuse for a jailer; he’s
allus off some’rs when he’s needed!” replied the
other, interlarding his speech with shocking oaths.

“There,” said Dick, in a whisper, ‘they don’t have
no idee [’ve had anything to do with yer gettin’ out!
Guess they’d go more keerful like ef they knowed I
wus in here.”

A moment after Dick ceased speaking, the two
men passed the mouth of the fissure in which our
friends were concealed.

‘‘Now let’s be on them !” said Dick, darting out be-
hind them.

Mr. Lamar sprang out also just as Dick fired his
pistol, and one of the men fell to the floor a corpse,
his lantern rolling from his hand.

The other man sprang forward a single bound and
turned round facing our friends. Dick fired again.
The report of the pistol was followed by an appalling
cry, and the next instant the remaining ruffian
sprang into the air. For amoment they saw his
body hovering above that black pit, then down it
went, rumbling and crashing till the sounds of its
striking against the rugged wall of the hole died out
from mere distance.

Quick as thought Dick Holly snatched up the still
burning lantern of the dead ruffian who lay upon the
floor. Handing the light to Mr. Lamar he then
picked up the dead body and tumbled it into the hole,
where it went crashing down to join its companion ;
how far it went no human eye could tell.

Taking the lantern again, Dick led the way, and
the two hurried past that awful chasm, while far be-
hind them, roaring strangely through those rocky
passages, the sound of voices and hurrying feet told
of fresh and numerous pursuers.

“There’s no more holes now,” said Dick, rushing
ahead so swiftly that Mr. Lamar could scarcely keep
pace with him.

They were going upa steep incline now, and the
floor was very slippery. Mr. Lamar several times
fell heavily, but sustained no serious injury.

Finally they saw daylight ahead of them, and in a |}
few mininutes more they stepped out upon a ledge of
rocks that overhung a beautiful valley sleeping far
below. They had gone near a mile under ground and
emerged on the side of the mountain opposite the
other mouth of the cavern.

‘‘Now then,” said Dick, throwing away the lantern,
“Gf you’re good at actin’ the goat we'll git clean away
easy ‘nuff.’’

As he spoke he began leaping from rock to rock
down the side of the mountain, but seeing that Mr.
Lamar could not keep pace with him, he turned and
assisted him at the most difficult points.

It was a long, tiresome, and exceedingly dangerous
journey, but after excessive labor, and a number of
narrow escapes from death by falling down those
sheer precipices, they found themselves in the val-
ley, tired, bruised, and sore, but still energetic and
ready for much more exertion if necessary.

After resting a few minutes they struck off across
the valley, keeping as much as possible under cover
of the scanty timber that skirted the ravines and
gorges.

They heard nosound that indicated pursuit, but
they pushed ahead as fast as they could till near
nightfall, when they stopped to refresh themselves
at a spring of delicious water.

Here Mr. Lamar stretched himself on the ground to
rest, and almost instantly fell asleep.

Dick lighted his pipe and settled himself for a
smoke.

They had placed several miles between them and
Rock Tavern, and they felt tolerably secure. But
there was one thing that bothered Dick. He was
getting hungry. Where was food to come from? He
had one loaded pistol besides the one Mr. Lamar had
taken, but no gun and but little ammunition.

“Tt’s the blamedest foolishest thing I ever did do,”
muttered he to himself, “but cuss me if I stopped to
think at all, or I'd a done better. The old man had
killed Flynn, and I knowed that ef he didn’t get
away purty quick the boys ’d make mince-meat of
him; and so here we are, without a bite to eator a
gun to kill anything with. Blame me, but what are
we to do!”

It had indeed been a hasty flight, without any
preparation, and now it looked much like starvation.

“Well, I’m not goin’ back, that’s settled,” con-
tinned Dick. “Tllleave the gang for good now if I
starve for it. I’ve been tryin’ a long time to git
ready to go, and now I’m off ’ithout éven a bite to
eat. One consolation, though, [ve got money,” and
he slapped his hand on his pocket.

“Gone! by thunder!”

He felt in all his pockets. Sure enough, the gold
he had taken from the person of Flynn was gone. It
lay at the bottom of that black hole in the cavern.

While yet Dick Holly was busy examining his
empty pockets, and speaking of his lickin no very
Christian way, a slight sound made him start and
look up.

Good heavens! <A dozen stalwart Indians had sur-
rounded them with drawn bows and leveled lances!

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
LOPEZ ATTACKS THE LEAGUE,

Bennet Flynn, though stunned and badly wounded
by the terrific blow Mr. Lamar had given him, was
not fatally injured. He was insensible for about
fourteen hours; and when, at length, he did some-
what revive, it was three weeks ere he was able to
walk about.

When he was told that John Lamar and Dick Holly
had escaped together, he cursed and raved and tore
his hair in a frenzy of rage. He offered a large re-
ward for the fugitives, dead or alive. His men
scoured the country in every direction for several
days, but reported nothing, except having seen one
or two small parties of prowling Indians. He then
ordered Lieutenant Hord to take fifteen men and
hasten to San Antonio, and fetch Maggie Lamar and
Isolina De Martinez to Rock Tavern in all haste. He

would have gone himself had he been well enough,
but he was not, and, therefore, was compelled to
trust the matter to Hord, who was exceedingly glad
to be allowed to go.

Flynn had no sooner heard of the escape of Mr.
Lamar and the disappearance of Dick Holly, than he
at once concluded that the prisoner had bribed the
jailer by a promise of a large reward, and that the
two were striving to make their way to San Antonio.
This thought made him exceedingly uneasy. for he
knew Dick to be a shrewd fellow, and feared that he
might easily find out where he had hidden Maggie
Lamar. This done, the escape of father and daugh-
ter would he a matter easy to accomplish, for the
sloop was still lying at anchor in the harbor of Porta
Lavaca,

Lieutenant Hord chose his men and set out at
once for San Antonio. But misfortunes never come
singly. He had proceeded but about ten miles on
his journey, when, in a narrow pass of the hills, he
was attacked by Juan Lopez at the head of nearly a
hundred men. <All of Hord’s party were killed or
captured but himself and two men, who beat a hasty
retreat to Rock Tavern and reported the matter to
Flynn.

The effect of this news on the irritable captain was
awful to witness. He went into a very convulsion
of wrath. He cursed everything and everybody.

“Ts it thus that Iam to be thwarted? Are all the
foul fiends of this devilish country turned loose
against me? Must I at last be baffled, defeated,
ruined? No, by Heaven, no! I have been in worse
straits than this. I have couquered fiercer foes than
this tallow-skinned Lopez,” he fiercely cried, ‘and T
ean do it again! I will trust to my star. My luck
hangs in my belt and in those of my sixty trusty
followers.”

His face flushed with a feverish light and his eyes
blazed furiously as he left the room, in which he had
lain most of the time since he had received Mr.
Lamar’s fearful blow, and went down into the valley
among his men.

The effects of his wound were forgotten. He
thought of nothing now but revenge.

“Now, then, Colonel Lopez,” he muttered to him-
self, as he mounted his horse and buckled his pistol-
belt more securely, ‘‘I’ll settle this matter with you
forever! You shall not escape me this time, if I
ive!”

The bugle sounded “boot and saddle.” Those des-
perate men sprang on their horses. There was a
clatter of weapons and a clang of spurs, a trampling
of hoofs and a jingling of bits; then, as Flynn raised
his sombrero to salute his men, a mighty shout arose
(the bandits cheering their leader), that rolled off
down the valley and reached the ears of Lopez and
his men. s

“Forward!” shouted Flynn, and with Bill Bagley
at one side and Hord at the other, he rode at the
head of his men down the valley to attack Lopez.

But the wily colonel did not wait to be attacked.
He threw his men in ambush along the slopes of the
valley, and when the little army of Flynn was just
where he desired, he sounded the charge and went
down upon them from every direction.

Then began a terrible hand-to-hand struggle that
no pen can describe. Pistols blazed into the very
muzzles of opposing pistols; knives clashed on
knives; shrieks answered shrieks, and yells answered
yells; horses reared and plunged; men’s bodies
swayed to and fro as they dealt terrific blows with
knife and pistol-butt; smoke puffed and wreathed
about the heads of the combatants, and, lower than
all the other sounds, yet distinctly heard, the sharp
“cluck” of the hurtling bullet as it entered the body
of a man, and the deadly “thug” of the knife and sti-
letto as they cleft to the hearts of the doomed victims.
Oh, it was fearful work!

This could not last. Flynn’s band was entirely
surrounded, and the blunderbuses of the Mexicans
were doing terrible execution. Flynn turned his
men and charged to the rear. Alvaraz, at the head
of twenty picked men, barred his way.

The captain rose in his stirrups and, with a furious
yell, bore down upon the lieutenant, knife in hand.

Alvaraz met the shock bravely, but who could have
withstood Flynn then ?

There was a moment’s hand-to-hand struggle as
their horses reared side by side, and then the hand
of Flynn swept round like the lever of a catapult,
and the head of Alvaraz rolled to the ground, entirely
severed from the body.

The men of the fallen lieutenant gave way quickly
before this fearful charge. They broke, and fled on
either hand, leaving the way to Rock Tavern clear.
Flynn now faced his men to the front again, and be-
gan slowly falling back in the direction of the cavern,
contesting furiously every inch of the ground.

Lopez charged again and again at the head of his
men. The dapper colonei seemed to bear a charmed
life. He was always in the thickest of the fight,
cheering his men, and fighting with a revolver that
seemed all the time streaming fire from its muzzle.
Twice had Flynn and Lopez met face to face in the
fight, and twice had the bullets of each rang on the
wire mail that covered the heart of each.

Slowly backward the Leaguers were pressed, until
they took their stand in the ravine that led to the
savern. Here they made a determined rally, under
cover of the timber and bushes. This availed noth-
ing, however, for Lopez and his men charged in over-
whelming numbers and with whirlwind fury, carrying
the ravine at once, and forcing Flynn and the survi-
vors of his band to dismount and take shelter in the
cave.

Lopez did not hesitate a single moment, but, order-
ing his men to dismount also, he charged the cavern,
ere its mouth could be blockaded, and succeeded in
making a lodgment in its first rooms.

Here the wily colonel stopped his men, and while
a continuous fire was poured down the main hall of
the cave, he had his men securely wall up this
channel.

“Now, then,” said he, in his old oily way, “I think
I have Captain Flynn pretty safely housed. I guess
Vll starve him a while, by way of variety. Ha!
ha! ha!’

And so Juan Lopez encamped his men around the
mouth of Rock Tavern.

CHAPTER XXIV.
NED’S CABIN DRESSED UP—WALGRAVE.

Meanwhile our friends at the cabin of Negro Ned
were enjoying themselves as wellas the nature of
their circumstances would permit.

Chauncey’s hurts were slowly vanishing under the
careful nursing of Maggie, and it may be offered asa
guess that these sweet songs sung to him by the
Senorita Isolina had quite a soothing effect, for when
she sat near him and mingled her rich voice with the
mellow tinkling of her deftly-touched guitar, he al-
ways seemed to be doing well. It was not unfre-
quently the case that Maggie sat over near the door
ofthe cabin and talked with Wallace Upton while
Isolina was thus amusing Chauncey. It is true that
on such occasions the burden of their conversation
was generally something concerning Mr. Lamar,
whom they yet hoped to rescue from the hands of
Flynn.

Mart, to whoin they all looked for information and
advice, made daily visits to the settlements adjacent
to San Antonio, having interviews with the leading
Vigilance men, and making arrangements for a
general uprising of the honest men of the country
against the power of Flynn and his desperate gang.

Negro Ned spent most of his time in the woods pro-
curing food for his boarders. He took a great fancy
to the two young girls so strangely thrown under his
humble roof, and it was his chief delight to be able to
bring some delicate bits of game which he thought
would please them.

Thus days wore on, bringing no particular change
in the situation of affairs. Chauncey was yet unable
to travel, and even if he had been well, he could not
have consented to return to Mobile without first see-
ing every means exhausted to discover the where-
abouts of his father, and rescue him from the hands
of Flynn. ,

It required time to search for a distinct clew to the
direction in which Mr. Lamar had been taken. Wal-
lace Upton busied himself unremittingly in assisting
Mart, whose whole soul was enlisted in organizing the
somewhat demoralized Vigilance Committee, and
while this was going on no pains were spared to un-
ravel the mystery that enveloped the disappearance
of Mr. Lamar. ‘Whereis Rock Tavern?’ was the
question that Upton and Mart most frequently asked™
themselves, but they found no answer anywhere.
Still they did not despair, and every day saw them
renew their efforts.

The weather ripened into a glorious state. Con-
stant breezes blew down from the mountains, and
though the sky was clear, the days were not at all
sultry. Maggie and Isolina took short walks in the
woods, and brought back flowers and sprays of
foliage with which they made gay the dingy rooms
of the cabin. They festooned the walis, they gar-
landed the branching deer-horns that Ned had hung
here and there, aud taking possession of some worn-
out earthen pots that had hitherto lain about the
little door-yard, they turned them into vases in which
they placed living shrubs and plants, and thus the
old cabin, as if touched by the hand of magic, grew
into a pleasant little home, where a whole summer
could have been agreeably spent.

Chauncey, who was still quite feeble from the
effect of his injuries, was compelled to spend a
greater portion of his time lyingon his couch. He
often awoke from little day-time naps that frequent-
ly overcame him, to find upon his pillow a fresh bou-
quet of wild-flowers very tastefully arranged.
Having nothing else to do, he fell to wondering
which it was, Isolina or his sister, that thus took ad-
vantage of his sealed eyes to show him this delicate
kindness.

In order to settle this question to his own satisfac-
tion, he began to feign sleep, and very soon he was
able to catch the soft little hand as it slyly deposited
the flowers. It tried hard to escape, but he held it
fast and imprinted on it a hasty kiss; then, looking
up, his eyes met those of Isolina De Martinez.

Well, he got no more fiowers for his pains, but the
senorita’s cheeks after that wore a richer tinge, and
her sweet, dark eyes grew more tender day by day.

Wallace Upton would have given much for a suffi-
cient excuse to take the hand of Maggie in his own;

 

yet he could see that she started and blushed, just a

little pink glow, whenever he entered the cabin.

Thus time sped until one evening Mart and Upton
returned from a visit to some of their Bexar friends,
aud reported that they had at last got a clew to the
location of Rock Tavern. This was joyous news to
Chauncey and his sister. It now seemed possible
that Mr. Lamar could by some means he reached and
rescued. If this could be done, if that little family
could again be united, if they could return to their
sweet old home in Mobile, how happy they could be!

Chauncey very strongly resolved in his own heart
that whenever he returned to that old home, he
er try very hard to take the Senorita [solina with
him.

What did Maggie think? Nothing, only her heart
went pit-a-pat!

As for Wallace Upton, he thought he would most
likely return to New York. Of course he would go
by way of Mobile!

Wandering Mart sat down on a stool and rubbed
his forehead. He saw that the hardest trials were
yet to come.

That night, when they were all seated in one of the
cheerful rooms of the cabin, there came aloud rap-
ping at the door. Ned, who was sitting back in one
corner of the room, got up and opened the door with
the air of one who asks himself. ‘‘Who comes next?”

A tall, stout man, dressed as a hunter, carrying
pistols in his belt and a heavy rifle on his shoulder,
stood on the threshold.

‘Massy Walgrave, for suah:” cried Ned.
in, Massy Walgrave, come in!”

Mart and Upton sprang joyfully to their feet at
the sound ef that name. This was the man they
wished to see.

Walgrave entered the cabin, glanced wonderingly
at the ladies, then took the extended hands of his
two friends. It was a warm greeting, as of men
who trust each other fully and who are really glad to
meet.

“Allow me to present Colonel Walgrave,’’ said
Upton, turning to the ladies and Chauncey, and in-
troducing the stranger to each.

Walgrave bowed with all the grace of aman well
used to the best society, though at the name Lamar
something like an uneasy start was just observable
in his strong, calm face.

“The young gentleman and his sister,’ continued
Upton, glancing at Chauncey and Maggie, ‘‘reside in
Mobile. They are just out of the hands of Flynn,
who decoyed them to Texas to see their father Mr.
John Lamar, whom he represented to be in a dying
condition.”

“And where is their father?” asked Walgrave,
quickly, in a tone that indicated something more
than a mere passing interest.

“T have every reason to believe that he is at a
place in the hills of the Guadalupe called Rock
Tavern, the headquarters of Flynn’s League,” re-
plied Upton.

The young man then proceeded to relate in a brief
way all the principal circumstances already des-
cribed in our former chapters.

Walgrave listened attentively to this rehearsal of
the strange and trying adventures through which
Mr. Lamar and his children had passed, but his coun-
tenance was now utterly inscrutable, and no one
present could have guessed the interest the story
had for him.

“Come

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE COUNTY PAIR.

By NEIL BURGESS.

(“THE COUNTY FAIR” was commenced in No. 46.
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

Back

 

CHAPTER XXII.
SALLIE LEARNS SOMETHING.

That afternoon Miss Abby called Tom to her, and
in the presence of the others first upbraided him for
his treatment of the colt, which had spoiled its tem-
per; then insisted that he should feed it more, and
finally that he must ride it no more.

She said nothing of her ride of the morning, and
none of the others spoke of it, although they ex-
changed glances, for both Sallie and Joel had heard
of it.

Tom said ‘Yes, ma’am” to everything, and Miss
Abby retired, satisfied that in the future the colt
would behave himself.

Tom however had his scheme too much at heart to
give it up for fear of a scolding, and he kept up his
training, though using more caution now. And the
more he trained the more satisfied he was that the
colt was a good one.

He was not willing to let it go at that, however, so
he contrived to get away to Burlington, where he
learned the names of most of the entries and what

they had done, and he returned home feeling more
sure than ever that not one of them could beat his
colt.

Thesummer had gone, and the county fair was not far
offnow. Timeforfinalentry and paymentof entrance
fee was still nearer, and now Tom found himself in a
serious quandary. Where was he to get the neces-
sary twenty-five dollars? He had two-~dollars, and
Taggs had thirty-nine cents, which she was willing
to give in the good cause, but these were despairingly
tar from the amount needed.

What to do was the burden in these days of many
an anxious conference between the two.

“Why not ask Sallie to help us?” said Taggs, time
after time.

“No, I won’t let her have anything to do with it:
She will be sure to blab it all to that Joel, and he’s
just a marplot.”

But Taggs insisted that Sallie would not do any-
thing of the sort, and Tom was half won over to take
Sallie into his confidence when it happened that he
could not very well help himself, and he opened to
her his scheme.

It happened in this way: He had just been giving
the colt his gallop, and had stolen in with him, as he
thought, unobserved, when Sallie, who had seen him
from her window, came running indignantly out.

“Tim, you shall not abuse that colt so,” she cried
out. “Justlook at him! Why he’s panting, and as
wet as he canbe. It’s downright cruel, so itis, and
yeou shan’t ride him any more. [’m going to tell
Miss Abby. Haow can yeou be so wicked? I thought
yeou was so kind to animals!’

“Oh, don’t get so huffy,” said Tom, sulkily. “I
didn’t hurt the horse and ain’t a goin’ ter.”

“Well, ’'m going to tell Miss Abby unless yeou
promise me not to do it again.”

“No you won’t neither,” said Taggs.

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t Sallie; will she, Tim ?”’

“T don’t know what she’ll do.”

“Well, I will tell,” insisted Sallie, stoutly.

“Why don’t you tell her, Tim,” said Taggs.

“Oh, that won’t do no good,” said Tom, who wanted
to seem something of a martyr.

“Well, ’m going to tell her, anyhow,” said Taggs.
“Say, Sallie, don’t you want Miss Abby to pay off that
mortgage to old Hammerhead ?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, then, you’d better keep still about Tim, fer
he’s goin’ to do it.”

“Tim goin’ to do it!” was the incredulous ery.

“Yes, Tim; but he wants you to help him—don’t
you, Tim ?”’

“Oh, she won't help us.
talkin’ ?” answered Tim.

“T will help you if I can, Tim—you know that; but
I don’t see what you can do.”

“Tell her, Tim,” urged Taggs.

“Well, then,’ said Tim, “I ain’t goin’ to do it alone.
Cold Molasses is a goin’ to do it.”’

f oe Molasses! How can he help?’ demanded
allie.

“At the county fair. There are to be races there,
and I want to enter him and win the prize. You see,
T ain’t got money enough, and I want you to let us
have some of yours. Will you?”

“But I don’t understand. The mortgage is nearly
two thousand dollars, I think. Did yeou know
that ?’

: “Of course. But the prize is three thousand dol-
ars.

“Three thousand! Oh, Tim!”

“And he can just walk away from the whole lot o’
them. I’ve been to Burlington, an’ know the horses
that’s to run, an’ I tell you, Cold Molasses can beat
the hulllot. All I want’s enough money to enter
him. You see, Sallie, was brought up on a race-
course, and know horses just like you know flowers.
I saw he was a good ’un the minute I lay eyes on
him. Then when I heard about the mortgage, and
the prize at the fair, I made up my mind that was the
little game. So I went to work and trained him, and
you can bet your sweet life Cold Molasses takes the
deck. Will you help us, Sallie ?’

“But Miss Abby would never let him run.”

“Bah!” said Tom. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to ask her.”

“But she doesn’t believe in racing. I’m afraid she
wouldn’t touch the money if it was got in that way.”

“Rats! She’s goin’ to put a quilt in for a prize,
ain’t she? Well, what’s the difference? Don’t you
fret your gizzard about that. You show her three
thousand dollars in one hand and an order to let old
Hammerhead have the farm in the other hand, and
see how long she’ll stop to pick. And, Sallie, Cold
Molasses can do the trick, don’t you forget that.”’

“Oh, Tim!’ cried Sallie, quite’ carried away by
Tim’s confidence, “if yeou only could save the farm
for Miss Abby! Yeou don’t any of yeou know as well
as I do how it’s worryin’ her. Dear, good Miss Abby!
'd give my right hand—both hands—to help her.
Yeou shall have every cent I have, if it’s necessary.

 

So what’s the use 0’

 

but Maggie, the shy little elf, kept him far off, while

Haow much do yeou want?’

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“Twenty-five dollars! Why, all I’ve got is six. Oh,
dear! what makes it vost so much? Can’t yeou enter
him and promise to pay after yeou’ve won ?”’

“Well, [ should say not. No, sir, the money’s got
to be paid down before the colt can enter.”

“And ain’t there anything we can do?’

coe got two dollars, aud that, with yours, makes
eigh 2

“And ny thirty-nine cents,” said Taggs.

“ll tell you what,” said Sallie, coming out of a
brown study, ‘I'll ask Otis Tucker. He’ll let me have
itif [ tell him what I want it for. May I tell him?’

“Tf you think he won’t blab.’

‘He won’t. Oh,Tim! I’m so glad Miss Abby won't
have to be turned off the farm. I don’t know what
she would do if she had to leave the farm.” § as

“Well, she won't leave it. Don’t you be afraid. I
know a horse when I see one. I’ve had my leg over
many’s the flyer, but he takes the cake, he does.”

“Tim,” said Sallie, questioningly, “have yeou
really been much on the race-track ?”’

“T should smile.”

“Did yeou ever come across a little fellow by the
name of Tommy Greenaway ?”

“Tommy Greenaway? Let me see! A little chap,
lookin’ something like me?’

“Yes, yes.”

“Why, I think I did know him once. Let me see!
What became of him?” and Tom looked asif search-
ing his memory. “Oh, yes,I know; he was put in
jail for stealin’ a horse.”

“T don’t believe any such thing, Tim, and it’s real
wicked of yeou to say so,” and the tears came to
Sallie’s eyes.

“Well, it’s so anyhow,” said Tom.

“T don’t believe it. He was my brother, and I know
Tommy would never do such a thing.”

“No more he would,” said Taggs, full of sympathy
for Sallie. “Shame on you, Tim, for sayin’ so. I’mn
just goin’ to give the whole thing away, I am, for
tellin’ Sallie such a story.”

“Well, he was,” insisted Tom.

“But you know very wellhe didn’t steal the horse,”
said Taggs.

“Why, Taggs, did yeou know him, too?”
Sallie.

“Know him!
Tommy.
time.”

Sallie turned to Tom with a face in which belief
and fear were struggling.

“Tt’s so,” said Tom.

“Oh, Tommy !” sobbed Sallie, ‘‘why didn’t yeou tell
me before? Naow I know what made me like yeou
so much, Yes, I know it’s yeou naow,” and she
threw her arms around him and kissed him over and
over.

“Why didn’t you answer my letter?’ demanded
Tom, as glad of Sallie’s tears and kisses as could be,
but, boy-like, wishing to seem above them.

“Oh, Tommy! and yeou never put any address
in it!’

“So I didn’t,” said Tom. “And I thought all the
time that mebbe you’d heard [ was in jail an’ was
ashamed to write to me.”

“Tn jail, Tommy! Really ?”’
we was innocent, Sallie, so don’t worry about

lat.’

“Look here, Tim, Miss Abby told yeou not to ride
that colt any more,”’ suddenly broke in the voice of
Joel, pitched in very harsh tones.

“Did she?” said Tom, saucily.

“Yes, she did, and I want yeou to understand
yeou’ve got to stop it.”

‘“‘He’ll do just as he pleases, Joel Bartlett,’ said
Sallie, quickly.

“Oh, all right,” said Joel, iit a tone in which a
broken heart and green jealousy were equally mixed,
“if you stand up for him against Miss Abby, I ain't
no more to say. Only I’ve done my duty,” and he
walked hurriedly away.

“Joel,” cried Sallie, hurrying after him, ‘wait a
minute!”

But Joel was too deeply hurt to listen to her, and
with a dogged shake of his head he went out into the
tield and cut corn like a man possessed.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DAY BEFORE THE FAIR.

Sallie’s interests as a sister were rather inimical to
her interests as a sweetheart; or, more correctly,
she and Joel together made them so. She tried once
and again to explain to Joel, but he met her with so
much frigid politeness and haughtiness that she be-
came angry in her turn and would make no more ex-
planation.

So gradually they grew further and further apart,
and more miserable each day. Only Sallie had the
double consolation of knowing that she had found
her brother, and that Miss Abby’s mortgage was cer-
tainly to be paid off. For, bless her heart! she had
no doubt whatever that Cold Molasses would win, as
Tommy said, ‘“‘with hands down.”

She had early waylaid Otis and led him to the
barn, where Tom and Taggs were waiting, and there
had told him with all her enthusiasm about the
scheme.

“Don’t yeou see, Otis,’”’ she had exclaimed, “if yeou
will let us have the money we need, Miss Abby’s
mortgage will be paid off in time. Why, I can see it
all just as plain’—Tom had described it so often to
her. “There will be all the horses, their coats all
shining, prancing and dancing about on the turf,
with the jockeys in their gay colors on their backs,
waiting for the word to go. When that comes, away
they go, with Tommy leading on Cold Molosses,
and keeping a length between him and the others
all the time re

‘An’ then droppin’ behind and comin’ in last,” in-
terrupted Otis, dryly.

“No, he won’t; will yeou, Tommy ?”

“Indeed I won’t, Otis,” said Tommy, in answer to
this appeal. ‘“He’s the best colt entered, and he’s
bound to win!’

“And, anyhow,” said Sallie, ‘“‘ain’t if worth some-
thing to try to help Miss Abbey? I didn’t think
yeou’d be the one to hold back, Otis.” ;

This was an argument Otis could not bear up
against, so he presently agreed to get the needful
money, and did so. After that he was drawn into
the same whirlpool of enthusiasm as the others, and
before long was seeing the victory won just as often
as Sallie and Taggs.

Tom believed he could win, but he had ridden so
many races that he was quite aware that sometimes
it was not possible to pick out the winner.

But the race for the three thousand dollars was
not the only secret discussed in the barn, in which
neither Miss Abby nor Joel were sharers. Sallie and

 

cried

Why, Sallie, Tim’s your brother
Miss Abby an’ me’s known it this long

 

| Tages had conceived a plan, which they considered

a wonderfully good one, of making Miss Abby happy
even in the improbable event of the failure of Cold
Molasses to win.

Tages had said:

“Why doesn’t Otis marry Miss Abby ?”’

“T wish he would,” said Sallie. ‘‘She’d be happy
then, no matter what happened.”

“Well, why don’t he?”

“Too bashful to speak,” said Sallie, thinking with
a sigh of the time Joel had spoken to her, and of how
he was so distant now.

“Huh!” said Taggs, with contempt, “I don’t see
what he has to be bashful about. If a feller can
court a gal fer fourteen year, I don’t see as it’s much
more to ask her to marry.”

“Let’s put him up to it,” said Sallie.

“Let’s,” agreed Taggs.

So the two set to work to force poor Otis to do the
thing he had been on the verge of doing any time
these fourteen years. It was hard work. He was
willing, but hadn’t the courage. Of course they did
not urge him outright to speak to Miss Abby, nor
did he admit that he was too bashful, but that was
the amount of it.

Finally Sallie had a bright idea, and, after getting
the approval of Tom and Taggs, proceeded to put it
into operation, to the consternation of Otis at first,
and afterward to his secret delight. Indeed so de-
lighted was he that he frequented Miss Abby’s barn
- much that she began to wonder what he was doing
there.

This wonder led to sufficient curiosity to make her

vatch a little closer than her unhappiness about the
mortgage would otherwise have made her, and the
result of the watching was that she finally detected
Tom in bringing Cold Molasses in from a ride.

It was then the day before the country fair, and
she had just sat down after spending the day over
the stove, preparing eatables for the party to eat
while at the fair. She had seen Otis drive in, and
put his horse up, andthen go from the stable to the
barn. She had sent Taggs for some water, and Taggs
had not returned. Sallie had stolen from the house
not long before, and Miss Abby had no doubt what-
ever that she too was at the barn.

Miss Abby was not one to linger long over a doubt.
She threw her sun-bonnet on her head and went
directly to the barn. They were all there, and at the
moment Sallie had her arms around the neck of Otis,
and was telling him that he was a dear.

Miss Abby stood watching them like a statue of
Nemesis, though in fact there was nothing of Nemesis
evenin her thoughts. Tom was the first to see her,
as he stood in the box-stall by the side of the colt,
rubbing him down. He whistled. They all turned,
and fell apart like a bundle of twigs untied.

“Don’t let me disturb yeou,” said Miss Abby, with
delicate sarcasm. Then, with a sudden- change,
“Great suds an’ seeds! Didn’t I say that colt wasn’t
to be rode any more ?”’

“But, Miss Abby,” said Tom.

“It won’t make any difference,” said Sallie, trying
to lighten Tom’s scolding.

“Oh, it don’t,” cried Miss Abby. ‘Joel Bartlett!”

“Yes, ma’am,’”’ answered Joel, coming in at that
moment.

‘Didn’t I say that nobody wasn’t to ride that colt?
and here has Tim been a ridin’ him till the poor
eritter can’t stand hardly. Naow what I want to
know is am [ a goin’ to have my way or not?”

“Tain’t my fault,” said Joel, sulkily. “If I say
anything, then Sallie shuts me up, and says Tim can
ride if he wants to.”

“Wa-al, I won’thave the critter killed before my
eyes. Poor thing! Jest lookwat him! Only a little
while ago he was as fat as butter. Look at him
naow! Why he’s so poor yeou can caount his ribs.

 

xm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 22>

VOL. 45—No. 4,

=

An’ why yeou, Tim, should want to treat him so bad
I don’t see ; fer, my goodness! yeou seem to be fond
enough of him—never satisfied ’nless yeou’re cardin’
or manicurin’ him. But, great suds an’ seeds! I
I don’tcare whether yeou like him or not, I won’t
have nim starved. Joel Bartlett, I want yeou to see
that that colt’s turned out in the pasture this
very night, an’ there he stays till he’s tit to look at
again. So there!’

‘“‘But, Miss Abby,” cried Tom, ‘“‘we want hira to take
us to the county fair to-morrow.”

“Take Dan.”

‘‘He’s sprung a tendon, and can’t walk hardly.”

“Take Sal, then. My stars! [ ain’t a goin’ to be
dictated to by nobody.”

‘We'd never get there with Sal,” grumbled Tom.

“Wa-al, I don’t know as I care muchif we don’t.
But this I do know, that colt goes to pasture this
afternoon.”
yey we can’t go to to the fair, that’s all,” said

om.

“Ah, Miss Abby,” coaxed Sallie, who generally
could manage the good lady. °

“Then we'll borrow Otis’ horse. We can haye
yeour horse, can’t we, Otis ?”’ said Miss Abby.

“Why, certainly——” began Otis, but he got no
further forall of a sudden there came a hail of rakes
and pitchtorks on the barn floor, which drowned not
only his words but his ideas for a moment.

Then before he could begin again, and while Miss
Abby was ascertaining the cause of the downfall,
Sallie and Taggs got at his ear and whispered such
things into it that when Miss Abby turned to hin, he
drawled out:

i: “Why, yeou see, Miss Abby, I’d let yeou have my
orse——”

“That’s all I want to know,” interrupted Miss
Abby, making no doubt that he was saying yes in a
roundabout way.

“Only I can’t,” shouted Otis, emphatically.

“What?” exclaimed Miss Abby, as if she could not
believe her ears.

“’m sorry to say my horse is engaged,” repeated
Otis, doggedly.

Then Miss Abby put her apron to her eyes as if to
ery; but suddenly changing her mind, just as every-
body was making ready to console her, she turned
first upon Taggs and put a flea in her ear, as the say-
ing is, and then one in Tom’s, and then one in
Sallie’s, and lastly one in Otis’.

They fled, one and all, leaving the angry spinster
in possession of the field, but truly with a sore heart,
for it seemed to her, then, as if her very best friends
had deserted her.

After they were gone she did what she would not
do when they were there. She put her face in her
apron and let the slow tears trickle down her cheeks.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
MORTGAGE OR MARRIAGE ONCE MORE.

The prospect of losing her farm bore harder on
Miss Abby than even Sallie could guess, for there
was something heroic at the bottom of the nature of
the New England spinster, and she would not carry
more of her sorrow than she could help in her face
to distress those who were dependent upon her. For
that was where the sharpest sting was—that not only
herself, but those others, would have to suffer.

She was thinking of this at that moment, and won-
dering for the thousandth time if there was no way
out of the difficulty.

“Good-afternoon, Miss Abhy!”

Miss Abby hastily dried her tears and looked up.
There stood Solon Hammerhead, whittling a stick
and looking around the barn with an air in which it
seemed to,Miss Abby there was already an air of
proprietorship.

“Couldn’t | have been spared this?” she mur-
mured to herself, with a groan.

“Don’t seem to feel very peart, Miss Abby,” said
Hammerhead, after a moment of silence.

“No,” answered she, shortly.

*To-morrer’s fair-day,” said Solon.

“Yes,”

“And my note falls due.”

*“Wa-al?”’

“Wa-al, Is’pose yeou’re ready to meet it, with in-
terest.”

“Fer the land’s sake!’ exclaimed Miss Abby, start-
ing up wrathfully. ‘Is that what yeou came oyer
hereto say? Solon Hammerhead, yeou’ve done nothin’
but snoop around here fer the last six months, jest as
if you was afraid the farm’d run away. I’ve stood it
jest as long as I’m goin’ to, an’ I want yeou to under-
stand it, too. This farm’s mine, naow, anyhow; an’
there’s jest one thing I don’t want on it, an’ that
thing is yeou, Solon Hammerhead. Yeou can walk
yeourself off hum, an’ not come back here again till
the law gives yeou the right, if it ever does. My
land! yeou’ve nigh abaout set me crazy with yeour
nosin’ and crawlin,’ an’ Linvite yeou to make yeour-
self scarce on this farm.”

“All. right,” gasped the insulted. Hammerhead ;
‘-yeou’ll pay fer this, yeou’ll pay fer it!”

‘Like’s not I will,’ retorted Miss Abby.

 

“And yeou’ll pay me my money, or give me the
farm, too,’”’ went on Hammerhead, with a slap of one
hand into the other. ;

“Wait till the day comes,” said Miss Abby, ‘an’ Ill
pay yeou the money or get off the farm. All I want,”
and she choked a little, “is time enough to get my
things together.”

*Yeour things !” screamed Hammerhead. ‘What
things? Yeou sha’n’t touch a thing on this place—
nota pin! By the terms of the mortgage everything
onit’s mine. Don’t yeou so much as take a pin off—
not a pin !”

“Why, good land! yeou don’t mean to say——”

“T mean to say the mortgage covers everything.”

This was so overwhelming that Miss Abby forgot
her anger at him and fairly broke down.

“Not everything, Solon ?’

“Everything, to the clothes on yeour back,” said
Solon, exaggerating just a little for the sake of effect.
“But naow look a here, Miss Abby, what’s the use
o’ yeou holdin’ aout? Jest say the word, an’ there’ll
be no more talk o’ mortgage. Be Mrs. Hammerhead,
an? 9

“Not if I have to beg through the village,” said
she. ‘‘Notif I have to die in the ditch, Solon Ham-
merhead. Naow yeou git off this place, or I’ll call
the men an’ have them kick yeou off, or somethin’.”’

She looked so very much like,doing it without wait-
ing for the men to come, that Solon took counsel of
his fears and shuffled off, leaving Miss Abby to sit
down on a corn basket and declare herself the most
miserable of women.

But she was not to remain alone with her grief.
Her friends were not nearly as thoughtless of her as
she might think. Tom and Sallie, with the co-opera-
tion of Otis, had arranged with the neighbors fora
husking-bee, and as she sat there forlorn, and be-
lieving herself forgotten, the whole party arrived
together, and, headed by Taggs, trooped noisily to
the barn.

Miss Abby heard the noise and looked ont to see
the cause. She knew in a moment what it meant,
and, hospitable as she was, could not help wishing
the neighbors in Jericho rather than there at that
moment. She put the best face she could on it, how-
ever, and greeted the hilarious party with as much
warmth as she could command.

“Good land! Haow can we feed them ?” she whis-
pered to Sallie.

“They’ve brought their own vittles,” said Sallie.

Everybody knew Miss Abby’s troubles, and there
was a determination on the part of the visitors to
make her forget them for a few hours at least. One
of them called out to Otis to make a start, and he did
by plunging into the sport with a wild recklessness
that gave a tone to the whole affair.

He caught up a red ear and whisked the husk off in
ajiffy. Everybody knows the privilege of the finder
of a red ear—to present it to whomever he pleases
and demand a kiss in payment.

There was a shout when Otis held up his red ear.
The girls giggled, and Otis turned/fiery red; but he
had made up his mind to it, and, without a visible
tremor, he threw the ear into Miss Abby’s lap, and
the next moment had stolen the lawful kiss.

Miss Abby had waited fourteen years for that.
She turnea red, and bridled, and tried to say
‘“nshaw!” but she was mightily pleased, and pres-
ently had forgotten there was any such person as
Hammerhead in the world.

There were no end of red ears in that lot of corn,
and the young people enjoyed the husking im-
mensely. All but Sallie, who, watching covertly,
saw Joel take up and east scornfully aside several
red ears. However, it was some comfort that he did
not use the red ears at all, since he would not give
them to her.

While the husking was going on the musicians
drew out their instruments and began to play. Then
there was singing by some of the members of the
choir; and after that Taggs was called on for one
of her New York songs, and she, nothing loath, gave
them one she had heard at some temple of amuse-
ment on her beloved Bowery, and, what was more,
accompanied it with a dance, which made those
country folk stare in wonder.

Then some one, who had grown tired of husking,
or who thought enough corn had been husked for the
trouble they had given, proposed a country reel.
Miss Abby suggested that there might be some who
didn’t believein dancing; but they all protested that
they did, and so the double line was formed.

Otis danced with Miss Abby, of course, and no one
of the spectators was ever able to decide which per-
formed the most wonderful evolutions; for even at
the last, when Miss Abby stepped on an ear of corn
andimmediately thereafter sat down on the floor with
startling emphasis, Otis followed her example and
sat staring into her eyes.

Of course Miss Abby scolded him for his awkward-
ness, but it was done graciously after all, and Otis
was strangely gay. Miss Abby noticed that. She
could not help it, for Otis was not usually hilarious,
and any change was naturally noticeable. Miss
Abby. indeed was inclined to think that. he was
rather more daring than he had been for fourteen
years, and it gave her a very queer feeling.

Sallie showed a surprising knowledge of human
nature at this time. She approached Miss Abby and
whispered, coaxingly: F

“We are going to the fair, ain’t we?”

To which Miss Abby’s beatific smile was sufficient
answer.

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

   
   

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

        
  
  
   
  
 
  
  
  
     
  
  
   
 
  
    
  
   
  
  
  
 
  
   
  
   
 
 
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
   
 
  
    
  
    
  
   
  
  
    
  
   
 
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
    
   
    
   
  
   
   
  
   
  
 
  
 
  
   
  
  
  
  
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
   
 
 
  
  
   
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
    
  
  
  
 
 
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
   
  
    
   
   
   
    
   
     
   
  
   
   
  
      
  
  
    
  
  
   
   
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
     
    
  
    
  
   
  
   
    
    
   
  
    
  
  
   
  
 
   
   
  
  
    
    
 
      
     
       
       
         
       
     
       
       
          
 
   

 

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: VOL. 45—No, 4,

«casa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

“And, Miss Abby, won’t yeou tell Joel not to put
Cold Molasses out to pasture. We want to take him
to the fair to-morrow. Ah, won’t yeou, Miss Abby?”

“Fer the land’s sake! yes, child, yes, if yeou want
me to.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

HIS EARLY SIN;

The Romance of the White Horse

By HERO STRONG,
Author of “The Manager's Favorite,” “The Cap-
tain’s Orphan Daughter,” “‘The Lost Bride.”

Back

 

 

(“His EARLY SIN’ was commenced in No. 1.
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER VII.
THE MAIDEN’S ANSWER.

*<T flutter in thrall, and so do all,
Ye have bonds ye cannot escape,
With only a little wider range,
And bars of another shape.”
—ELIZA COOK.

Left to herself, Aileen Lad only to weep and pray.

She felt how more than useless it would be to plead
with her rude captors, and some subtle sense of pride
within her revolted at the idea of humbling herself
to entreat Captain Fairfax for her freedom.

She was treated with a sort of rough politeness by
the officers of the ship as wellas by the men, but in
Jaques only had she the slightest confidence.

Captain Fairfax made no secret of the admiration
he felt for his fair passenger, and indeed the most
disagreeable feature of her captivity was the cap-
tain’s love making.

Aileen passed a great deal of her time in wonder-
ing over the cause of her removal from England.
That she was the victim of a plot she readily under-
stood; but who could have originated that plot she
could not imagine. She had never wronged a living
soul, and why should any person be wicked enough
to thus conspire against her liberty ?

She thought of Frederick with brimming eyes.
She pictured to herself his grief and despair at re-
turning home and finding her missing; she thought
of Bianca and Lady Edith, and wondered if stately
Lord Cleve himself, who had always been kind to
her, would not institute some measures to discover
her whereabouts.

The next time Fairfax allowed her to go on deck,
Aileen questioned him.

“Will you not tell me why I am here?” she coax-
ingly asked.

“It’s part of the bargain that [keep a still tongue in
my head, my lady, but, by my troth, you look so
lovely that Iam strongly tempted to tell you., Give
me a kiss, my beauty, end I will do so.”

Aileen drew back in nervous affright, and laid her
hand on the arm of Jaques, who was performing
some duty near by, as if seeking protection.

“By the holy rood! but she is afraid of me!” cried
the captain, angrily. “‘And she makes fine eyes at
one of my seamen! Ho, thar, you varlet! be scarce
here, or I’ll give you what you will remember!” and
lifting a marline-spike, Fairfax brought it down
across the shoulders of Jaques.

A dark red flush stained the sailor’s cheek as he
felt the blow, and Aileen screamed in horror.

Fairfax laughed.

“T have selected you for Mrs. Fairfax,” said he,
complacently pulliug his beard. ‘I have been a
bachelor too long, I trow. And having thus selected
you I like not your ogling my sailors. If I see aught
of the kind again I will stretch him up on the yard
arm, to cool his passion !””

Shivering with horror as she was at this man’s
vaunted cruelty, Aileen yet felt rising within her a
spirit of daring hitherto unknown in her gentle na-
ture, and if at that time Captain Fairfax had tried
her too far, he might have been brought to regret it.

“We will be married, dear,” he said, confidently, ‘“‘as
soon as we get through with this cursed bad spell of
weather; and when you are my wife, Aileen, you
must let the roses grow on your cheeks. I don’t like
moping women. To-morrow, if the breeze slackens,
Ishall visit the admiral’s ship and bring off the par-
son. So sleep well to-night that you may be fair and
fresh for the bridal.”

He stooped and kissed her hand, and the spot
burned like fire long afterward.

As he lifted his head a strange sail in sight was
announced by the lookout. The Firebrand slack-
ened sail, for the one object of Drake’s expedition
was plunder, and Captain Fairfax was heart and
soul with the object.

The stranger came slowly up, evidently unsuspect-
ing, and proved to be as Fairfax had supposed, a
Spanish galloon on its return to Spain from South
America. These ships usually went in fleets, with
an armed vessel to protect them; but the bad
weather frequently separated them, and this un-
fortunate galloon had wandered from its convoy
three days before.

Without hesitation Fairfax attacked her, and a
short, fierce conflict ensued. The Spaniards were
well armed and fought with desperation, and the
crew of the Firebrand were reckless. characters,
caring for nothing so much as the gold and silver
with which they knew the galloon to be loaded.

The fight became hand to hand—the vessels lay
side by side, and half the crew of the Firebrand were
on board the galloon. The decks grew slippery with
biood, and the mad shrieks of the living mingled
hoarsely with the faint groans of the dying.

Crouched upon her knees in her little cabin, Aileen
heard the sounds of strife, and felt the mighty throes
of . ship as volley after volley of musketry was
fired.

At length the galloon surrendered, and the captain
eame on board the Firebrand to beg of Fairfax the
lives of such of his men as were sfill living. The
treasure he might take freely, but the men’s lives he
besought him to spare.

Fairfax went down into Aileen’s cabin, and roughly
lifted her from her knees to her feet.

“Quit sniveling!” said he, brutally, for the smell
of blood had acted on him as it does on a wild ani-
mal. “If you are to be a warrior’s bride you must
get used to the smell of gunpowder! Come on deck,
now; I want to show you how the sailors of Queen
Elizabeth deal with the foes of England !”

He dragged her on deck, for faint and terrified she
tried vainly to flee back to her hiding-place. The
fearful spectacle sickened her—she turned faint and
grasped the arm of Fairfax for support.

The Spanish captain, a handsome, frank-faced
young man of two or three-and-twenty, came for-
ward, and dropped upon one knee before her.

“Signora,” he said, in his own mellow and musical
language, “will-you not plead with the senor cap-
tain for the lives of my poor sailors? In Spain they
have many of them wives and children! Oh, for their
sakes, entreat him to be merciful! Take the gold and
the silver, but leave us our lives!”

“Yes, I will leave you your lives!’ said Fairfax,
smiling a sinister smile. “Go you to your ship, Don
Captain Skipper, and your request shall be granted.”

Then he gave a few rapid orders to his first-mate.

The treasure was quickly conveyed on board the
Firebrand, and then, with yells of wild fury, the
British sailors scuttled the galloon in twenty places,
and taking to their boats left the Spanish craft to its
fate.

And putting all sail on the Firebrand, the inhuman
captain hurried away. In vain Aileen begged and
entreated the obdurate monster to save the men.
He only laughed at her dismayed distress ; and when
the galloon went down stern foremost, in the course
of half an hour, those on board of her sent up to
heaven a shriek which rang in Aileen’s ears for
mouths afterward.

And still these English called themselves gentle-
men, and were proud of their blood and quite as
jealous of their honor as if they had such a posses-
sion of which to be jealous.

The Firebrand now joined company with the other
ships of the fleet, four or five in number; and on
board the admiral’s ship a banquet was given to
Fairfax to congratulate him on his good luck in cap-
turing the first prize.

The galiant captain was absent from his command
all that day, and at night he returned so hopelessly
drunk that he was not able to trouble anybody the
next day.

But the day after he renewed his suit with Aileen.
Of love he was completely incapable—love in its
highest and purest sense was utterly unknown to his
nature; but he was a man of fierce passions, and the
beauty and grace of Aileen had roused these into
activity.

The more Aileen saw of him the more bitterly she
detested him, and realizing that matters must before
long come to a crisis, she had prepared herself as
well as she could for an emergency.

She had secured an old pistol from the ship’s
arms, and loaded it with a charge sufficient for half
a dozen pistols, and this weapon she kept constantly
about her person.

The feeling of the cold iron resting against her
breast, for it was there she had hidden the pistol, in-
spired her with courage. For if the worst came, she
could die.

“Tam arich man, Aileen,” said the captain, strok-
ing his beard caressingly as one strokes.a cat, being
particular not to rub the fur the wrong way, “or L
shall be, when this expedition is ended, and I go
home with my treasure. I love you! I swear by all
that issacred, you might make a good Christian of
me if youchose! Marry me, and I will make a lady
of you, and after this voyage is done I will lead the

 

“T would sooner die than marry you!” said Aileen,
ealmly. “I am not afraid of death, but [ shrink from
disgrace.”

“Dissrace!” roared the captain. ‘Do you éall it
disgrace to wed with Allan Fairfax? Indeed, my
fair dame, you may count your stars lucky, that I
offer you marriage. It’s not every man would stop
for that. ButI love you, and will deal fairly with
you, if you will submit peaceably. Andif you ever
hope to escape, and make your way back to that
vhite-livered lover of yours, you might as well know
that if you flung yourself at his feet he would spurn
you in contempt.”

“Frederick spurn me!” she cried, in surprise. “It
is false! And how,I pray you, know you aught of
Frederick?”

“Oh, [have heard the precious story, though, by
my soul, I believe I was sworn to secrecy. But there
shall be no secrets between man and wife—eh, my
love? And so I don’t mind telling you that my Lord
Cleve had other views for his son, an’ spirited you
out of the way to give my Lord Frederick a chance
to forget your pretty face. And to help him forget,
the story is to go out that you elope i with one
Richard North, who in due time is to swear to that
fact in the hearing of Frederick himself.”

“Eloped! It is afoul lie! Iwas abducted! Vil-
lainously abducted!”

“Yes, my dear. You and I know about that; but
my Lord Frederick is not so well supplied with in-
formation. It was part of the plot that he should
not be.” '
Aileen felt faint and dizzy, as a realizing sense of
the whole thing crept over her. She had counted so
much on Frederick’s making efforts to seek her out—
nay, she had even indulged a vague hope that Lord
Cleve himself would lend his aid in rightiug the
wrongs of a defenseless girl who had been some time
in his family, and to whom he had always spoken
with fatherly kindness.

Now all these hopes were crushed out, but it was
bitterer than all to know that Frederick—Frederick
whom she loved with all her heart and soul, and to
whom she would be constant until death—would be-
lieve her false and guilty, and would remember her
only with scorn and detestation.

She was silent from utter inability to speak—so
many conflicting emotions came surging over her.
“But this is not sticking to the main point,” pur-
sued Fairflax. ‘‘[am going to marry you. Ifyou do
not love me now, you will have plenty of time to
learn how.”’

“Thavealready given you my answer,” said Aileen ;
‘‘why do you press the matter ?’

“Your answer amounts to nothing,” he said, con-
temptuously. ‘‘You are completely in my power,
and must do as I say, willing or unwilling. Come,
my beauty, curl your hair, and make yourself as
pretty as possible. I have already sent my boat’s
crew for the admiral’s own chaplain.”

“T will not marry you! I will die first!’ persisted
Aileen.

“By Heaven! are you then so cold and obdurate?
T will find a way to melt you!’”’ and he was about to
seize her in his arms when she deliberately leveled
the pistol at his head.

“Come a step nearer and you
quietly.

He struck fiercely at the weapon—it was dischar,
ed, and the shot tore through the hand of Fairfa
and lodged in the wall of the cabin.

The blood ‘spurted over Ailéen’s dress, and dyed
red the floor of the cabin. Fairfax gazed on the
crimsom stream like one fascinated. <A fierce gleam
crept into his eye, his florid face grew gray with his
rage. Herejected the offers of. help from those of
his men who rushed to the spot to learn the cause of
the shot they had heard.

He wanted none of them, he said; by and by he
would have a bandage round his hand.

He planted his back against the cabin door, and
glanced at Aileen.

“You are sure that you will not be my wife?” he
said, slowly.

“T have answered you.”

“JT will give you your choice of two courses,” went
on Fairfax, with that cruel slowness which portends
so much more danger than the violent anger of a
quick-tempered man. “In tweuty-four hours we
shall be in the vicinity of a small desert island lying
within the tropics. It is called Los Regos. Some
fruit grows there, but it is a desolate place, and no
ship ever stops there. Sometimes, 1 am told, itis
visited by cannibals from the neighboring islands.
Do you comprehend 2” :

“] hear you.”

“T give you your choice. Become my wife within
the twenty-four hours, or I land you on Los Regos
and leave you there at the mercy of the cannibals, |
and that of the God to whom you make so many |
prayers. You may become my honored wife, and |
the mistress of the handsome home Iam going to
have when_I return to England, or you may die alone
on a desert island.”

“Very well. I prefer the desert island,” she de-
liberately said.

“So be it. You have chosen your own fate., I will
not trouble you until we sight Los Regos, and then I
shall be ready to escort you to your future kingdom.”
He bowed mockingly, closed and locked the door
behind him, as he went out, aud Aileen was left to
her own sad thoughts.

She knew that her fate was fixed.
no relenting with Captain Fairfax.
A desert island! she shuddered at the thought. To
die there aloue, of starvation, or perhaps to meet the
worse fate of becoming food for savages! To go out
of the world unknown to any one—to be missed by
none—to lie there amid the rank luxuriance of tropi-
eal vegetation until the sun and the rain should
bleach her bones whiter than snow, and no single
human heart to ery out after her! to pray for the re-
pose of her soul!

It was fearful to contemplate, and Aileen prayed
to God to give her strength to forget everything that
might lie before her.

Her food was brought to her—she was not allowed
to leave her cabin, and during the next two days she
saw nothing of Captain Fairfax. On the third night
she knew by the short, chopping sea, that they were
approaching land, and in a few moments there was
arap at her door, and the voice of Fairfax bade her
rise and dress herself. She was already dressed, but
she rose quickly, and wrapped herself in her cloak.

Fairfax opened the door.

“Los Regos is just under our lee. Are you ready ?”

“Quite ready.”

“Again,” said he, “I will give you your choice.
Will you stay here, on the terms I proposed, or go
yonder?’ and he pointed to the low-lying mass of
vegetation before them which marked Los Regos,
and which looked black in the midnight gloom.

“T will go.” :

He moved from her side, and gave some order to
hismen. Ina momenta boat was manned, the Fire-
brand lay to, and Aileen was in the boat, which was
rapidly propelled toward the island by four sturdy
rowers.

Fairfax sat beside her, with his hat slouched over
his eyes, but not a word was uttered by any one.

When the keel touched the shore, Aileen sprang
out, and as she did so, the boat was headed for the
ship, and in silence they left her there alone.

She stood on the shore and watched the boat until
it was lost to her view, and then she transferred her
gaze to the ship; but even that soon melted away in
a gloom of the distance, and Aileen was indeed
alone.

die!” she said,

There would be

 

CHAPTER VIII.
“NOT A DROP OF MY BLOOD RUNS IN YOUR VEINS!”

“All thoughts, all passions, all delights—
Whatever stirs this mortal frame—
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.’’—COLERIDGE.

At Cleve House all was eonfusion when it was dis-
covered that Aileen was missing. Servants were
sent hither and thither on fruitless errands, for Lord
Cleve was cunning enough to see the necessity of
pee vastly interested in finding the missing young

ady.

When Frederick returned, and learned what had
occurred, he was franti¢ with grief. He made no
secret now of his love foher, and day and night he
never gave up the search for her.

Bianca, next to Frederick, was most disheartened
by the strange disappearance of the girl. It was so
strange, if she went of her own free will, that Aileen
had not disclosed her intention to her, for the girl.
was open-hearted and confiding by nature, and had
never kept any secrets from Bianca. And Bianca,
thinking it all over for the thousandth time, was
more than ever convinced that Aileen had been the
victim of foul play. But how, or for what purpose,
was the mystery.

And when, after the lapse of a few days, it was
generally understood that Aileen had eloped with
the notorious Richard North, Bianca placed no credit
in the report, and was indignant when Lord Cleve
attempted to make her believe that the rumor was
correct,

As for Frederick, he scorned the insinuation with
mad fury, and vowed to shoot the first man who re-
peated it to his ears.

But various little suspicious circumstances began
to develop themselves, all going to show that the
theory of her elopement was correct. North, whe
had been seen once or twice around his old haunts,
boasted of the beautiful flower he had secured for his
own, and caused it to be understood that Aileen was
still in his keeping, though he made no mention of
her whereabouts. Circumstantial evidence was very
strong, and we are all the weak children of cireum-
stances.

A doubt crept into Frederick’s mind, but stiil in his
secret heart he was convinceé that Aileen was true.
His attention was now turned to hunting down
Richard North, upon whom he vowed to have re-
aopee but North was wary, and kept himself out of
the way.

Two or three days after Aileen’s disappearance,
Bianca was out for her morning ride on horseback.

She was riding slowly through a bit of woods when
the sharp clatter of a horse’s hoofs broke on her ear.

She turned quickly, and saw approaching her ata
break-neck pace a single horseman. He rode a large,

be of vast strength and endurance.
His rider was tall and well formed, and Bianca’s
heart gave a wild bound as she recognized Black
Wilbert.
Then she experienced a feeling of dismay; for,
strangely enough, she always felt disturbed at the
thought of this graceless outlaw’s peril. And that it
was great peril for a man with a price on his head to
be riding through the open country on that white
horse, whose exploits were nearly as notorious as
those of his master, was very certain.
In « moment the horse thundered to her side, and
slackened his mighty stride to the pace of her gentle
palfrey.
Wilbert removed his hat, and bowed low over the
lady’s bridal rein.
“A fair good-morning to you, my Lady Bianca,” he
said,courteously. “Ihave been looking for you. Your
good Carl told me a few days ago that you always
ride every fine 1norning.”
“And you dared to expose yourself by making in-
quiries?”’ she cried, quickly. “Oh, Mr. Wilbert, was
that wise ?”’
He laughed. Evidently her ill-concealed anxiety
was pleasant to him. All menin love like to know
that the one woman of their hearts is concerned for
their safety.
“Oh, never fear! Iam a capital masquerader. I
enlisted Carl’s attention asa basket peddler. And
led him on to do a very improper thing for a servant—
to gossip about his superiors,”
“But do you not realize that you are incurring
danger by being seen here, and on that horse, too ?”’
“T have run greaterrisks than this to secure a hare,
what would I notrisk to see you?”
He bent over her, and looked into her face. She
was blushing, and her eyes refused to meet his. Wil-
bert’s heart nearly suffocated him, and his cheek
burned with a fiery glow. It could not be thatshe
was wholly indifferent to him, else why did she blush
and tremble in his presence?
“T must ask you to forgive me for seeking you un-
invited,’ he went on, ‘but I am going away, fora
long time, perhaps, and I could not go until I had
looked in your sweet face for my good-by.”’
“Going away! Where?’
“To America, probably. The queen has authorized
Drake to plunder the kingdom’s enemies on the high
seas, and why may I not authorize myself to take the
same liberty? And if gcome back with plenty of
Spanish goldin my good ship, and lay it at the feet of
her majesty, she may be induced to pardon my past
offenses, and give me the rights of a citizen. Once I
did not care for pardon; but now I would work in
the galleys half my life to be free once more. Can
you guess why ?’
Bianca trified with her palfrey’s silken mane, and
said she certainly could not guess.
“And I have no right to tell you, now,” he said, a
littlesadly. ‘“Butif itshouid so chance that Ishould
gain my queen’s pardon, and should therefore be-
come an honest man, evenif I were no noble, may I
then come to you and tell you what is in my heart?”
She answered him so low that he just caught her
words, but he was entirely satisfied, and his face
lighted up so that Bianea thought she had never
seen any one half so handsome.
Then fearful, perhaps, of betraying herself too
much, she hastily changed the subject, and told him
of Aileen. He listened attentively, but when she
mentioned North his brow clouded.
“He is an intamous liar,” he said, hotly. ‘I know
the man, and if this girl was pure and good, as
doubtiess she must have been, being your com-
panion, she never was won by him. There is some
vile plot at the bottom of this, and when it is un-
raveled you will be surprised at the denouement.”
“But do you suspect any one ?’
“T will not say Ido. Still, my dear lady, if I were
not going away, I would enlist in the cause of this
fair Aileen, and I fancy I would show you strange
results before many weeks elapsed.”
“Thank you for your kindness; but I must go back
now. And you?’
' “JT will ride on to the coast. A little below here, in
a secluded bay, lies moored my schooner. I have
rechristened it. It was once the Fleetwing; now it
is—can you guess ?”’
Bianca flushed, but drew herself up and said of
eourse she could not guess.
“T have called it the Bianca!’ he said, with an
audacity which well became him.
Their two horses stopped. Their ways parted there.
He put out his hand and clasped hers. Nota word
was spoken. The:chest, of the outlaw swelled with
some strong emotion. Bianca was so faintand giddy
she-could hardly: keep her seat. The head of the
white horse was laid across the neck of her paltry,
and the hair of Wilbert touched and thrilled with
strange magnetism the pale cheek of Lady Bianca.
Only a moment thus, and then the white horse was
drawn back by a nervous. hand—the spur touched
bis flank, and in a cloud of dust horse and rider dis-
appeared,
And Bianca, turning her horse’s head, rode home
slowly and thoughtfully.
The search for Aileen had been abandoned directly
after North’s confession had been made—that is, by
all but Frederick. He, poor fellow, could not give
up his quest. And he sought for both North and
Aileen. But he found neither.
There was one other about Cleve House who suf-
fered, if looks could be taken as an indication. Lady
Edith grew pale and disirait; she lost her interest in
the wonderful tapestry she had been for years em-
ployed in making as an heirloom for Frederick, and
she had grown so nervous that the sudden opening
of a door, or the sound of a strange voice, made her
start and change color.
My Lady Edith, in truth, was nota very good dis-
sembler, and though all her efforts had not been
sufficient to gain from her husband any clew to
Aileen’s whereabouts, yet was she painfully con-
scious that she hac done a very mean and ungener-
ous thing in countenancing in any way her abduc-
tion.
And she loved Frederick, too, and this love was
punishing her fearfully ; for when she looked on the
young man’s haggard face and attenuated form,
and realized that she had in some manner been in-
or ay in making him suffer, her grief was very
eep.
A thousand times had she wished she had cast
pride aside, and allowed her son to marry the girl he
loved. But, then, she well knew that Lord Cleve
never would have consented, for he was prouder
than herself. She grew so sad and weary thinking
the matter over so much by herself, that every night,
like a sick child, she crept into her husband’s arms,
and wept out her sorrow on his breast.

And Lord Cleve, though he-always soothed her,
laughed at her scruples, and told her she was born a
great many years too soon; such tender consciences
as hers were not yet appreciated.

But hardest of all to bear was Frederick’s almost
daily seeking of his mother’s sympathy. He would
come to her room, and resting his head in her lap,
while her white fingers caressed his hair, he would
go over and over again the catalogue of Aileen’s
gracés of mind and character, and end always with
the bitterest denunciations against those who had
removed her froin her home, as he persisted in desig-
nating Cleve House.

‘“‘But, my dear boy,” said Lady Edith on one of
these occasions, when he had been even more vio-
lent in his vows of revenge than usual, “do you not
see how impossible it would have been for you to
have married her? She was, in all probability, lowly
born and poor, and your father’s pride never would
have stooped to consenting that the second Lady
Cleve should be aught but nobly born. And then, if
Aileen had been a princess, you surely would not be
so dishonorable as to break your betrothal to Bianca
Howard ?”

“Not if Bianca loved me, which she does not, and
never will do. She is a dear, good girl, and I love
her as a sister, but not as anything nearer and
dearer. And she is even more indifferent to me. If
we were married we should be wretched.”

“You must not think or say so. Our hearts, mine
and Lord Cleve’s, are set on seeing you united. And
her gracious majesty has signified her pleasure at
the arrangement, and promises to give you both
positions at court when the marriage has taken

place.”
7 “Heaven forbid that I, or wife of mine, should hold
any intercourse with the treacherous court of Queen
Elizabeth. A false and treacherous mistress, she is
surrounded by still more false and treacherous ser-
vants.”

‘Hush! my son, your talk is treason!
would shine at court as a rare jewel.”

“Bianca! Always Bianca!” cried the young man,
impatiently, and, tossing back his hair, he left the
room for a wild gallop over the hills, his usual
method of dispelling his despondency.

He was absent all day, and at night when he re-
turned he traced his steps at once to his mother’s
apartments. He was conscious of having been some-
what rude to her in the morning, and he wanted to
ask her forgiveness. Z

He stepped into the anteroom, and hearing Lord
Cleve’s voice in my lady’s boudoir, he hesitated a
moment about disturbing them. In that moment
of hesitation he heard the name of Aileen McGregor
mentioned,

Instantly he was all attention, quite unmindful
that he was playing the dishonorable part of listener.

Lord Cleve was speaking, and in an irritated tone,
which was quite unusual when he was addressing
his wife.

“You are very unreasonable, Edith. You first sug-
gested to me that Aileen McGregor must be disposed
ot to prevent Frederick from marrying her. A silly
young fool! As if there were nota score of other
girls in his own station in life quite as well worth
his attention.”

“But love is love, Arthur, and true love does not
stop to inquire into pedigree. Would you have loved
me lessif I had been the daughter of some honest
peasant? Would you have declined to marry the girl
you loved because she was of low degree ?”

Lord Cleve’s face crimsoned, and he quickly an-
swered :

“How absurd you are, Edith! ‘Of course you
would have been dear to me, no matter in what sta-
tion I found you. Your pride I thought quite as

And Bianea

 

 

life of an honest man.”

powerfully built white horse with an eye of fire, and

nostrils whose breadth and contour showed him to

’
are weak enough to repent because of the pale face!
of that love-sick boy ?”’

“But it cuts me tothe heart to see him unhappy.
And Iam so continually haunted with the thought
that perhaps poor Aileen McGregor may come to
some harm. Oh, Arthur, tell me just where you have
carried her!”

“T have carried her nowhere, Edith. I employed a
man to take her out of the way for a time, and Iam
not positive where he has spirited her.”’

“But you have suspicions ?”’

“Oh, yes.”

“Will you not tell me? I should feel so much bet-
ter to know.”

“IT think not. What matters it so long as she is out
of Frederick’s way? The end justifies the means.”
White with rage, Frederick threw open the door
and stalked into the room. His adopted parents who
had known him hitherto as a mild-tempered, some-
what yielding young man, hardly recognized him in
his new character. His eyes flashed fire, his step
was quick and decisive, and he drew inhis breath
short and sharp, like a war-horse when he smells the
smoke of battle.

“T have listened to your conversation,” he said,
quickly, ‘‘and I make no excuse for having listened.
it has told me whom I have to thank .for the loss of
the girl I loved better than my own life. It has
taught me that under a fair exterior may be hidden
cunning as black and damning as ever stained the
soul of the lowest convict on God’s footstool. What
have you done with her?” he cried, hoarsely, laying
a heavy hand on Lord Cleve’s shoulder.

Cleve recoiled a pace, and drew up his tall figure
with cold dignity.

“Young man,” said he, “recollect that you are
speaking to your father.”

“No!” cried the young man inafury of passion,
whieh did not stop at trifles—“never my father!
Thank Heaven that not a drop of your blood runs in
my veins!”

“My son! oh, Frederick!’’ exclaimed Lady Edith,
seizing him by the arm, in the vain hope of quelling
the wild storm which was raging in his breast.
But he cast her off almost rudely.
“Don’t speak tome! Oh, Heaven! but itis worse
than death to find you—you whom I loved so, false!
To know that you conspired against an innocent girl
who, forsooth, had not the blue blood which makes
our English lords and ladies—the blue blood, the
cursed blue blood which gives one power to crush
every human thing that is not of his own ilk!”
“Frederick!” said Lord Cleve, warningly.
“Answer me one question, and I am done with you
forever !” said the young man, turning fiercely upon
him. ‘Tell me where you have concealed Aileen
McGregor!” ‘
“She is not concealed, I believe,’’ returned Lord
Cleve, calmly. ‘She has sailed for America with
Drake’s expedition a
i Dg Heaven!” cried Frederick, striking his fore-
ead.
“Arthur, you cannot be in earnest!’’ ejaculated
Lady Cleve.
“Tam quite in earnest. It was the best thing to
do. The object was to separate my rash young gen-
tleman here and the lady in question. And lovers
are never separated entirely unless the ocean rolls
between them. And she was protected on her journey
by Mr. Richard North.”
“But those rude and lawless men,” eried Lady
Cleve. ‘Oh, poor girl! poor girl!”
Frederick had stood like one petrified; after that
first agonized exclamation he had not spoken; but
now he turned toward Lord Cleve, and the iron de-
termination of his set lips, and the glitter of his eyes,
showed how deeply he was stirred.
“Put her out of your mind, Frederick,’ said Lord
Cleve; “‘she is unworthy of a thought, for doubtless
by this time her fate is sealed. Captain Fairfax, in
whose ship she sailed, is a gallant man, and she has
a pretty face.”
“Tf she comes to harm,” said Frederick, slowly,
“yours is the blame. Whatever may befall her I
shall hold you responsible. And were you twice ten
thousand times my father, upon your own head shall
be her blood if her life is lost in this devilish con-
spiracy. I will move heaven and earth to find her,
and until that is accomplished I will take no rest.
Home is home no longer. I disown every tie; and
until you humble yourselves in the dust at the feet
of my poor wronged Aileen, I leave my curse upon
you!
He rushed like a madman from the room, and Lady
Cleve sank upon the floor ina deadly swoon, from
which it was days before she rallied sufficiently to
go about her room.
(f0 BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

You can make a large sum of money at work
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tt Stories (book form) and a large paper 3 mos. for only
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Sold by all Druggists and Dealers in Medicine.

 

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TO EVERY LADY READER

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papers, and to the Commercial Agencies.

Address :

H. MOORE & CO., 2? Park Place, New York.

 

 
 
   
 

SUPERB FORM
@\ \OVELY comPLEXion JS:
PERT ECT WEALT w

These are my portraits, and on
account of the fraudulent air-pumps,
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I will tell any lad
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HEALTH (cure of rad

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and perfectly pure COMPLEXION assured:

 
  
 
  
  
 
  

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Will send sealed

letter. Avoid advertising frauds. Name this paper, and address:

Mas, Era M, Dant, ,

x 234, Station C, San Francisco, Cal,

 

   
  

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i, 11) $9 41454

au 4

and expenses paid,
any active man or
woman to sell a

elry by sample only ; canlive at home.
furnish Zeam Free. Full particulars and

sample case Free. , We mean just what we

a te
say, and do exactly as we agree. Address at once,
Mass.

Standard Silverware Co. Boston

 

A Harmless Vegetable Tonic. \ag@
For all FemaleComplaints (3

and Irregularities. By mail &
(sealed) 50c. and $1. Trial size,
i0c. Send stamp for treatise.
JOS. S. HALL, Jersey City, N.Je

 

AHOUSEHOLD BLESSING,AND
WOMEN BLESS IT!

 
 
  
 

 

  
 

CHANCE FOR ALL

31 and 33 Vesey St., N.Y. P.O. Box 289.

 

SALESME

WANTE

our goods by sample to the wholesale
and retail trade. We are the largest

AT ONCE.—A

few good men to sell

manufacturersin our line in the world. Liberalsalary paid. Perma-
nent position, Money advaneed for wages, advertising, etc. For full
terms address, Centennial Mfg. Co., Chicago, Ill., or Cincinnati, oO.

 

DETECTIVES

Wanted in every county. Shrewd men to act under instruction.
in our Secret Service. Experience not necessary. Send 2c. at
GrannanDetectiveBureauCo. 44 Arcade, Cincinnati,O.

THE aaa . 5
4 To Enjoy a Cup of Perfect: Tea.
GREATAMERICAN: BN TRIAL ORDER of 31, pounds of
t i by Fine Tea sent by mail on receipt of
ue $2.00. Be particular and state what
Ae kind of Tea you want. Greatest in-
? ay Ne . See to get es ae oe ev
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YES,

per month and erpenses in BN
advance, or $1,200 per ix}

year to best Lady or Gent selling our fy

goods. Work a’
MO

t home

._ Write.
RSE MFG. AGENCY, AUGUSTA, MAINE, [3

 

 

 

 

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ROAD CART Sie. *aticazo SeaieCo., chicago, I

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New

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SALARY $40 EXPENSES IN ADVANCE
$60 allowed each month.

home or traveling. No soliciting.
livering and making collections.

Steady employment at

Duties

dress with stamp, HAFER & CO., Piqua, O.

de-

No Postal Cards. Ad-

 

DOUBLE BREECH LOADER $6.75
GU Ry RIFLES $2.00 PISTOLS 75¢
All kinds cheaper than elsewhere. S

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ourgatalogue. Sent on receipt of stamp.
WATCHES, CLOCKS, ETC. Pow ELL & OLEMENT, Cincinnati, 0.

 

well on smali investments. MAGIC LANTERNS,
STEREOPTICONS and VIEWS of all grades and
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MCALLISTER, Mfg. Optician, 49 Nassau Street, New York.

 

 
  

WILL DO IT.

¥ Beard in 30. Sample package, postpaid, 15c.;
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Our Beard Elixir will forcea
Mustache in 20 days, full

ANTED.

 

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P | LES never returns. Nopurge, —< salve,nosup-
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Address, TUTTLE & Co., 78 Nassau Street, New York City.

 

100 Popular Songs, no 2 alike 10c.; 300

for 25c.; 600 for 50c.; 1200 for $1.; 2500

all different for $2. Catalogue Free.
H. J, WEHMAN, 130 Park Row, N. Y.

 

PER DAY. Article sells at sight.
0 Basy work,
man, at home. For particulars, ad-

large pay, for lady

dress, with stamp, T. P. CHILDS & CO., Troy, O.

or

 

PEOPLE!

WITHOUT STARVATION

Treatise and instruction for Six stamps,
E. K. LYNTON, 19 Park Place, N. Y.

WEIGHT REDUCED
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We grow heavy moustache, gmap
in 20 to 30 days. DYKE’S 4

Dollar size Pkg’s. for 25c.
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whiskers, and hair on bald heads,

4 for 50c, or 12 fo:

We ask no

MA Smith Mfc. Co. Palatine. |lls.

 

And steady work right at home
$3 215 A DAY for anyman or lady. Write
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A MONTH. Agents Wanted. 90 best sel-
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Address JAY BRONSON, Detroit, Mich.

 

OYS! BOYS!!A Handsome Seven-Shot Silver
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Sample DR. X. STONE’S BRORCHIAL WAFERS.
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—

2

W

S

EEKLY. eae ss e | : ace

 

~ BEYOND THE GATES.

BY HARRIET MABEL SPALDING,

Sometimes in dreams I see it,
This city fair and grand;

Its doors of jasper brightness
Stand forth on either hand.
’T was here the pilgrim tarried,
And here good cheer awaits

The weary one who enters
At the opening of the gates.

Each window isan opal
With hues born of the noon,
Through which rich perfumes wander,
Caught from the air of June.
And here are sandals waiting
In which the weary feet,
New shod in royal splendor,
May roam the shining street.

Oh, City of the Beautiful,
Could waking heart forget
The gardens where the lilies
Like crystal flakes were set?
Where heaven’s doves in sunshine
Like rainbows went and came?
Where the sun woke swathed in azure,
And died on fields of flame?

Here, too, are fountains playing
To cheer this heart of thine,
And meadows flush with violets
And winds are rich as wine ;
While each thing glad and beautiful
The loving soul awaits,
When once the vail is rended,
And we stand within the gates,

Dear City of the Holy,
For the walks of palm I long;
For the love that maketh lovely,
For the faith that maketh strong.
For thy green and growing cedars,
Thy lakes of silvery calm,
For thy peace past comprehension
That floods thine isles of balm.

Take Thou my hand, my Saviour,
The way is dark and wild.

Far off, a star, the city shines
It beckons on Thy child.

Joy! joy! they come, the beautiful;
A myriad host awaits,

And heaven refulgent floods my soul
At the widening of the gates.

Diary of a Minister's Wife,

NEW

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Anthor of “The Diary of a Country Schoolma’am.”

SEHERIES.

(The “DIARY OF A MINISTER’S WIFE” was commenced
in No. 35. All News Agents supply the back numbers.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iM

]

nh
LATTES

 

Mrs. Yates, a near neighbor, happened to run in

said, unrolling an ample garment of white Canton

flannel, and holding it before the stove. ‘I fear the
bed is damp, and will give me the ague.”

“It is not; I remade it to-day,” I interrupted.

“Thave to be very careful of my health; it is so
delicate a sudden shock would prostrate me,” and
rolling up his robe, to retain the warmth, he took his
way up Stairs again. '

“T hope Mr. Knapp is not a somnambulist,” TI said,
laughingly, to Mr. H. ‘I should dislike to see him
appear in that garb at the dead hour of night; I
should think a ghost had come.”

Monday, Oct, 22.—A cold wintry-like day. Mr. and
Mrs. Knapp are still with us. The former annoys me
exceedingly, spending hours every day in the kitchen
preparing eatables for himself and wife. He opens
the stove and broils meat on the coals, regardless of
the smoke or discomfortit may beto me. He evi-
dently thinks himself an expert cook, for he makes
puddings, boils chocolate, prepares milk-toast, and
rice-puffs.

He attempted to teach me to make Graham bread,
but declares I have not the requisite skill; so he
makes it himself. He lets in draughts of air sud-
denly upon me, until I am chilled through, and have
already taken a severe cold, and have a sore throat.

We have “disordered stomachs,” and ‘diseased
livers,” served up at every meal. Why is it people
will choose such topics at the table? I am some-
times tempted to throw the dipper or rolling-pin at
his head when he comes peering around the pantry.
I have threatened to pin the dish-towel to his coat-
skirts, but Mr. H. shakes his head at my threats, and
bids me behave myself. Just asif it were possible
to do so; I know I shall commit some desperate act
yet,

This morning I had the boiler on the front of the
stove intending to commence washing early, when
my gentleman came bustling in to superintend break-
fast. He quickly dislodged the boiler, so as to open
the stove and broil meat, for he has taken to eating
beefsteak twice a day, now. He made chocolate,
and toasted bread, without any reference to what I
was trying to do over the fire. Itis quite expensive
boarding them; everything they have must be of the
best kind. He has melted pounds of the best crushed
sugar to eat on their puddings, and helps himself
without even saying ‘‘by your leave.”

After breakfast, Mrs. Knapp presented lerself with
a large bundle of dirty clothes, which she deposited
in the basket to be washed, lamenting her inability
on account of ill health to do them herself.

I was sorely tempted to throw them one side, but
Mr, SPR ere said he would go after a woman to
wash!

In an hour after, Molly Sturgis was installed mis-
tress over the wash-tub. She is a stout, good-natured
woman; talks a great deal, and laughs at every-
thing. As the wash was very large I assisted her,
and listened with some amusement to her “I hearn
tell on it’ and “I’spect it’s true, ’cause I read it in
the newsprint.” :

About eleven o’clock Mr. Knapp came in.

“My dear Mrs. Hardscrabble, with your leave I'll
make some blanc-mange anda pudding. I think Pll
try a corn-starch one to-day, as you had such a fine
lot of new milk sent in this morning.”

And laying aside his coat he rolled up his wrist-
bands, and began his preparations.

Molly eyed him with alook of disdain for afew
moments, then a broad grin suffused her face as she
saw him with flushed face bending over the stove.

Quite accidentally, of course, she allowed the
clothes to boil so furiously, as to send the scalding
water over on the stove, causing him to leap back-
ward, pudding-dish in hand.

“How careless!” he exclaimed. “Why, woman, you
came near spoiling my pudding, beside scalding me!
You must be more careful !”

“Men hain’t no business round a kitchen; ’tain’t
their place. I must get out the clothes anyhow.”

And she made a great deal of unnecessary spatter-
ing, keeping Mr. Knapp in a perfect fever, catching
his dishes from the stove, and dancing about to avoid
the scalding water.

I enjoyed the sport hugely and did not interfere,
and at last the gentleman retreated in disgust.

“An old hen huzzy!” was Molly’s indignant ob-
servation, as he left. If there’s anything I hate ’tis
to have a man poking his nose into the victuals;
*tain’t no place for ’em.” ;

And she wrung out a sheet with a great deal of
unnecessary energy.

But I did not intend to write entirely of Mr. Knapp,
for I am tired of him. Molly left soon after dinner,
and I staid inthe kitchen to put itin order; when
Kate, with a shawl over her head, her eyes blazing,
and cheeks flushed, burst open the door, and stood
panting with excitement before me.

“Why, Kate, what is the matter?’ I asked, fright-
ened at her looks.

“And is it the matter ye want to know?” she
asked, in a husky voice. “The owld madam (bad
luck to her, the desateful hathen !) called me a thafe.
Yes, sure she had the imperdence to tell me so to my
face. I could have struck her, but I remembered
what Mr. Hardscrabble used to say about forgiving
injuries, so says I, ‘I sone you, you owld liar, you
desateful sarpent !” and throwing thekey of me trunk
at her head, for she demanded it, saying she must
search my things, I caught my shawl, and ran as fast
as I could from the house.” it

Kate had given this account with such volubility,
and most of it with the rich brogue she uses when
excited; now, however, her mood changed, and she
sank into a chair.

“What will me mother say to Kate O’Connor’s
being called a thafe? And sure it’s no character I'll
be after having for another place—oh, wirra, wirra!”
and laying her arms on the table, she bowed her
head upon them, and wept. ) :

I was touched at the poor girl’s grief, and going up
to her laid my hand on her bowed head. |

“Don’t feel so badly, Kate; Iam certain you never
tooka thing from Mrs. Harper. Mr. Hardscrabble
and myself will go over this evening and try to in-
vestigate the matter, and I’ve no doubt but we can
prove your innocence.”

“And sure it’s the comforting words you speak,
ma’am; but I’ve no home now, no one will take a
girl who is called a thafe,” and her eyes were moist
and sad.

 

after a receipt to make cake, and I told her my
dilemma.

“IT can help you out of your fix,” she said, laugh-
ing. “You know Mr. Yates’ mother was with us
several weeks this summer. She was an invalid, and
we bought some oatmeal for puddings and gruel, and
had a quantity on hand when she left. You are wel-
come to it, and I can tell you just how to prepare it,
for I learned to make nice puddings.”

After giving me the necessary directions she left,
and ina few moments sent over the meal.

I prepared dinner as far as possible, with special
reference to my guests, and had it on the table at half

nast twelve. Found Mr. Hardscrabble engaged in
versation with the gentleman, whom he had for-

After they were seated at table Mr, Knapp
ved mw@pudding suspiciously. ;
“J fear, my dear Mrs. Hardscrabble, that you did

t know how to prepare it; you should have asked

to have shown you.” ,

had the directions from a lady used to making
eal puddings for invalids.” : :
is does not seem to be of the right consistency.
To-morrow I will prepare one myself. Nellie, will you
venture to try afew spoonfuls? Mrs. Hardscrabble,
have you some golden syrup in the house to eat on
it?”

“We have none.” 3 :

“Well, we must use sugar for once,” helping him-
selt and wife bountifully to the white sugar on the
table. ‘To-morrow we will melt some of this kind
of sugar; it makes very good syrup. Brother Hard-
scrabble, do you know what it is to suffer from a dis-
ordered stomach? I hope you may never know what
it is to experience the uauscious feeling I often have
after eating. Then my liveris so inactive that Iam
often overcome by asense of languor and drowsiness.
I have tried a great many kinds of medicines, but
without experiencing relief, and begin to think re-
lief will only be found at last in the grave.”

After dinner he asked for some fruit.

“You remember I have spoken for some of those
nice grapes?”

Thad received a small basket full of late sweet
grapes from Mrs. Alwin, and rather reluctantly
brought them forward with a dish of apples, and
such a quantity as was eaten by the couple I have
seldom seen well people dispose of.

When [I returned to the sitting-room, after my work
was done, I was not much surprised to find the gen-
tleman ensconced in an easy-chair, his feet across
another, while he gave vent to loud groans.

“Are you ill?” I asked.

“Yes, [am always ill; don’t see a well moment
from one year’s end to another, but such an oppres-
sion as I feel now at the stomach, you cannot con-
ceive of—oh, dear!” and his hands were pressed on
his stomach. “TI don’t think that your pudding was
done sufficiently well; it gives me terrible distress.”

Mrs. Knapp lay asleep on the sofa, sending forth
loud snores of defiance, or approval, of her husbands
speech, I could not tell which. ee

A dreary afternoon passed, and I was rejoiced
when I saw Mr. H. enter the gate after school, but
he tarried only a few moments, begged to be excused,
and took himself to his study. I had no old bread in
the house, so presented a plate of crackers to my
guests at tea-time, and they reluctantly partook of
them, ‘hoping I would have some Graham bread for
them on the morrow.” :

They took a couple of plates apiece of canned
strawberries, ate freely of cookies, and ealled for
glasses of new milk to drink instead of the chocolate,
which I had already prepared.

Knowing how particular they would be, I remade
the bed in the front chamber, and put on freshly
aired sheets, and at nine o’clock, at their request,
showed them to their room, and ran down stairs with
a sense of relief at getting rid of them.

I was surprised ten minutes after to see Mr. Knapp
reappear in the sitting-room with a long ghostly
looking garment hung over his arm.

“T wish to warm my night-robe by the fire,” he

“You can stay with us till this matter is all made
right, and you can find a good place,” I said.

The girl brightened up, and as little Eddie came
out into the kitchen drawing his little cart, she
caught him in her arms, with many endearing words,
while he patted her cheek and called her ‘‘Dood
Kate,” and I left them together, both perfectly happy
for the time being.

When Mr. H. came inI called him into our room
and explained all about Kate, and he readily prom-
ised to go over and investigate the matter. He went
out into the kitchen and talked with the girl, as-
sured her of his belief in her innocence, and his
hopes of proving it. Kate was so pleased that she
poured forth a torrent of words expressive of her
gratitude.

It is now evening, but a gentleman called to see
Mr. H., and for an hour they have been conversing
in the study. While waiting for him I have had time
to make this entry in my diary. ;

I anticipate rather a rich scene to-night, and as I
have little fear as to the result, shall expect to-mor-
row to make a favorable report of our call.

Tuesday, Oct. 23.—It was seven o’clock last evening
when we left home for our call; the night had set in
cold, while a chill wind was sweeping up the streets.
We met very few people as we passed quickly along,
and in a few moments rang the bell at Mrs. Harper’s
door.

That gentleman himself answered our ring, and,
with some surprise manifested in his face, led the
way through a dark hall into a little rear room, the
common sitting-room of the family, asitseems. It
was a small nook, very plainly furnished, and form-
ing a decided contrast to the parlors, the only rooms
Ihad seen before. The carpet was dull and well
patched, the chairs and table marred with constant
use; while a bed in a recess was covered with a
patchwork quilt.

Mrs. Harper was sewing by the side of a little
round stand, on which alamp was placed. Her two
little girls, with sleepy eyes, sat holding some huge
rag-babies, and the two boys were bending sadly
over their school books, looking so tired and weary
that I wanted to toss their books aside and bid them
go play ball for an hour.

The lady of the house drew herself up proudly as
we entered, as if she thonght we were going to in-
fringe upon her rights. After a few commonplace
remarks, Mr. Hardscrabble said :

‘‘We have called on a little business matter. Shall
we discuss it now ?”

Mr. Harper looked up in surprise, while his wife
replied, in a cold, harsh voice:

“T never discuss such matters before my children.
James and John, take your books to the kitchen,
and mind you have your lessons well learned before
you retire. Girls, put up your dolls and go to bed.”

The boys disappeared; the little girls laid their
rag-babies in a box, gave their parents a formal good-
night kiss, and left the room.

“Now we can talk freely, sir.
say ?”’

“You doubtless understand the reason of our call-
ing to-night. Kate is at our house, and, riat
deeply grieved at the charges you have preferre
against her, we are anxious to inquire into the mat-
ter, and see if her innocence cannot be proved,” said
Mr. H., mildly, but firmly.

“How long is it since Mr. Hardscrabble has left
his sphere of duties to investigate the character of
servant girls ?’ asked the lady, in a sarcastic manner.
“You seem very much interested in that girl.”

“JT do. She is comparatively a stranger to every
one excepting ourselves; she has been in our family
for two years, and I never knew her to depart from
the path of rectitude, and I cannot believe she would
knowingly do a wrong thing.”

“Well, ’m sorry to say Ihave not as much con-
fidence in her as that—in fact, [have positive proof
of her guilt. Of course Ido not intend to make the
affair public, but I am thoroughly convinced of her
depravity.”

“Tf you have positive proof, of course no one can
dispute that; but we should be very careful how we
take a poor girl’s character from her, when it is all

What have you to

 

she has to depend on.”

“Well, what do you think of my missing money re-
peatedly from my porte-monnaie? It always lies in.
my drawer, there, and my girl has free access to the
room. My purse had five
day that sum was missing. My family of course
would not take it; so who could it be but Kate, as no
one else has been in the house since yesterday ?”’ and
the lady looked triumphant.

“Why, Charlotte, you astound me!” exclaimed Mr..
Harper, who ‘had been listening intently. “Why
didn’t you tell me what the row was about before?
I know you seldom keep a girl more than six weeks,

and supposed you dismissed this one, like all the }
others, because she didn’t suit; the Pyare was |,

hung on the wrong nail, or the dish-towel turned
wrong side out on the line. But you never told me
you suspected her of stealing.”

“Tdo not believe in troubling my husband with
domestic matters; I feel perfectly competent to
manage them myself,’ was the haughty rejoinder.

“Well, you would have saved yourself some trouble
if you had. In me behold. the thief who has robbed
your purse !”

“You, Mr. Harper ?’

“Yes, and I never thought of your laying it to that
poor girl. I have always kept your purse pretty well
supplied, and never thought any harm in borrowing
change from it when I needed. In paying a bill this
morning I wanted five dollars to make change, and
took it from your purse, intending to replace it this
evening; so that is all explained.’

_*Your explanation, Mr. Harper, clears Kate en-
tirely, I believe,” said Mr. H., in a pleasant tone.
“Have you ever missed anything besides that you
thought she took, madam ?

“Well, yes, several small articles, but most of them
have turned up again. I searched the girl’s trunk
to-day but found nothing amiss. I packed her
clothes so that they could be more readily removed,
but since Mr. Harper’s explanation I think I had bet-
ter take her back; though she was very saucy to-
day, but I must have a girl immediately.”

ee ana we tell Kate you fully exonerate her?’ I
asked,

“Well, yes, of course I do now, and am glad she is
proved not guilty of the charge brought against her.
You may tell her to come back to-morrow and go to
work again, as that will save me the trouble of look-
ing up another girl.”

“T am afraid Kate is too ingignant to oer your
offer. She was very much grieved,” I replied.

“Very angry and malicious rather. Why, she looked
a very fury as she confronted me with a whole tor-
rent of Irish invectives. On second thought I don’t
think I want her back, she might poison me. Mr.
Harper, you had better send her wages to her to-
night, and she can send for her trunk to-morrow.”

The gentleman handed over twelve dollars as
Kate’s due, and we took leave, hastening home to tell
her of our success, and she laughed and cried all at
once; so delighted to have her character cleared.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

_—_ 2-1

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

A Business Man’s Mistake.

Stranger (who has yelled himself hoarse over Jinks’
telephone without getting any reply)—‘‘See here, I
can’t do anything with this telephone.”

Jinks (with an air of innocence)—“Did you wish to
speak to any one, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh! It has been disconnected for about a month.”

“Disconnected? You didn’t say anything about
it.”

“T thought everybody knew we had disconnected
our telephone on account of the bores. I didn’t know
you wished to talk to any one, sir. I supposed you
merely desired to exercise your lungs.”

The Royal Road.

Struggling Author—‘*Why, De Poesy, how pros-
perous you look! Was your last book of poems a
success ?”’

De Poesy—“No-o, can’t say that it was.”

“Published a popular novel, perhaps ?”’ .

“No.” - = 3

“Ah, then you have written a play. I have always
held that playwriting, while not the highest form of
art, was nevertheless——”

“T have written no play.”

“You haven't? Where did these fine clothes come
from? How did you pay for that handsome turn-
out ?”’

“T have abandoned literature, and am peddling
clams.”

2

A Lost Temperance Lesson.

Col. Kaintuck (offering his flask to stranger on rail-
road train)—‘‘Have a swig, stranger ?”

Stranger (a temperance advocate, with dignity)—
“No, sir, I thank you.”

Col. Kaintuck—*All right; got your own flask, I
reckon. That's the best way, after all.”

Stranger (meaningly)—“‘Some years ago, when
traveling in Alaska, I came across a tribe which had
never known the taste of liquor——”

“Col. Kaintuck (with interest)—‘‘Eh? White men?”

Stranger—‘‘No, savages.”

“Col. Kaintuck—“Of course, of course—enough to
make anybody savage.”

A Phenomenal Place.

Mr. Gotham—‘‘Live in Dugoutville, Kansas? Um—
is it much of a town?”

Western Man—“Wall, it ain’t much for size yet;
but it’s a phenomenal place, all the same.”

“Phenomenal, eh?” _

“Yessirree. Dugoutyille is the only town west of
the Ohio what ain’t made aclaim fer the World's
Fair.””

Jinks’ Mistake.

Blinks—“What? Can’tkeep your engagement with
me ?”

Jinks (sadly)--“‘No, IT ean’t. I was drawn on a jury
this week, and couldn't get out of it.”

“Did you try ?’

“Indeed I did. I did my best to make myself out
to be a hopeless ignoramus, but they wouldn’t let me
go.”

“Great Scott, man! The way to escape jury duty
is to act as if you knew something.”

Business at Camden.

First New Yorker—“Traveling a good deal now,
arn’t you ?” é

Second New Yorker—‘“‘Only back and forth to
Camden, New Jersey. I have business with some
factories there.”

“Ah, I see. Do you remain in Camden over night?’

“Well, no; I generally cross over to Philadelphia
to sleep.

Chicago Will. be Safe.

New Yorker—‘“‘Just think of Chicago’s criminal
record. How could people attend a World’s Fair in
Chicago without running the risk of being robbed
and murdered ?”’

Chicago Man (confidently)—“Oh, there won’t be
any danger at all then, not a particle. Just as quick
as the fair opens all the robbers will stop burglariz-
ing and go to keeping hotels.”

A Morning Call.
Mrs. Gadd—“I’m nearly tired to death; was at
Mrs. Nabb’s party last night,”
Mrs. Gabb—“I didn’t go; in fact did not get an in-
vitation. Were there many there ?”’
“Mrs. Gadd—‘Oh, no; it was very select.”

‘ Origin of Species.

Chicago Child—‘Look at that funny man, mamma.
What makes him so bow-legged ?”

Chicago mamma—“I presume, my dear, he lives in
St. Louis, and got that way trying to avoid being
knocked over by the pigs.” eo, a0

Had Been Duck Shooting.

Mrs. Blinks—‘‘See here, Mr. B., I thought you said
you had been duck shooting.”

‘Mr. Blinks—“‘Yes, m’ dear, been duck (hic) shoot-
ing.”

“But these ducks you brought home are tame
ducks.” :

**Y-e-s, m’ dear, I tamed ’em after I (hic) shot ’em.”

Accidents Avoided.

Railroad Examiner—“‘Your eyes are all right; no
color blindness at all. Now I will test your sense of
smell,”

“Applicant—“Smell, sir? What has that to do with
a locomotive engineer ?”

 

Examiner—‘A great deal, my good man. We have

ollars in it yesterday. To-

found that engimeers who have a too-acute sense of
smell are apt torun their trains at dangerous speed
when passing through Chicago.”

Relationship.

Little Boy—“Did you ever see my bigbrother John?
He’s a distant relative of mine.’’

Visitor—‘A distant relative?”

Little Boy—‘‘Yes, indeed. He: lives: in San Fran-
cisco.”

An Incompetent Driver.

Western Man (in street car, blocked by a crush on
Broadway)—‘‘t don’t want to sit here all day. Why
don’t this ere street car company hire competent
drivers ?—that’s what I’d like to know.”

Resident—“‘But what can the driver do?’

Western Man—‘‘Wall, I dunno, but he might act as
if he took some interest in the oceasion, anyhow.
Look at him! Sittin there drunk as. an oyster! Why
don’t he stand up, an’ rare around and swear ?”

Correct Diagnosis.
Patient—“‘Doctor, I have very severe pains in
the right foot, about the instep and toes. What is
that asign of?”
Wise Physician—‘That’s a sign of rain.”

Reugh Weather.

Mrs. Stayhome—“Did you have rough weather on:
the ocean ?””

Mrs. Globetrot—“‘Indeed we did. Why, it was
worse than riding over New York pavements in a
cab.”

Inconspicnous.

Rural Minister—‘‘None of the brothers whose duty
itis to pass the plate, are here to-day. Would you
object to taking up the collection ?”’

Modest Worshiper—‘I never passed the plate in
church in wy life, and I'm afraid i’d be rather awk-
ward.”

“Oh, never mind about that. It won’t be noticed.
Most of my congregation become absorbed in their
hymn-books about the time the plate goes ’round.”

Good Judges of Character.

Passenger (alighting from cab)—“What’s the
charge ?”

Cabman—*“One dollar.”

Passenger—‘‘Well, that’s quite reasonable. I knew
by your face you wouldn’t try to be extortionate.”

Cabman—“Thankee. I knew by your face that
yowd be too mean to pay more than the legal fare
without a lawsuit.”

* SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

THE MUSKRATS THINK IT WILL BE COLD.—The
muskrats on the Assinaboine, up where the cold
weather comes from, are building their houses
higher and larger than they have for several years.
They putin storm windows. This is a better sign
than an almanac.—St. Paul Globe.

A UNIQUE Sien.—The craze for sliding over Nia-
ara has reached such proportions that it has been
ound necessary to plant signs all along the banks

of the river requesting visitors to “Please keep off
the cataract.”—New York Commercial.

AN ILL WInD.—Easterner—‘How are things out
your way? I suppose the debt onthe chureh has
been wiped out long ago?” .

Western Minister (sorrowfully)—‘‘Yes, long ago.”

‘“‘But you don’t seem very glad about it.”

wiped out the church, too.”’=-New York Sun.

INCLINATION YS. DUTY.

The married man with troubled phiz
Sits down and sadly sighs ‘‘Alack !”
His pocket-book divided is
‘Twixt overcoat and seal-skin sacque.
— Washington Capital,

THE VEIN SHE Was InN.—Papa—‘Which of your
maltose do you think you will accept, Maria, Jones or

mi ” ers

“Maria—*Which would you favor, papa?’

“Well Smith has a fine vein of humor.”

“But Jones has a fine vein of anthracite coal upon
his farm, papa. I think I’ll take him.”

“Sensible girl!”—Texas Siftings.

TouGH OLD WRETCH.—Mrs. Oldboy—“‘Oh, you
needn’t talk, John. You was bound to have me.
You can’t say that I ever ran after you.”

Oldboy—‘‘Very true, Maria, and the rat-trap never
runs after the mouse, but it gathers him in all the
same.—Boston Transcript. ;

A VACATION ALLOWABLE.—‘‘Moses,” said a colored
man, ‘did you ebah break a commandment ?”

“G way! D’you tink I’d criminate myse’f ?’

“But did you?’

“Look hyah; I ’serves de Scripters all de yeah
roun’; but when de watah millyun season comes I
sut’nly do tink it’s ’scusable to take a vacation on
one out ob de ten commandments.”—Merchant Trav-
eler.

Papa’s LAst.—Little Jessie—‘Your papa isn’t as
rich as my papa. He brought home a pretty marble
bust last night, and said it cost more than a hundred
dollars.”

Little Carrie—‘‘That’s nothin’. I heard Brother
Jack tell Cousin Will yesterday that my papa’s last
ae cost him four hundred dollars.”—Pitisburgh Bul-

etin.

AT WORK BY THE Day.—She—‘‘Oh, see that scare-
crow out there in the field!”

He—‘‘That isn’t a scarecrow.”

She—“‘It must be; see how motionless it is.”

He—‘“That’s the hired man at work.— Yankee Blade.

RAISED CAIN.—Fond Old Mother—‘‘It is so nice to
know that John is doing well at last, and that he may
make his fortune in sugar.

See Caller-—‘‘What is he doing ?’

F. O. Ms—'I hear through a friend of his that he is
raising Cain in New Orleans.—Piltsburgh Bulletin.

HE SILENCED THE CROWD.—A number of persons
were talking about telescopes, and each professed to
have looked through the “‘biggest inthe world.” One
after another told of the powerful effect of the
respective telescopes.

At last a quiet man said, mildly, “I once looked
through a telescope. I don’t know as it was the
largest in the world. I hope it wasn't. But it
brought the moon so near that we could see the man

tin it gesticulating and crying out ‘Don’t shoot!

Don’t shoot!’ The old fellow thought it was a big
cannon that we were pointing at him.”

The quiet man then subsided, and so did the rest
of them.—Hachange. __

It takes a smart man to tell a good lie, but nearly
all men grow smarter the longer they are married.—
Somerville Journal,

“My First Cigar” is the title-of a new farce-comedy.
When the leading actress takes it, she will require
some one to back her. But possibly it will all end in
smoke.—San Francisco News Letter.

A man is not necessarily of heavy caliber because
he has a large mouth.—Boston Transcript.

A New York waiter says his work reminds him of
a very large eagle. It is so long from tip to tip.—
Yonkers Statesman.

When money talks, of course it talks cents.—Balti-
more American.

When a man is self-made few people are left in
ignorance of the fact.—Bosten Courter. _

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Linen collars and cuffs are again fashionable.
Trained velvet dresses are popular for receptions.
Gentlemen now wear three studs for evening dress.

Light colors predominate in house-dresses for winter
use.

Immense velvet crowns are considered stylish on all
kinds of hats for children.

Black armure silk has quite taken the place of moire
for combining with colored wool goods. 7

Plaids in dull tones make up well with velvet trim-
mings.

Velvet bodices, in Spanish fashion, are worn with skirts
of diaphanous material for evening dress.

Vests, sleeves, and girdles of velvet are the most con-
spicuous features of winter wool dresses.

Narrow fur bands, in several rows, on both skirt and
bodice, have taken the place of wide fur trimming for
walking costumes.

Vandyke points are popular in lace, passementerie, and
embroidery, and are also made in velvet for the bottom of
dress skirts.

_ Prune cloth dresses have garnitures either of black or
suede color, the latter shade being used for the more
youthful costumes. ;

The attempt to introduce jackets of three-quarter
length has not been very successful, as short, natty gar-
es or long cloaks are more becoming to the majority
of women.

 

Camel’s-hair and velvet are combined for fall gowns,

 

 

“No, the same cyclone that wiped out the debt |

 

—— etter

the velvet forming the plain underskirt, the vest er
pointed belt, the collar, and sleeve garniture; while nyre-
tallic braid. sometimes outlines all the velvet..

Handsome capes for day or evening wear have:a pointed
yoke and: high collar of black velvet braided with gold,
while: the rest of the cape is of accordion plaited blaek
PRS which hamgs from the yoke to just below the waist-
ine. s

All our lady readers may find answers to questions
which are every coming to mind, and much valuable in-
formation besiile in our remarkable little book,.“*WOMEN’s
SECRETS; or,, How to be Beautiful.” It is a gem im its.-way,
beautifully primted and covened,.and will. be sent,. postage
free, for 25. cents.

Felt hats im sailor shape,.with very low, flat crewns
and straight brims, considerably wider. in front than at
the-baek,.are at present the most fashionable head-gear in
Paris, The shapes vary a little in style, variety being
given Dy the color of the felt and the Ghotse and arrange-
ment of the trimming. A soft shade of tan isa favorite
color, with the lew crown covered with tam velvet, and
the joining eoncealed along the right side by a twisted
saps pale-green ribbon, ending: in small bews in front,
while on the left side is along shaded tan feather, start-
near the center of the front and falling over the brim
at the back. :

Braided dresses are very fashionable, and es ially
those that are braided in patterns: resembling the new
passementerie trimmings, forming bands with sharp
pore scollops of various. widths for different parts of

he dress, while wide broche and embroidered borders are
also quite popular.

Dresses with princess backs; but with ordinary bodice
or redingate front, are very fashionable for indoor wear,
and are especially suitable for afternoon “at homes” and
home dinner dresses.

Florence B.—A “Lemon Party” is something entirely
new, and we will give a brief description of one, which is
as follows: The parlors and diming-room are decorated
with yellow hangings, and have yellow globes over the
lights, while the predominating color of the hostess’ cos-
tume should be of the same hue. The invitations are
written or engraved on lemon-colored cards, which are
eut in the shape of a lemon,.and read “Mrs. Livingstone at
home Friday evening at eight o’clock. Please bring a
lemon.” At the door, as the guests enter, each lemon is
taken by a committee appointed for this purpose, and
labeled with the name of the party bringing it. The

lemons are then all taken to the dining-reom, squeezed
separately, the seeds of each counted, and the number
placed opposite the name of the person who brought it,
After this, all the seeds are placed in a large Jemon-
colored glass bow], and the number guessed at er. each of
the guests, the one coming nearest to the eorrect number
of seeds receiving a large lemon-colored glass pitcher or
bowl, while the party guessing the farthest from the right
number receives the “booby prize,” which is generally a
lemon squeezer. The party who brings in the lemon
containing the greatest number of seeds receives a set of
lemonade glasses, while the one bringing in the lemon
that contains the fewest is presented with a very small
glass pitcher. The whole number of seeds are not counted
until every one has guessed, and had their guess regis-
tered. To insure a fair chance to all, it is best, after the
guests have assembled at the table, to have some one
take a handful of seeds from the bowl before the guess
ing commences.

Ollie 4.—Most of the newest chemises are cut plain,
without any fullness at the neck and without sleeves,
and are mounted on abroad band of embroidery or lace,
shaped either round or like a V. This is finished off
with embroidery or lace edging, threaded with narrow
ribbon, which draws the band into the right size, while

many in this shape have no bands either around the neck
or sleeves, butare simply finished off with a narrow em-
broidered edging, with the frontof the garment hand-
somely embroidered. . One model has a yoke of handsome
embroidery, cut square at the back and heart-shaped in
front, while the runner in this case is threaded through
the insertion band, and consists of satin ribbon about one
inch in width. Another pretty and favorite shape has a
finely tucked plastron, mounted on a narrow band, edged
with embroidery, and small sleeves similarly trimmed.

Emma &., Paterson, N.J.—Long cloaks are in great
favor for large and small girls alike, while very plainly

shaped, long, double-breasted ulsters, in princess breadths
throughout, are made of checked or plaid cloths for girls
to wear to school, and have large smoked pearl buttons.
Plain-faced cloths, in tan, electric blue, and Eiffel red
shades, are made into cloaks for more dressy use, with the
loose front lapped to the left side, the back fitted in prin-
cess breadths, sleeves full or close, as is most becoming,
one 2 aut collar and border following the lapped front of
1 st. ;

Ethel, Providence, R. I.—The most fashionable way of

arranging the hair for evening isin the Recamier style.

All the hair is first crimped, then drawn to the top of the
head, and coiled there in a soft knot, while short soft eurls
are worn over the forehead with this style of coiffure.

Lottie W.—A book on “Calisthenics and Light Gym.

nastics for Young Folks.” containing broom and fan
drills, marches, and dumb-bell exercises, with musie for
Same, will cost seventy-five cents.

 

Items of Interest.

An agricultural genius dwells in Woodford County,
Ky. His name is John D. Burns, and this year he trained
alarge droveof turkeys to follow the sound of a bell,
which he placed upon the mother bird. When the time
came to work his tobacco fields he removed the bell,
placing it on his own waist, and while working his crop
with the hoe the hungry turkeys followed the familiar
tinkle of the bell, picking the stalks elean of the worms.
as they followed him up one row and down the other.
The turkeys have done the work of five men and saved
the crop. -

The wearing of celluloid combs and bracelets may
prove perilous. A schoolgirl in Paris, wearing a semi-
circular celluloid comb on her forehead to keep back her
hair, sat before a fire to study her lessons. As she leaned
toward the fire, the comb became warm, and suddenly
burst into flames. Her hair was partly burned off, ana
the skin of the head was so injured that several
months after, though the burn was healed, the cicatrix
formed a white patch on which no hair would grow.

In the State Theater of Dresden performers are
not permitted to accept offerings of flowers and other
tokens of admiration, or in any way to recognize the pres-
ence of the audience during the course of the perform-
anse of serious operas and dramas. This regulation pre-
vails also in several other German towns, as well as in
Vienna.

Some Mormon elders have found Easten, Tennes-
see a desirable field in which to win “converts” to their
peculiar faith, but lately the White Caps thereabouts
have threatened to severely punish any person who en-
tertainsa Mormon. Consequently the polygamists now
avoid Tennessee, as they think it has become a very un-
healthy place.

How much does a person of fair appetite eat dur-
ing a life of seventy years? This question has just been
answered by a French mathematician, who asserts that
the average man or woman, in seventy years, consumes a
quantity of food which would fill twenty ordinary rail-
way baggage cars. A good eater, however, may require
as many as thirty.

The first giraffe born in captivity in America made
its. appearance a short time ago in the Cincinnati
Zoological Garden. None have been born in captivity
elsewhere except in London, in 1877. The Cincinnati
youngster is nearly five and a half feet high, and his
mother is evidently proud of him.

A strange misfortune befell two brothers, George
and Richard Hawkins, at Cayuga Lake, N. ¥. While
they were striving to recover a tame decoy duck, ahun-
ter on shore fired twice at the bird. The scattering shot
accidentally wounded both brothers in various places,
and each lost an eye.

About three couples a day come to be married by a
Chicago clergyman since he putin practice the novel idea
of hanging out his sign. He believes in advertising, and
letting the public know that his house is occupied by “a
marrying man.”

A London confectioner has invented an edible bill-
of-fare, made of sweetened dough, with the names of the
viands printed in chocolate. After reading it, and wait-
ing for the dishes you have ordered, you eat the bill-of-
fare, and it acts as an appetizer.

Awar of words between two farmers who each
claimed the ownership of two fifty-cent turkeys, in Bril-
liant, Ohio, led toa lawsuit, It has’ just been decided,
andonly the lawyers have reason to be satisfied. The
costs mounted to $40, and the lawyers’ fees to $35.

William Waterman died a short time ago, at Grand
Rapids, Mich., at the advanced age of 114 years. He was
twice married, and wedded his second wife in his hun-
dreth year. ;

A Thug in India, after confessing to an English
officer that he had committed about 700 murders, regret-
fully added, “Ah, sir, if I had not been in prison twelve
years the number would have been at least a thousand.”
- Soldiers in the Italian army are permitted to sleep "
acouple of hours in the middle of the day. The time is
fixed in general orders.

A new fashionable wrinkle has been noted in Paris,
In the palm of the left hand glove is a little pocket in
which ladies can put railway tickets and small coins.