A WESTERN WOc

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The Rerugee’s Daughter.

A Delightful Love
By Mrs. C. F. VON

PEARSE,

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W7ecelx After Next.

 

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Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1:90. oy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0.

Enierea ai the Post Office, New York, as Second Olass Maller.

 

 

Vol. 45.

 

Office 3l
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

Rose St.

 

 

New York, July 5, 1890.

Three

 

Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

THE OLD FIDDLER.
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

“Old Honey” was a fiddler
Of the blessed long ago ;
His face was black as ebony,
His hair as white as snow.
He had scraped his old Cremona
At many a fireside,
And there was mourning in the village
When poor “Old Honey” died.

He had never heard of Mendelssohn,
Or Balfe, or Meyerbeer ;
He was a simple genius,
And only played by ear ;
But his music was astounding,
And he shook from heel to crown
When he faced the lads and lasses
And prepared to “hoe it down.”

“Look out dar! Is you ready?
Den here goes! Forwa’d two!”

And at once the magic horse-hair
Across the cat-gut flew,

And as the dance went forward
“Old Honey” looked sublime,

And shrieked in agony of joy,
The while his foot kept time.

The “straight-four” being finished,
The country dance was called—
“Up sides and down de middle !”
With glee “Old Honey” bawled.
“Now turn your pardners lively !
Look out dar! Mind your eye!
Keep time wid dis yar music,
Or dis nig’ll surely die !”’

Oh, what a repertoire of tunes
Lay in “Old Honey’s” grasp!
Break-downs, and reels, and walk-arounds
At will his bow could rasp.
Tunes that were deemed delightful then
At party or at ball,
But now are almost obsolete,
And seldom heard at all.

Calm be thy rest, ‘Old Honey,”
In thy quiet country grave!
The wild flowers bloom above thee,
And the branches o’er thee wave ;
The old Cremona’s silent,
And thy spirit listens now
To the murmur of the brooklet
And the song-birds on the bough.

This Story Will Not be Published-in Book-Form.

TL ROVER (APTA

The Seoret of the Sphinx Tower.

By EMMA GARRISON JONES,

Author of ‘““‘The Midnight Prephecy,” ‘“*The Sus-
pected Wife,” “A Great Wrong,” etc.

CHAPTER I.
THE DYING MINER’S SECRET.

It was a chill Névember afternoon, and the cheery
fire in the little cottage at the foot of the Cornish
hills, shone out with a warm and ruddy glow.

Mrs. Redmond sat before the hearth, preparing the
evening meal, while her two children, Ralph and
Lucy, stood behind her chair, looking on with pleased
satisfaction.

“We shall have them for supper, sha’n’t we,
mother?’ questions Lucy, getting a little nearer to
the smoking dish.

“Yes, we'll have them for supper, dear,” her
mother answers, taking up a couple of the largest
doughnuts, and proffering one to each of the chil-
dren.

“Father will soon be coming in now,” Mrs. Red-
mond said. ‘Put his slippers. before the fire, Lucy ;
and, Ralph, my boy, s’pose you run down to the
ridge and bring up an armful of drift-wood. We shall
want a rousing fire this raw night, and you know
there’s nuts to roast after supper.”

“So there is; I'd quite forgot,’ cried Ralph, taking
his hat, and hurrying out.

Meanwhile, Lucy put the slippers before the fire,
and drew her father’s chair into its accustomed cor-

ner; and Mrs. Redmond set her coffee-urn to boil,
while she sliced bacon and bread, and laid her table.

The November night came on swiftly, and the raw
wind rose to a gale, and presently, above the boom-
ing of the sea, there came an @wful something, like
the shock of an earthquake.

“Oh, what was that?” cried Mrs. Redmond, letting
her dish of bacon fall. ‘Surely there must be some-
thing wrong down at the mines.”

I uey, sadly affrighted, clung to her mother’s skirts,
aud began to sob aloud.

“Hush, child; [must go and see if anything has
happened,” said her mother. ‘Oh, pray Heaven that
your dear father may be safe.”

She caught upamantle and throwing it over her
head, hurried out; but just beyond the door she met

alph.

The poor lad’s face was almost as white as the
snow-flakes that were beginning to fill the wintry
air, and he made several ineffectual efforts before he
could speak.

“Oh, mother,’ he gasped out at last, ‘‘there’s been
an explosion, and it was down in the Oldshaft Mine.”

His mother uttered a piercing cry, and darted off
in the direction of the mines.

Ralph entered the cottage, where his poor little
sister was crying:piteously.

“Don’t cry so, Lucy,” he said, encouragingly, ‘it is
very dreadful, but we are not sure yet that dear
fatheris hurt. Mother has gone down to the mines;
come, get on your cloak and hood, and we'll go, too.”

Lucy obeyed with alacrity, and they ran along,
hand in hand, across the bit of bleak moorland, and
along the wild ridge-path, until they reached the
Vicinity of the mines.

A shrill sound of wailing and lamentation reached
their ears, even before they were within sight of the
scene of the disaster.

“Go back, go back!” eried an old woman who met
them. ‘“’Tis no use for youto go on. There’s been
an explosion, the mine’s caved in, and your father’s
down init. Poor things, you are both orphans !”

Ralph shut his teeth close to keep from crying out
aloud in his terrible agony, and hurried poor, af-
frighted Lucy along.

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‘WEAR THE LOCKET AND CHAIN, AND NEVER PART WITH THEM.”

 

 

“We'll find mother, and see for ourselves,” he
whispered. “Maybe ’tis not true.”

A terrible sight met their young eyes, when the
two children reached the Oldshaft Mine.
ravine, and all the wild hills, were illunfinated by

away the earth that had fallen in and closed up the
mouth of the mine.

Ralph looked about for his mother, and presently
he caught sight of her, lying face downward on the
ground. He hurried to her side.

‘‘Poor mother,” he said, kneeling beside her, ‘don’t
lie here on the cold ground.”

She arose, and caught the children to her bosom,
breaking out into wild lamentations.

that heap of earth—down there choking and dying!
My poor children, we shall never see his living face
again.”

“Oh, mother, maybe ’tis not so bad; he may be
alive,’ sobbed the boy.

ing herself upon the ground again, and beating her
breast, and tearing her hair.

A woman standing by took charge of Lucy, and at
last succeeded in soothing the poor little creature to
sleep, and Ralph, finding that he could do nothing to
comfort his mother, drew near to the mine, and
watched the men at their hopeless work.

Hours went by, and the night grew wild with wind
and snow. The brown moors grew white, and all the

Ralph watehed them. As the first faint fires of dawn
began to glow above the wintry sea, the excavation
was completed, and a couple of brave men descended
into the mine. And then the ghastly work of bring-
ing up the men began. One by one they came, some
of them terribly mutilated, every one stark and
dead.

Ralph*looked on with white cheeks and distended
eyes, and at last a shrill cry broke from his lips.
“Oh, that is my father !”’

The men lowered the mangled body to the earth

just as Mrs. Redmond, roused by her son’s cry, came

rushing up. She caught one glimpse of the crushed
limbs, gave a look at the deathly face, and her shriek
of agony filled all the wintry dawn with despairing
echoes.
ee her bore her away in a swoon that looked like
death.

But Ralph made his way to the spot where his
father’s body lay, and bent over the white face.

“Oh, father, are you dead?” he sobbed out, kissing
the stilllips. ‘‘Can’t you speak one word to me?”

Then the man whom all believed to be dead slowly
unclosed his eyes. Ralph cried aloud for joy, and
some flew for a physician, some for stimulants, and
others to tell the glad news to the poor wife, when
it was known that Ralph Redmond had come up with
life in his body.

Ralph still kneeled by his father, and put his cheek
close to his cold, white face.

‘Dear father, you are alive, and you know me,
don’t you?’

“Yes, Ralph, I know you, my boy,’ the ashon lips
whispered, hoarsely. ‘‘Bend down close, and hear
what I have to say. I’m alive, but I sha’n’t live ten
minutes longer—my hurtis mortal. I asked God to
let me live to speak to you, my son, and He has
granted my prayer. Where is your mother, Ralph?’

“She has fainted, and they are trying to bring her
to her senses.”

‘‘Let her alone, poor wife.
be a good son to her, Ralph. Now, my son, listen !”

Half adozen persons came crowding up, but the
dying man cried out, in a voice made strong by
dying love:

“Stand back, neighbors; I’m past help.
have a last word with my son.”

They fell back as one man, and Ralph put his ear
to the rigid lips.

‘‘Feel in my breast, Ralph, and you’ll find a locket.
Wear it always—never part with it—and when you
are twenty-one, goto Treryn Castle, and look under

Let me

 

the great round stone at the foot of the stone pillar

| which bears the head of a sphinx.

The dark |

lanterns, and scores of men were at work digging |

| poor mother.
“He’s down yonder; your poor father, under all |

wild hills were crested, still the men worked on, and |

 

Then she fell, and the friendly arms shat |

 

Give her my love, and |
|and mother they had lost, by degrees they became

 

What you find
there is yours. You will remember, my son ?’

“‘T will remember, father.”

“Now put your hand in my breast. Ah, that is the
locket; draw it forth.”

Ralph drew up the heavy gold chain, and a curious

| old loeket-case, rough with precious stones, hung
| glittering in the glare of the toreh-light.”

“Unclasp the chain and put it about your neck,” |
| shine, till the jewels, with which it was crusted,
| Hashed and twinkled like stars.
| trinket, inscribed on one side with a coat-of-arms,

continued the dying mau. ‘Don’t part with it,
Ralph—mind, it is my dying command. You'll re-
member it ?”

“T surely will, father.”

“Now, my boy, farewell; D
I wish I might have bid her farewell,
poor, fond Jennie. But we sha’n’t be parted long.”

These words were his last; in less than five min-
utes he was dead.

Ralph did not utter acry or shed a tear.

found lying on a rude litter.

“She’ll never speak to you agin, my poor lad,” said
an old woman, as Ralph tried to rouse her. “The
shock has broke her heart.”

The old woman was right. Poor Mrs.
only roused up to sink into another swoon, more
death-like than the first. At best a frail woman, she
sank under the terrible blow of her husband’s death,
and all efforts failed to rally her.

When the morning had fairly broken, Ralph and
Lucy went back to their desolate home, fatherless
and motherless; made orphans in one brief night.
And that night had promised to be such a happy one!

CHAPTER II.
A SORROWFUL PARTING,

The Redmonds had but few frionds, and not a
single relative in the neighborhood of Oldshaft. In-
deed, they were comparative strangers in the place,
and no person knew aught of their anteccdents.
They had rented the cottage, and*the father had
secured work inthe mines, some two or three years
previous to the dreadful events described at the
closc of our opening chapter; and no ono there-
abouts had ever heard from what quarter of Eng-
land they came. Hence, when the father and mother
had been decently buried in the St. Just grave-yard,
no one volnnteering to take charge of the poor little
orphans, the good rector of tho parish suggested that
they should be sent to the orphan asylum.

Accordingly, the few household effects were dis-
posed of, the little cottage shut up, and one wintry
morning Ralph and Lucy were sent to the before-
mentioned institution.

It looked more like a prison than a home of charity,
to the two orphans, when the gfeat iron gates
clanged upon them, and they walked up the avenue
to the front entrance, hand in hand, and sobbing as
if their little hearts would break.

be a good son to your |
|framed in solid red gold, was a woman’s picture

| with a sort of fascination at the

Redmond |

jewels, or something of that sort, of course.

 

put her pretty, curly head upon his arm; and Ralph
drew the heavy old locket from his bosom.

The gold chain had never left his neck since the
night of his father’s death, and all the boy’s dreams
of coming life clustered about the quaint trinket;
and centered in that secret, whatever it was, which
was buried under the Sphinx Tower at Treryn
Castle.

He swung the locket to and froin the April sun-

It was a curious old

on the
Within,

in a
the name

and a
reverse

motto
with

foreign tongue, and
“Dynecourt.”
doll-like

a@ very small woman, judging from the

| face, and a rarely beautiful one, all robed in velvet
| and laces, with jewels on her bosom and amid the
With a}

strange, stunned feeling he hung the locket about |
| his neck, and went in search of his mother, whom he
‘No, he’s dead—there’s no hope,” she cried, throw- |

waving abundance of her blonde hair.
“Let me see the picture, please, Ralph,’

said Lucy,

| watching the locket as it flashed before her eyes.

Ralph pressed upon the spring, and it flew open.
“Whois she, I wonder?’ whispered Lucy, gazing
fair, patrician face.
“Oh, Ralph, how strange it seems that father should
have this, and mother never know. Who can
she be ?”

Ralph shook his head, as he closed the locket and
returned it to his breast.

“T can’t tell you, Lucy,” he said; “it’s all a mys-
tery, and will remain one, I suppose, till we find out
what there is under the round stone at Treryn Castle.
Dear me, how I wish I could go there.”

“To Treryn Castle? Isn’t it a long way, Ralph?
Could you find it, do you think ?”’

“Find it, you silly little one? To be sure! ’Tis
quite a distance, though, from here. You remember
that time when father took me down to Carlyon rocks
to hunt gulls’ eggs? Weil, we went on as far as
Lizard Point,and he showed me Treryn Castle. I
know just how it looked, and I saw the tower with
the sphinx head atop of it. What can it be that’s
under the round stone, Lucy? It’s money, gold and
And I
say now, Lucy, don't you go to talking about it to
any one. I know father meant me to keep it secret;
and if you talk about it, someone might go there, and
dig up the stone, and fetch away whatever it is; so I
say, Lucy, don’t you ever speak of it.”

“Tndeed, Ralph, I sha’n’t,” answered Lucy, looking
up with awe and wonder in her round brown eyes.

They leave their seat under the tree, and start for
a stroll across the grounds, but the voice of one of
the assistant managers arrest them.

“Come to the house, Master Ralph. You are wanted.
There’s a gentleman who wants a boy, and we think
you may suit him.”

Ralph clutched Lucy’s hand, and grew white
the lips, but he walked on toward the house

to
in

| silence.

In the reception-hall a gentleman was waiting; a

Despite their forebodings, they met with a very | handsome, well-dressed gentleman, but with his first
kind ‘reception, and were made quite comfortable, | glance Ralph conceived a dislike for him,

and well cared for by the gentle matron who had |

“That’s the boy, is it?’ he said, pointing toward

charge of the place; and after a week’s stay the} Ralph with the silver-mounted handle of his riding-

gloom of their great bereavement began to lift a
little, and life to put on something of its old cheerful
aspect.

Childhood’s grief is usually short-lived. Ralph and

Luey had companions of their own age, and school- |
hours, and light tasks, and endless amusements ; and |

although it was a long time before they knelt down
to pray at night, without weeping for the dear father

comforted, and that terrible night began to fade from

| them like.a painful dream, and youth and hope to
| fill their hearts with happy aspirations.

“Tf we can only keep together, Lucy,’”? said Ralph,
one pleasant April day—“I mean if they don’t sepa-
rate us—we can do well enough. This is a good
enough place to live at, a bit dull to be sure, but by

and by I shall be able to go at something myself, and
| then, you see, we'll go and live together in a house

of our own.”
Lucy nestled very close to her brother’s side, and

put him into harness.

 

whip.

The
added:

“And a good boy he is, too—very bright and quick
at everything. Come forward, Ralph. Wouldn't you
like to go and live with this gentleman ?”’

“No, madam, I would not,” answered Ralph, un-
hesitatingly.

“Why not?’ asked the matron.

“Opposed to work, madam,” putin the gentleman.
“They're all that way, this vagabond class; they
won’t lift a finger as long as they can beg or steal.
Nevertheless, I like the boy’s looks, and I think I can
I’ll do well by him, madam,
give. him a fair start, and make a gentleman farmer
of him.”

“T don’t want to go with you, sir,” spoke up Ralph,
boldly. ‘Pray, madam, let me remain here with my
little sister.”

‘Oh, please, please do,’”’ cried Lucy, with a burst

matron answered in the affirmative, and

 

away.”

The matron was a kindehearted woman, and her
eyes filled with tears.

“Tam sorry, Lucy,’ she replied, ‘but it is impos-
sible for us to keep Ralph here. The Board has de-
cided that the larger boys must go out to work, and
here is a good chance for Ralph.. He must learn to
earn his own living, you know.”

‘“‘Hush, Lucy,” said Ralph. ‘Don’t be a silly baby.
I’ll go,” he added, turning to the gentleman, ‘‘I’ll go
and live with you.”

“Much obliged, to be sure,” responded the gentle-
man, mockingly; ‘‘and perhaps you won’t object to
working a little now and then 2?”

“No, sir, I sha‘n’t object to work.”

“Very well; there’s enough said. I'll take you.”

“Take your sister into the girl’s department,
Ralph,’ commanded the matron, ‘‘and then we will
pack your clothes. You are to go with the gentleman
this afternoon.”

“So soon as that?’ said the boy, and. his lips quiv-
ered; but he took Lucy’s hand and led her out with-
out a word.

The preliminaries were then arranged, and Ralph
was legally bound to Hugh Pemberton, Esquire, of
Pemberton Hall, Sussex County.

An hour or two later a drag was waiting in the
drive below, and up in the dormitory poor Ralph
was bidding his sister farewell. The little girl
sobbed, and clung about his neck in a piteous man-

ner.

“Oh, Ralph, I can’t let you go. What shall I do,
left by myself? I shall die when you are gone!”

Ralph struggled hard, and contrived to keep back
his tears.

“No, you won’t, Lucy.” he said, soothingly ; ‘‘you’ll
have the little girls to play with, and I shall come to
see you quite often. I’m obliged to go and learn to
earn wy living, you know. I don’t mean that you
shall stay here long, eating the bread of idleness, as
the matron calls it. Ill soon manage somehow to
take you away, and we’ll live together again. Now
hush, that’s a darling, and kiss me good-by.”

She suppressed her sobs, and held up her little
quivering mouth. Ralph kissed her repeatedly, gave
her a warm embrace, and then tore himself away.

*“T shall soon come to see you, Lucey,’ he said, and
darted out at the door and down the Stairs.

Repressing the keen agony that agitated him, he
met his future master without atearor a sign of
weakness.

“You are ready, then?” said Mr. Pemberton.

“All ready, sir,’ Ralph responded, and with his
small bundle under his arm, he mounted into the
drag, and was driven rapidly away.

CHAPTER III.
THE REFRACTORY PUPIL.

Ralph has been at his new home*just two months.
A very pleasant place it is, an old-fashioned country
residence in the heart of the farming district, roomy,
cool, and picturesque, and abounding, in ail the good
things of iife. Plenty of milk and honey, figura-
tivély speaking, but very little of the milk of human
kindness.

Mr. Pemberton, as Ralph has found, is a hard task-
master, and one exceedingly difficult to please; a
pompous, arrogant man, with the prayer of the
Pharisee always in his heart and on his lips.

Mrs. Pemberton is a lady of fashion, and of course
the bound boy rarely ever comes near enough to her
dainty presence to catch the rustle of her silken
train; the Misses Pemberton, two in number, are off
in a Parisian school, being prepared for London life,
and Hugh Pemberton, junior, only son and heir of
the house, is at home with his father.

So far it has seemed somewhat difficult to keep
Master Hugh from home. He has tried schools of
different names and grades, but the schools do not
suit the young gentleman. From the last one to
which he was sent, a fine institution in a famous old
cathedral town, he ran away at midnight, making
ropes of the bed covers wherewith to descend from
his third-story window. He reached the Hall, after
several days of travel and starvation, in a general
state of nudeness.

The father, who holds his only son as the apple of
his eye, has not deemed it wise to force the heir of
his house into any new seat of learning for the pres-
ent, but keeps him at home; and, by dint of great
coaxing and considerable bribing, induces him to
attend, in an irregular sort of way, a select day-
school, taught by one Decimus Driggs, Esq., profess-
edly an Oxford graduate. j

On acertain June morning, when Ralph Redmond
had been at the Hall just two months, it occurred to
his master that, as there was nothing much to be
done about the premises, it would be as well to give
the boy the benefit of two or three weeks’ schooling.

‘““You see, Driggs,” he explained to the teacher,
“T’m pledged to give him some sort of schooling—
down in black and white, you know—and them con-
founded church women are great sticklers for rights.
I waut to do the fair thing by the young dog, so.T’ll
put him with you till the busy season begins. He’s
hardly the sort to mix with your scholars, Driggs,
but there's no other school convenient. You can
manage it, I daresay? You needn’t be particular,
you know—give him a corner to himself, and toss
him a stray scrap now and then. You understand,
eh, Driggs ?”’

“T understand, Mr. Pemberton,” replied the master,
in a tone that implied volumes. “Send him down as
soon as you please.”

Accordingly, a day or two after, at an early hour in
the morning, Ralph was called up from the stables.

“T say, have you put the ponies all in tip-top
order ?’ questioned Mr. Pemberton from the piazza.

‘‘All in fine order, sir,” responded Ralph.

‘Rolled the gravel walks and cleaned out the ken-
nels ?”’

‘‘Yes, sir.”

“Goin and get your breakfast, then; afterward I
intend you shall go to school.”

Ralph raised his cap, and his eyes trembled with
delight,

“Thank you, sir,’ he said, heartily.

“I’m not busy just now,” pursued his-master, ‘‘and
I’ll send you down to Driggs for a few weeks. Mind,
you make the best of your time. I’ve no money to
throw away on you.”

The boy flushed, and bit hislip, but he answered,
respectfully :

“T shall not be idle, sir.’

“Very well; take yourself off now.”

But Ralph still lingered.

“If you please, Mr. Pemberton,” he began, lifting
his cap again, ‘I’ve a favor to ask, if you'll allow
me ?”

“A favor,eh? Well, I don’t believe in granting
favors as a rule. If a young beggar like you gets
bread, and meat, and shelter, it’s quite enough. Out
with it, however.”’

“If you please, sir,” continued the lad, the sensi-
tive blood mounting to his brow again, “I haven’t
heard a word from my sister since I left the asy-
lum——’’

‘“‘Confound your sister! Who cares ?’

A little flash illuminated the boy’s eye, and he
threw up his shapely head.

“T care a great deal, sir,’ he answered; “and if
you please, before I begin at school, I want to go and
see her.”

“The duse you do!”

“Yes, sir! I can easily walk the distance there
and back in a couple of days! May Igo this morn-
ing ?”’

“No, sir; not this morning, nor any other morn-
ing!” thundered Mr. Pemberton. ‘‘You’ve left the
asylum, and you belong to me. You stay here and
do my bidding, and let your sister take care of
herself. Vll have no gadding about the country!
Now take yourself off, or I’ll let you feel my horse-
whip !”

Ralph walked slowly away, ir the direction of the
kitchen, his eyes filling with angry tears.

“Poor little Lucy, and I promised to go and see her
so soon,” he thought.

He was hungry a minute or two before, but this
disappointment spoiled his appetite. He left his

’

 

 

 

 

 
    

 
  
    
   

  

   
    
    
   
    
   
  
   
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
    
   
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
   
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
    
 
  
  
   
 
 

 

  
   
   
  
 
 

     
     
   

     
   

  

  
     
  
 
 
    

 

         

 

 

 

  

 
 

‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

be = ‘ 293. ' foe

  

ae

VOL, 45—No. 36,

 

ees

breakfast almost untouched, and hurrying up to his
small attic room, made himself clean and tidy for his
first appearance at school.

“IT say, you Ralph, run and fetch out my pony,”
called Master Hugh, as Ralph was crossing the

yard.

“Why, T thought you were going to school, my
son?’ called Mr. Pemberton from the open window.

“So Lam, but what’s the use of toiling over there
on foot through the dust? I'll ride over, and Ralph
ean run down and fetch back the pony.”

“So he can,” assented the father. ‘See here, Ralph,”
he said, as the boy came up from the stables, leading
the horse, ‘‘you are to fetch the pony back, you un-
derstand? If you don’t loiter, you can get back then
in season for school. You'd better be in time, or
Driggs’ll make you smart for it.”

Ralph said nothing, but led the horse up to the
steps, and stood holding the bridle until Master Hugh
should see fit to mount. :

“A pretty horse he is, too, for a gentleman to ride,”
remarked the lad, tapping his boots with his riding-
whip, as he stood on the steps. “Why didn’t you
clean him off this morning?”

“TI did clean him off,” answered Ralph.

“Hold your tongue, you beggar! Don’t contradict
me. [say you didn't clean him. Look at the dust on
his sides! I’m hot going to mount any such looking
horse as that.” : :

“He rolied in the yard as I was bringing him out,”
said Ralph, ared glow in his cheeks, his eyes all
a-glitter, but his voice cool and low.

“Take him back and clean him again, then! What
are you here for, you idle beggar?” cried Master
Hugh.

“Pm not a beggar, and I’d be obliged'to you not to
eall me one, Master Hugh.”

“Silence !”’ shouted Mr. Pemberton from the win-
dow. “Don’t you presume to answer, my son! Take
the horse back this instant, and clean him over
again.”

Ralph obeyed without a word. Young as he was,
his power of self-repression was unusually strong.
He led the pony back to the stable, and polished him
till his black coat shone like satin; then he fetched
him up again, and when Master Hugh had mounted,
he followed on to the school-house to bring him
back.

Naturally, he was heated and tired and a little late
when he at last presented himself for admission at
the door of Mr. Driggs’ very select institution.

Prayers were over, and fhe duties of the morning
were in full session when he entered, cap in hand.

“Good-morning, Mr. Driggs. If you please, sir, Mr,
Pemberton has sent me to school, and you are to fur-
nish me with such books as [ need.’*

Mr. Driggs, being somewhat puzzled over a prob-
lem in decimal fractions, took no notice of him.

Ralph continued to stand, cap in hand, the center
of all eyes. Master Hugh, lounging over his desk,
made faces at him, and set the school in a giggle,
whereupon the teacher, vigorously effacing from the
slate his unsuccessful calculations, roared out,
“Silence!” in a voice that made the small boys jump
in their seats.

Ralph, cap in hand, and shifting uneasily from one
leg to the other, still stood in the center of the room.
Master Hugh continued to make faces and to gigglé
audibly, unreproved by the teacher.

Ten minutes dragged by, and finding his position
too painful to endure, Ralph essayed to sit down on
the vacant end of the nearest bench, whereupon Mr.
Driggs uttered a yell like a wild-cat.

“T say, don’t sit there! I don’t permit my boys
and girls to sit together.”

The little fellow dodged back again and resumed
his old position, the teacher returning to his puzzling
problem. :

Every eye in the school was upon Ralph, and sup-
pressed whispers, in which the words ‘‘bound boy”
and “heggar’” were distinguishable, buzzed up and
down the long line of seats. Ralph was a brave lad,
and stood this unexpected ordeal admirably, but he
felt his embarrassing position quite keenly. He
flushed red with anger and mortification, and was on
the point of turning about and leaving the school-
room, when a little girl, the very handsomest and
best dressed girl in the school, sprang up from her
desk and ran across the room.

“Sit over there,” she said, laying one tiny pink
hand on Ralph’s arm, and pointing with the other
toward a vacant desk; “that seat is vacant.”

Ralph said “Thank you,” with a flash of gratitude
in his handsome eyes far more eloquent than words,
and at once established himself in the indicated
seat.

“Sit down, Miss Fitzroy, and attend to your les-
sons,” called the master.

Miss Fitzroy merely shrugged her graceful shoul-
ders, made a comical grimace that set the school in
a titter, and walking leisurely back to her desk,
tossed her books aside, and folding her arms, laid her
curly head down upon them,

Ten minutes more, and the puzzling problem was
solved, and, with a triumphant flourish of the pencil
and a few words of explanation to the owner of the
slate, Mr. Driggs unbent his brows, and turned his
attention to his new scholar.

“T says you, what’s your name ?”

“Ralph Redmond, sir.”

“And I’m to furnish you with books, eh ?”’

“Tf you please, sir.”

Mr. Driggs unlocked his desk, and after consider-
able rummaging, produced a dog-eared copy of a
spelling-book, which he thrust into the boy’s hand.

“Take that, and go to that seat over there by the
water-stand; the desks are reserved.”

But Ralph stood his ground, the dog-eared spell-
ing-book in his hand. He glanced at the title-page,
turned a leaf or two, and then laid it back on the
master’s desk.

‘“‘l’ve been over all that long ago, sir.’

“You have? Suppose you go over it again, then?’

“I'd rather not, sir,” answered Ralph, stoutly. ‘I
know the book by heart, and it would only bea waste
of time.”

Mr. Driggs’ color rose, and his pale gray eyes
darkened. He put one hand stealthily behind him,
and grasping a long, flexible cane, he dealt a sting-
ing blow across the boy’s shoulders, before he had
the faintest idea of what was coming.

“Now, sir, go to your seat, and see if you can study
the books I select,” he thundered. “Here, begin at
‘baker.’ Do you hear me?” ;

“T hear you, sir,’ responded Ralph, but he did not
move an inch.

“Why don’t you go to your seat, then ?”

“T would rather sit at a desk like the other boys,
sir.”

“The desks are reserved for the sons of gentle-
men,’ said Mr. Driggs, with emphasis. “You are a
bound boy, and ought to be glad of the lowest seat in
my school.”

“Then I’m not glad, sir,” retorted Ralph, his eyes
flashing ; ‘‘and if I can’t sit at a desk, I'll stand.”

“That’s the way to talk!’ cried out Miss Fitzroy,
clapping her two small hands.

Mr. Driggs rose up behind his desk, the long cane
in his nervous right hand, his brows bent in an awful
frown.

‘Silence! order!” he stormed.

The whole school dodged down as one head, Miss
Fitzroy excepted. She shook her white fingers at
the angry master with an air of comic defiance that
was irresistible.

If the teacher saw, he did not see fit to heed, but
turned his attention to his new and refractory pupil.

‘“‘You’ll stand, will you?” he said. “Don’t you
think [ can make you sit where I choose?’

“No, sir, not unless I choose to do it,” was the un-
hesitating answer.

Mr. Driggs actually grew pale with amazement.
To be defied in this manner, and by Mr. Pemberton’s
bound boy!

He continued to bend the cane across his hand.
The school was breathless with awe. Miss Fitzroy
rose in her seat, and looked on with parted lips and
wide blue eyes.

“Take this book, and go sit over there op the end
of that bench by the water-stand,” commanded the
teacher, in a voice of forced calnmess. — -

Ralph did net move, and his clear, resolute eyes
did not falter.

“Tean take the book,if you say so, sir,’ he an-
swered, quietly, “though I know every word in it,
but you have no right toput me inacorner by my-
self, because I’m a bound boy, and I won’t sit there !’’

“You won't?”?

“No, sir.” :

The cane whistled through the air, but before it
had touched Ralph’s shoulders, Miss Fitzroy sprang
between him and the teacher.

“Touch him, if you dare!” she cried. her eyes
scintillating with anger. ‘Strike him again at your
peril! He’s right! You have po business to put him
over in that corner, if he is a bound boy! And you
sha’n’t do it,”’ she continued, actually shaking her
sniall fist in the astonished man’s face. ‘‘He shall
sit at the desk-there. Whose house is this? Doesn’t
it belong to my father? Doesn’t he furnish it, too?
Now, sir, let that boy sit at the desk yonder, or to-
morrow you’ll find this school-house door locked in
your face!”

And, wonderful to tell, the upraised cane was low-
ered, and Decimus Driggs sank down into his chair.

“Why, Miss Fitzroy, you astonish me,” he faltered.
“J must see your father about this.”

“T wish you would,” retorted the young lady, walk-
ing back to her desk with an air of lofty triumph.

Meanwhile, Ralph kept his stand, the dog-eared
spelling-book in his hand. Mr. Driggs drew a long
breath, and gave the boy a look which said as plain
as words, “I’ll pay you for this some day.”

“Go to your seat,” he commanded. ‘A pretty row
we've had here over nothing. You may be very sure
I shall let Mr. Pemberton hear of it,”

‘“‘Am I to sit at the desk, sir?” asked Ralph.

“For the present,” replied the teacher.

And like a conquering hero, Ralph crossed the
room and took his seat.

Ralph remained unmolested and hardly noticed
until near the close of the afternoon, when Mr. Driggs
gave the order, ‘Take your seats to spell,” and in-
stantly the room was inanuproar. |

“This is foot and that’s head up yonder,” explained
little Miss Fitzroy, pushing her way to Ralph’s side,
as the school formed into a long line. ‘““Hugh Pém-
berton’s head, though he’s a great dunce, and Mr.
Driggs won’t make him go down. [’m foot; ’tis con-

a

 

venient, you see—saves me the trouble of moving—
so you'll sit here by me. You might go above me
and welcome, but old Snapdragon wouldn't allow it,
of course.” ’ ;

“Never mind, I’ll soon getup: I won’t stay here
long,” said Ralph, seating himself beside her.

aoe little girl laughed, and tossed back her yellow
ringlets.

“T don’t care to get up if I could,” she said.

Mr. Driggs opened his book, and the lesson was he-
gun. At first the words were easy, and were spelled
readily, but after a few minutes “complaisance” was
given out, and it was Master Hugh’s turn to spell.
He missed, so did the next, and the next. The word
eame flying froin wf to lip, and no one could get it
right. Ralph leaned forward in breathless eagerness,
as the teacher’s quick “go on” sent it nearer and
nearer. At last itcame to Miss Fitzroy, but she only
laughed and shook her head. — half rose in his
seat, and spelled the word correctly.

a right, sir; go up head,” said the teacher,
sullenly.

“T sha’n’t go down, Mr. Driggs,” cried Hugh. “T
spelled the word exactly ashe did.” ~~,

“Tf understood you to spell it differently,” said the
teacher, mildly.

“You understood me wrong, then. T spelled it that
same way; didn’t I, Steve Andrews?”

“Yes, you did so.” answered half a dozen voices;
for the children, poor little souls, like too many
grown-up people, were glad to win the favor of the
heir of Pemberton Hall, even at the expense of their
integrity.

“You didn’t do any such thing, Hugh Pemberton,”
cried Miss Fitzroy, indignantly. ‘You said ‘c-o-m-
p-l-a-y’—you know you did!”

“Well, we won’t dispute aboutit,” said the teacher,
blandly. ‘You shall try it over again, Master Hugh.
‘Complaisance.’ Now, let’s hear.”

Master Hugh spelled it right, of course, and kept
his place, while Ralph dropped back in his seat, his
cheeks coloring with mortification and disappoint-
ment.

“The old blunderhead! that's the way he does,”
whispered Miss Fitzroy, and in aspirit of malicious
revenge she put out her small, booted foot, and
tipped over the bench opposite, thereby causing a
great crash and a good deal of confusion.

“Don’t you mind old Driggs,” she said, joining
Ralph, as he walked homeward; “he’s just nobody.
But he's afraid of me, because papa’s rich, you
know, and we live over there in that big house at
Hawk’s Nest. Didn’t you see how quickly he gave in
about the desk? I can manage Driggs, and I sha’n’t
let him impose upon you.”

And with a smile and a nod, and a backward flash

| of her fearless blue eyes, she ran away down the

moorland path,

Ralph paused and looked after her. and up at the
great gray pile on the Hawk’s Nest hill.

“What a beautiful creature she is, and, oh, what a
pleasant thing it must be to be great and rich,” he
thought, as he turned slowly in the direction of Pem-
berton Hall.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 ———

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

VIOLET LISLE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of **Marjorie Deane,” “A Heart’s Idol,”
“The Gipsy’s Daughter,” ‘“‘Gladys Greye,” etc.

 

(“VIOLET LISLE” was commenced in No. 26. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ECHO OUT OF THE PAST.

| T was quite plain, from the
direct way in which Lord Col-
denham went to the stage door
of the theater, that he was well
informed of the customs of the
profession. The sdme door-
keeper of whom Violet had in-
quired her way stood on guard,
and Lord Coldenham accosted
him in the familiar, easy fash-
4 \ ion of a man of the world who

knew the ground on which he was stepping.

“TI say, my good fellow,” slipping a half-crown into
his hand, “who has the chorus in charge now ?”

“George, my lord,”

The man had. made an estimate of the stranger in
a rapid glance over him. ie

“George? What George?’

 

“Don’t know, my lord, Honly name ’e ever goes P

by: around ’ere.”
“Oh! Allright. Where shall I find him ?’
“Gone out, ny lord.” 3

“The duse! When’ll he be back?’

“Don’t know. What did you want to know? Any-
thing I could do for you?” mad

Lord Coldenham rubbed his chin reflectively.

“Perhaps,” he said, slowly, and’ pulled another
half-crown from his pocket and gave it to the man. j
“T want to inquire about a—a—young—woman who
came here this morning to apply for a place in the
chorus.”

A quick flash of intelligence lighted up the man’s
face. He had thought of Violet in an instant.

“Against the rules to talk of the women,” he said.

“Oh, I know that,” Jaughed Lord Coldenham, know-
ingly. ‘I have served my apprenticeship; but I am
past that sort of thing now. [ am a friend of the
young woman’s family. You will be safe to answer
me. It’s worth a pound if I find the one [ am after.”

“What is she like?’ demanded the man, willing to
believe in the virtue of the nobleman, for the sake of
the pound.

“Medium height, blue eyes, golden hair.”

“A lady ?”

‘SYex,’

“Very shy, and with a voice like a angel ?”’

“Precisely. What do you know about her? Is she
inside? Has she been engaged ?”

“Well, now, [ don’t kyow anything about that
there, your lordship. All I know is, she came here,
and staid some time inside. After all the other girls
was gone, she came out with George and went off in
a four-wheeler with him; but where she went, [ don’t
know. And I oughtn’t’a said somuch. Much as my
place ’ud be worth if [ was found out. Here’s George,
now. Quick! Thank you, my lord. Don’t let on as
I said a word. Oh, George, here’s a gent as wants to
know something about a chorus girl. I told ’imT
couldn’t say nothing about it.”

Lord Coldenham turned and looked at George. The
latter started, and then collected himself quickly and
looked inquiringly at the nobleman. Lord Colden-
ham studied him fora moment; but it was with the
glance ofa man who is making an estimate for use
in his dealings.

“A word with you, if you please, sir,’ said Lord
Coldenham, politely ana gravely.

George bowed, and allowed himself to be led aside.

“Tam looking for a young lady who has left her
home,” said Lord Coldenham, in a paternal tone of
voice. :

There was a little pressure of George’s lips together,
and he answered: ee

“Yes?

“Yes; and her friends are aes distressed. There
was reason to believe that she had come here to
apply for a place in the chorus, and I have come
here to discover if it be so.”

“‘Vhat does she look like ?’”’ asked George, sooo

“She is young, very beautiful, has blue eyes, golden
hair, and is of medium height. Her voice is ex-
quisite. Has she been here ?”’

*Vhat is her name ?’

“She would naturally use some other than her own
name,” answered Lord Coldenham, too shrewd to be-
tray the name unless it was necessary. ‘Can you not
identify her by the description ?”

“Perhaps you don’t know, sir, that it is against the
rules to give any information about the vomen con-
nected vith the theater.”

“Yes, I do; but I think in sucha case the rules
should be inoperative. [am willing to pay for the
information, and I will reward handsomely anybody
who will let me have a word with the young lady I
am searching for,’ and the wily nobleman looked
keenly at George.

“T ought to know your name,” said George.

“Certainly. Sir Henry Brown; but of course it
would not do to let the young lady know who was
seeking her. I ought to be taken to her without any
announcement.” ‘

“Perhaps the young lady I havein mind is not the
one you are looking for,” said George, doubtfully.

“T’ll risk that. Will you take me to her now ?”

“Suppose it should be a mistake ?”

“T’ll make a good excuse. Where is she ?”’

“Do you know Lady Vestall?” inquired George,
eying the other keenly.

“Can't say I do. Don’t remember her, anyhow.
What of her ?”’ ;

“The young lady is vith her—the one I mean.”

“What the duse is she doing with Lady Westall?”

“Tf it should be the young lady you are looking for,
you could find that out from her. I’m villing to take
you there.” 5

Lord Coldenham hesitated, in some doubt about
what to do; but finally determined to go; for until
he had some certainty of what Violet would do in
the future, he could not feel easy; and he really had
no reason to suppose that Violet would regard him
in any unfriendly light.

you deeper into distress. Let me think! A

 

‘Let us go at once,” he said.

George called a cab, and in a short time they were
being admitted into Lady Westall’s house. George
sent his card up and received word to go up stairs to
the boudoir. :

“T’ll go up first,” he said to Lord Coldenham, “and
will prepare the young lady for your coming.”

eas say who it is that wishes to see her,” said
Lord Coldenham, quickly.

“All right,” and he went up to the boudoir, where
he found Lady Westall and Violet talking together.

“Well?” said Lady Westall, in her brisk way, “what
now, George ?” ;

“A gentleman has been to the theater inquiring
fora ie lady who answers to the description of
Miss Marsden here.” _ .

Violet caught Lady Westall’s hand with a gesture
of alarm. : :

“Don’t be worried, my dear. Come, George, don't
be mysterious. Say right out whatis in your mind.
What did you tell the man?’

“T told him she was here.”
oa cried Violet, in dismay, ‘‘why did you do

at?’

‘Hush, dear! Don’t alarm her, George. Why did
you tell him she was here ?”

“Because I recognized the man. It was Lord
Coldenham.” -

“Lord Coldenham !* and Lady Westall arose to her
feet with a superb air of anger,

“Lord Coldenham !”’ repeated Violet, with a shud-
der in her voice; for the name recalled the agony of
her sacrifice.

“What do you know of him, child?” demanded
Lady Westall, so vehemently that Violet shrank
from her in dismay.

“It was he who persuaded me to renounce—my
lover,” she whispered.

“Het he?” said Lady Westall. “Oh, the wretch!
what villainy is he plotting now? Why did you tell
him where she was, George? You knew him. Why
did you do it?’

‘‘He had already bribed the doorkeeper, and I was
afraid to refuse him the information, lest he should
find out where the young lady was and do her harm
before we could prevent it; but letting him know,
and then keeping bin under my eye——”

“T see, I see. nd where is he now ?”’

‘Down stairs, waiting to see the young lady.”

Violet wrung her hands at the thought of esas
her recent wounds torn open again, as she saw woulc
be done if she met Lord Coldenham. Then came the
sudden hope that he might be the bearer of good
news. Whatif Lady Darlington had relented? What
if she had sent Lord Coldenham to restore her to
Guy? She ceased wringing her hands and looked at
Lady Westall.

“Perhaps he comes with good news.”

“Lord Coldenham? Never. He comes to pitas

h, yes.
You are wise, George, and as kind as ever. You
must see him, Miss Marsden. But where? Why,
here. See, Miss Marsden! He shall be brought here
to see you, and I will be there, where I can hear
everything that is said. I shall hear some things you
do not wish me to; but you may trust me. Him, you
cannot trust, andif I am to help you, I must try to
learn his secret; for, depend upon it, my dear child!
he has a secret interest in separating you from your
lover. Let him come up, George. Compose your-
self, Miss Marsden. You need say very little. He
will do the talking. Go, George!”

George left the room, and Lady Westall remained.

only long enough to reassure Violet once more.

Presently Lord. Coldenham was ushered into the
boudoir by George, who immediately retired, leaving
the nobleman face to face with his victim.

Violet looked at him eagerly, to see if she could
discover any ground for hope in his face, and, seeing
none, let her hands fall despairingly in her lap and
waited for him to speak. :

“My dear young lady,” he said, pityingly, “you
cannot know how rejoiced I am to find you again.”

“Why should you be?’ she asked, sadly.

“Why should [ be? How can you ask that? As
soon as I learned that your father had refused you.
the shelter of his roof, and that you had gone to Lon-
don in company With the curate, I made it my duty
to seek you, in order that I might offer my services
to assist you in any way that might lie in my power.”

“You are very kind,’ answered Violet, gratefully ;°
“but you can do nothing. I am in the hands of
friends, and I need no assistance. Do what you ean
to clear the good name of Mr. Jenkins from the odium
that has been cast upon it for his kindness in escort-
ing me to London, and — me. The past is dead
to me—I wish it to be dead, and the greatest kind-

ness you can do me is to forget that I have ever ex-

isted.”

“For Guy’s sake I would like to be of some assist-
ance to you.”

Violet trembled at the name of her lost lover, and
pressed her hand to her bosom as if to repress its
heaving. : ‘

“Guy !’’ she faltered; “Guy! Tell me of him. How
did he—did he——”

“I know what you wonld say,” interposed the
hypocritical nobleman. ‘How did he act when he
knew he had lost you? He was furious, broken-

hearted at first. and did all he eould to find you; but}

you will rejoice to know thaf he is reconciled to it at
Jast and has gone abroad for a time. When he re-
turns he will carry out his mother’s wishes in regard
to his marriage.” : .

Violet clasped her hands tightly together, but did
not speak for a moment. ° Then she said, slowly and
with an effort: on

‘“‘He is reconciled because he believes me unworthy.
But I know—oh, thank Heaven that I do know !—he
did and he does love me. But leave me, my lord. Go
away. Why do you come here to torture me with
recollections of what [ have given up? Will you not
let the Violet Lisle who was so happy in the past be
dead? Ishall never trouble you or him or any who
haveever known me. My father has disowned me
and driven me from his door, and itis my right to
pass away from the knowledge of Sraryibdy that
ever knew meas Violet Lisle.” a

“Far be it from me,” answered Lord Coldenham,
“to wish to do anything contrary to your wishes or
your welfare. Lonly ask the opportunity to assist
you. Tf you will let me do nothing else, at least let
me advise you. What do you propose to do in the
future ?”’ 2

“It is better that you should not know.”

“T understand you,” he answered, kindly; “but re-
member that you are so young and so innocent of the
ways of a world, alas! all too wicked, and that you
are in sore danger of wrecking a life that is full of
promise. Who are these friends who offer you help
so opportunely? Are they old friends or new ones?
New ones, I must think, since you say you puf all
old friends into a past that must die.”

“They are friends that [can trust, and that must
suffice for an answer,” replied Violet.

“Pardon me,” he said, in the same gentle and
fatherly tone that he had adopted from the start; “I
do not doubt that they are all that you say ; but when
I find that they are connected with the chorus of a
theater how can [ do otherwise than question you?
I willreadily promise never to interfere with your
life, never to reveal even that you live; but will you
not permit me, as an old man and a true friend, to
guard you against wrong ?”’

“A wolf is but a poor guardian for a lamb, Lord
Coldenham !”

Lord Coldenham turned quickly to where Lady
Westall stood, superb and scornful. Vielet had for-
gotten her, and she, too, turned a startled glance on
her protectress.

“T think you know me, my lord,’ said Lady West-
all; ‘cand I do not hesitate to say that you will agree
thatLlama better guardian of this poor, wronged
child than you. Base and cruel as I know you to be,
itis a wonder, even to me, that her beauty and good-
ness did not warm into life within your breast one
throb of compassion. I have listened to your words
to her, hoping you would betray some part of the
secret cause for her persecution; but I have listened
in vain, and I have not the endurance to listen longer.
So now I say to you, begone from this house! And
keep wellin mind that I am her friend, and that I,
alas! have that knowledge of the wickedness of the
world, which she lacks, and that I will protect her
from you and your kind. And more—I will make it
my part to fathom the secret whichis the cause of
your interestin her. Go!”

For a brief moment Lord Coldenham had the air of

.a rat driven into a corner, and without any alterna-

tive but to fight; but hisconfusion was evanescent
and was gone almost as it eame. He listened to
Lady Westall’s arraignment of him with a politeness
that was somewhat exaggerated, it is true, but which
was without any trace of embarrassment. When she
had finished, he said: ‘ ;

“Tt is a long time since I have seen you; but I be-
lieve [recognize Mary Thorne. As to your fitness
for the guardianship of this young lady, there may
be a question. It will be for her to decide that. Cer-
tainly if one who has passed through the fire is the
best guide for one who is in danger from the flames,
then you are the niost fit. Violet, do you know who
and what this—this—what she is and has been ?”’

Violet turned to where Lady Westal! stood with
blazing eyes. She looked for a glance from her; but
the maligned woman stood proudly erect, and with
all her gaze fixed on the man whose slanderéus
tongue had again, after the lapse of many years, re-
newed the infamy of his youth.

Violet flashed one indignant glancé at Lord Colden-
ham, and, then glided to the side of Lady Westall,
and wound her arm around her waist. :

“Lord Coldenham,‘” she said, with a haughty scorn
that seemed strange in her, ‘I am rejoiced that you
came here to-day. I know you for something base. It
may be some satisfaction to you, that for your own,
or for Lady Darlington’s purposes, you have ruined
my life. Yes, it israined, and I know myself and I
know Guy, and what has been can never be again.
Meddle no more in my life, or I warn you that TI will
suffer any humiliation to have Guy know the full ex-
tent of your baseness.”’

Lord Coldenham bowed. For some reason he felt
Violet’s denunciation of him more than he had Lady
Westall’s. And he felt, too, that he was in worse
danger now, than ever, unless he could be sure that
the two women would be content to let the matter
rest where it was. There was almost murder in his

 

=

heart at that moment; but he controlled his tongue,
and. said, in a tone of grief:
“oy regres that [am misunderstood; but IT cannot

pretend to control ro actions, and I can only say
seen cae with the best wishes for your future wel-
are.”

Lady Westall saw him leave the room without ut-
tering a word in reply to his attack upon her gov
name. But no sooner was the door closed upon him
than she clas Violet in her arms, sobbing:

“Heaven bless you for your trust in me! Who
could have believed that the mere sound of those
slanderous words would have had the power to bring
up in my heart all the agony of the days when they
were first coined and uttered by these same lips?
teh bless you! Let us live for each other in the

‘uture.’ ;

 

‘
CHAPTER XXvV.
AFTER THREE YEARS.

It was on a day three years and more after the
events described in the last chapter, that two strik-
ingly beautiful women stood in front of a neat little
come and looked out upon the smiling waters of
the blue Mediterranean.

One of the women was statuesque and magnificent,
and she was the elder by a quarter of a century. The

| younger woman was lardly more than twenty years

of age, and was of a beauty of form and face so ex-

uisite, so ravishing, that the magnificent beauty of
t ie Pre was searcely apparent when contrasted
w it.

“How much better, this, than thefashionable bustle
and publicity of Nice,” said the elder of the two.

“Oh, dear Lady Mary! the relief of not being every
moment stared at and pointed out as a curiosity.”

“The price pe must pay for fame, dear Mabel,”
laughed Lady Mary.

Violet Lisle, famous in England and on the Con-
tinent as Mabel Marsden, agthe possessor of the
richest and purest mezzo-soprano on the concert
stage, and Lady Mary Westall had sought the seclu-
sion of one of the little-visited villages of the Riviera
for recuperation after a season of phenomenal suc-
cess and triumphin London. For Lady Mary shared

in the triumph of her young friend quite as much as.

if she had sung herself, and declared she needed re-
cuperation just as much. -

In truth, however, there was no great need of it in
either case; for Violet was endowed with a vigorous
constitution, and when blessed time had applied its
healing bali to her wounds, had recovered all her
certo perfection of health, To say that she had

orgotten her anguish, or never recurred to it with a
pang, would be untrue; but, at least, it did not pre-
vent her leading a serene, wholesome life.

On the very day after the visit from Lord Colden-
ham she and Lady Mary had left England and gone
to Italy to study. And studied she had, with all the
ardor of one who has something to livedown. After-
ward she had returned to London with a Continental
reputation, and had made her. own and worthy
George Simpson's fortune with her voice. __

In all the time that had gone by she had neither
seen nor heard a word concerning the people who had
madea part of her life up to that time. She had
begged Lady Mary to keep anything relating to the

ast a her. Once, indeed, she had said to her
rend ¢

“Learn something about my father and about Mar-
tin Jenkins. If they are happy and prosperous, tell
me nothing. If they are unhappy or in want, take
my money to the last penny and assist them.”

Lady Mary had inquired and had never made any
report, so that Violet knew that the two to whom she
felt she owed all her duty and all her gratitude in the
ee. that was past, were in no need of her care or her

elp. i

Sometimes her heart yearned to see one of them—
even the father who had so cruelly turned her from
his house, to tind either death or infamy, as if it mat-
tered nothing to him. Then old Goody White would
come up before her in all her homely goodness, and
she would have given anything to be taken into the

“kindly old arms again as in the days that seemed so

far away. :

But she had never yielded to her longing; fearing
that any recurrence to the past, even in the happiest
phase, would but tear open the wounds, at least
seared over if not healed. And yet the desire to hear
a word of Guy, to know how hé was—anything, any-
thing of him—drove her almost to madness at times.
At first she had hoped, within her dread, that she
would see him some time when she was singing ; and
many a time she had sganned the upturned faces of
her crowded audiences in the expectation of seeing
his. But as the weeks and months went by without
any sign of him, she accepted it as one of the things
that would never be.

There was a suspicion of sadness lurking in the
depths of her violet-blue eyes; but it was hardly
noticeable even to Lady Mary, and was quite hidden
from the ordinary observer. Certainly any one look-
ing at her that afternoon, as she stood drinking in
the glories of the landscape, would have said that she
was supremely and incomparably happy.

“It looks as if we were going to have some unde-
sirable neighbors.” said Lady Mary presently. _

“How? Where?’ asked Violet. dreamily. ..

“At the little inn, over the hill-side, yonder,” an-
swered Lady Mary. “I am glad now that we decided
to come to this cottage instead of stopping there.
See! They are English, too, I do believe, from the
amount of luggage. An invalid, I fancy. See how
they assist the lady out of the carriage! Stop look-
ing at that ‘landscape in that rapt fashion, Mabel,
and give some attention to the human features
about us,” ; oo

Violet laughed gently, and turned her head to look
toward the inn. She knew that her good friend was
afraid of morbid thoughts and was taking this
method of distracting them. x ‘ -

“Poor creature !”’ she said, prementy. “Tam always
so sorry for any one who is ill. But I suppose every
one is not as dependent on good health as I am.
Fancy if I were to become ill!”
ce care to fancy any such unpleasant thing,
Mabel.’ : ne

“T should not like to lose my voice now,” said Vio-
let, absently. -

“Lose your voice!” cried Lady Mary, uneasily.
“Do stop talking about it, Mabel, or I shall shake
you,” and she went nearer to Violet, as if to carry
out her threat, but in reality to put her arm coax-
ingly around her. ;

“Oh, [ don’t feel at all sick, dear; so don’t be
alarmed,” laughed Mabel. ‘Ah, here comes Felicie.
She will bea sure to know all about our visitors in

yonder inn and your insatiable curiosity will be |

gratified.”
Lady Mary, who wasin truth the least curious of
women, laughed softly and caressed lovingly one of

the little white hands as_it pointed to where Violet’s |

French maid was coming across a closely mown field.
She had in fact been at the inn at the time of the
arrival of the strangers, and was primed with all
the details she had been able to gather with that
ere of discovery which is peculiar to a lady’s
maid.

Neither her mistress, whom she worshiped with a
truly French fervor, nor Lady Mary, whom she ad-
mired as if she had been a man, would take very
much interest in her discoveries; but it was a part

of her training to gather and spread information. |

So ae approached eagerly and began with her pretty
accent: :

“Oh, mademoiselle! Some rich English! Such
boxes! She was traveling to Nice and was taken
ill—the lady, Imean. Oh, she looks very bad—sick,
I mean.” :

“Not very sick, I hope?’ said Violet.

“TI don’t know. The physician from Paris, who was
stopping in the next village, has been sent for. My-
self, I think she is very sick.” :

“You will go over after supper and inquire, please,”
said Violet; “and if we can do anything, make the
offer, But I suppose she has servants to do anything
she desires. Still, they are all strangers, and we may
be able to do something.” ~

It seemed so little likely that the lady would need
any service at their hands that neither of the ladies
gave the matter more than a passing thought after
that moment; but Felicie was faithful to her curios-
ity and went over to the inn after supper.

Violet and Lady Mary were strolling about when
they saw her returning across the field at a rate of
speed that suggested a bull in pursuit, though there
was no such animal in sight.

“Felicie must have something momentous to tell to
put her at that pace,” said Lady Mary.

Violet laughed and restrained Lady Mary, so that
the flying maid was soon up with them.

“What is it, Felicie?” asked Lady Mary; “have you
found your long-lost father ?”’ :

“Oh, madam, do not joke!” said Felicie. “It is
dreadful—very dreadful! We must fly from here.”

2 “Not. I,” said Lady Mary. ‘Mabel! Fancy me
ying.

“Ah!” said Felicie, tragically, “you will always.

joke, madam; but this is noé to laugh at, for made-
moiselle’s sake.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lady Mary, per-
emptorily, frightened in 2 moment at the thought of
danger of yy, sort to Violet. ~

“The lady has diphtheria.” said Felicie.

Lady Mary turned pale. Diphtheria! Suppose Vio-
let were to takeit! |

“You are right, Felicie, we must go at once. Have
the trunks packed. I will see to paying the bills.
Mabel, my darling! your voice!”

“T suppose you are right,” sighed Violet; “but it
seems wrong, somehow, to run away.” ;

“Nonsense!” said Lady Mary, decidedly. :

“Tt is what everybody will do,” said Felicie. ‘The
servants have run already, and nobody will stay in
the inn. The landlord is crazy. The lady—Lady Dar-
lington her name is——” =

“What name?” cried Violet, catching her by the
arm. .

“Lady Darlington. Oh, mademoiselle! what is the
matter?” = =:

“Nothing,” said Lady Mary, sharply, folding her
arms around Violet with a certain savageness, as if
to defend her from evil she could foresee. ‘Go see
to the trunks, Felicie. Don’t give way, my darling.
We will hurry from here. Come into the house.”

“It isn't that,” said Violet,in a low voice. ‘I am
not afraid of having her see me. She would not know

\

 

'
me. But she is—his mother; aud she is here, de-
serted, and perhaps dying.”

“What of it?’ cried Lady Mary, brusquely. “Come!
Let us go into the house. Don’t think of it.”

“T must think of it, Lady Mary. A thought flashed
intu my brain when Felicie told me who it was—did
Felicie say it was an old lady, or a young one? Did
she at, nich it was %” : ee
“é Oo ’

“Won't you ask her, please ?”
Yes.”

And Lady Mary ran after Felicie. She returned in
. i. moments. Violet was standing as she had

eft her. :

“She says the sick lady is past middle age.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Violet, in alow tone. Then,
after a short pause, ay ag Tam going over to
see if I can be of any service to her.”

“You shall not,” cried Lady Mary, vehemently.

“T must, dear.’ ae

“Think of your throat, Mabel.”

“Oh, no,” sobbed Mabel, with a sudden passionate
outburst, “I cannot think of that. What I think of
is that she is his mother. And, as Heaven judges
me, it would be the same to me if she were his wife.
I must go.” :

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

-e~<

RPSL

THE SPIDER OF ARLE.
By Mrs. HELEN CORWIN PIERCE,

Author of ‘The False Champion,” “Married in
Jest,” **Rachel Devereux,” “‘Self-Condemned,”’
“The Pretty Schemer,” etc.

 

[“UNDER FALSE COLORS” was commenced in No. 30.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER XXI.
ve A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

“Whatis the nature of what Sir John Vandeleur
says of either your father or me?” asked Lady Oswyn
of her son.

“Of my father he speaks always in terms of pro-
found affection and deep compassion.”

“Why compassion ?”’ :

“He never explains, and I never ask. TI havye an
idea—though I could not tell where I got it—that he
fancies my father came to his death unfairly, and he
often concludes something he has been saying on the
subject, by adding, ‘I wish I could stumble upon
Madame Felina again.’ Did you ever hear of Madame
Felina, mother ?”’ :

“Yes, I have heard of her,” Lady Oswyn answered,
in a sort of stifled voice. “She was a fortune-teller,
who used to be in London about seventeen or
eighteen years ago. Whatsays Sir John of me?”

“He very seldom says anything; but I imagine he
does not like you, mother, and it puzzles me. You,
so beautiful, so lovable, so admired—why should he
not like you?”

“Heaven knows! I have always suspected it. It
was probably your father’s influence over him. Be
thankful, my son, every hour of your life, that in you
that frightful feud between the Arles and Carnagies

must end. I believe it will. Why even now, by your
father’s will, I am not allowed to meet my ‘own
father and brother, on pain of losing the miserable
pittance that is doled out to me asanincome. You

should share it with me.” :

“But I do manage to save you some of it, small as
it is,” Hector said, with a blush. “Did you see,
mother, what Sir John said about your income and
the rest ?”

“T did,” said Lady Oswyn, hanghtily; “and I am
proud to feel that I do not need to defend myself to
my son by any assertion contradictory of Sir John
Vandeleur’s aspersions and falsehoods.”

Hector looked pained. :

“Of course, mother,” he said, “it is impossible for
me to ever question you ; but it pains me to find Sir
John so prejudiced against you. I can’t believe he
meant to misrepresent the matter. The income you
receive ears seems a large sum to him.”

ee swyn clenched her small white hands pas-
sionately. ‘

“T hate Sir John Vandeleur!” she said, vengefully;
“and if ever the time comes when [can pay him some
of the debt I owe him, I will certainly do so.”

While Lady Oswyn talked with her son, an aged
serving-man belonging: to the place was engaged on
some gardening operation under an open window
near. When the conference was over, he watched
his chance to speak to the young earl, whom all the
oe household worshiped, at the same time
that they secretly detested his beautiful countess
mother. — ,

The old man’s face was very white as he finally
ee his young master, with whom he was a fa-
vorite.

Hector Carnagie smiled a welcome to him.

“My lord,’ said old
hand—‘‘my lord, I was born at Carnagie; I hope I
shall die here. I love every,stick and stone of Car-

agie.”’

“T believe you do,” laughed the young lord.

“And I love the Carnagies. They’re a handsome
and high-headed, tender and loving sort. I loved
your father afore I did you, my lord. A nobler Car-
nagie never stepped.”

Lord Hector frowned slightly.

“Have you anything you wish to say te me in par-
ticular, Rupert?’ he asked. : #

“My lord, it is very particular, what there is.”

“Say it then at once. I promised to join Lady
Oswyn in half an hour by the lake.” @

The old man hung back doubtfully. s

“You'll mayhap tell her ladyship, and I'll get sent
away from Carnagie for saying it.”

communication was nothing of importance.

“You shall never be sent from Carnagie while I am
master here,” he said.

“Thanks, my lord. Ionly wanted to ask you if you
knew that all the real Carnagies have the gift of
second sight?”

Lord Hector changed countenance.

“You have been listening under the drawing-room
window, Rupert.”

“Tf could not help it, my lord. I was working there.
I did hear your lordship and my lady. But I never
heard before that the oe es were haunted, or
that one of their ancestors had committed a crime.
I don’t mean no disrespect. my lord, but I’ve known
the Carnagies and all their stories before her lady-
mS was born, and I never heard that one——”

“In short, you think my mother has been misin-
formed,” said Lord Hector.

Rupert puckered his old lips. Then, leaning for-
ward, said, sternly, and in thrilling tones:

“My lord, whatever you Carnagies see by reason of
your gift, is no vision of the past, no prophecy of the
future. You behold the present. That old man,
that wretched captive behind the carved door, is
some one of your own blood, perishing slowly and
horribly, but ever turning his terrible eyes on you,
and biding that time when, through you, he shall be
fearfully avenged on his enemies.”

Old Rupert, with his flowing beard and white hair,
looked and spoke like a seer.

“Who is he, Rupert, and who are his enemies ?”
Lord Hector asked, lightly, though, in spite of him-
self, he was somewhat affected by the solemnity and
earnestness of the old man’s manner. ;

“That is for you to discover, my lerd. Old Rupert
cannot interpret farther,” said the old man, study-
ing his young master’s face anxieusly. ‘Beware
how you néglect one effort to penetrate this secret,
which involves some one nearly related to you.”

“Rupert,” he asked, in a low voice, “did you ever

Lady Oswyn ?”’

“T never heard of such a room at Carnagie House:
There is one, if tales be true, at Castle Arle.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Hector; “her ladyship
re have kuown it if there had been such a one
there.”’ SSB ‘

“T should think so,” Rupert answered, dryly. ‘TI
know naught but what I’ve heard. I’ve never been
inside Castle Arle myself.”

“And Tin forbidden ever to go there by my father’s
will,” said Hector, laughing. 5

“Don't laugh about it, my lord,” said Rupert, en-
treatingly, his voice quavering. “It might be your
own dear father. His death was never satisfactorily
proved to his friends, and never a Carnagie but an
Arle hated.” ‘ :

At this moment, most unexpectedly to both Lord
Hector and Rupert, Lady Oswyn swept in. front of
them. She had been listening to every werd from
behind a convenient cluster of thick laurel

She stood a moment looking at both,.her eyes
sparkling with anger, her bearing haughty and con-
temptuous. : .

Poor Rupert wished the earth would open and
swallow him. Lord Hector returned her gaze with
one which, though respectful, was proud and firm.

“Come with me, Hector,” she said.

Lord Hector bowed. ‘ ;

“One moment, my lady,” and turning to old Rupert,

 

 

 

“I shall keep my word to you, fear not,” he said, and
ywent with his mother. See

 

 

 

are yourself kept-on short allowance for fear you

Rupert, with his hat in his”

Lord Hector reflected a moment. G

see or hear of such a room as the one I described to

*

Lord Hector laughed, presuming that Rupert's —

 

 

 
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
    
   
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
    
  
   
   
  

 

 

  
      

 

6 ee

   
      
      
     

   
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
    
      
 
 
    
      
    
  
 
  
  
  
       

 

 
 
 
  
   
   
   

 
   
        
     
 
   
   
    
       
     
     
     
  
    
    
  
    
       
    
   
    
     
       
          
   

   

  
   
 

 

  
    
   

 

     
        
      
          
       
    
   
      
    
   
    
      
      
        
        
     
     
      
       
 

 

ee Nt

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VOL. 45—No, 36.

wasiza THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=>

 

 

 

The instant they were alone, Judith Carnagie.took
her-son’s hands in hers.

“Look into my eyes, Hector, and see if I am not
telling the truth,” she said, passionately. “I loved

our father, though I have taught you to hate him.

ven after he abandoned me, because he discovered
T was an Arle, I loved him and would have been will-
ing to live with him—if he had loved me—in the
meanest hovel. But he steadfastly declared that
though he had adored me at first, he could never
love me now. I believe he died a natural death. I
solemnly believe he is dead. If that is not enough
for you, ask Sir John Vandeleur. He went at my de-
sire and his own, and personally investigated the
circumstances of your father’s death. I.do not think,
much as he abhors we, that he blames me in that
affair, or, indeed, in any, except for marrying your
father under a false name, and I have always de-
spised myself for that—I suspect that, like your
father, he hates me for being an Arle. Whatever
evil he can say of me, however, he is at liberty to
say to you, and you to listen. I would so much
rather, Hector, that you went to a gentleman for
such gossip than to a servant.”

Lord Hector was completely quelled, made utterly
ashamed. ‘

He uever asked Sir John Vandeleur a question, nor
renewed his conversation with Rupert.

There was a reason for the last omission, however.

Old Rupert had disappeared from Carnagie, and
from the knowledge of all, about six weeks after
Lord Hector’s last visit to his ancestral home.

Lord Hector wondered much, and investigated
much. But he never spoke Rupert’s name to his
mother, and he never discovered any clew to his
mysterious disappearance.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
“(A STROKE OF THE PEN HAS ROBBED ME!”

Time passed, and Hector Carnagie. came to his
majority. :

The will, that important and mysterious part of it
ee had lain in abeyance so long, was made known
at last.

Everything except the income allowed Lady Car-
nagie was left to Hector Carnagie, Lord Oswyn, on
conditions, viz.: Not one penny more than her in-
come could be given: the ambitious and beautiful
countess, no matter how much her son adored her.

Not one penny could bespent upon Arle directly
or indireetly, except as Lady Carnagie herself chose
to spend such moneys from her own income.

Hector himself, it was reiterated, was never to
cross the threshold of Castle Arle, except his mother
lay dying, and he was summoned to see her die.

She could visit him at Carnagie as much as she
liked, and stay as long as she pleased. But if, either
directly or indirectly, the conditions of the will
proper were infringed, every farthing of money,
every rood of land, every town-house, country-seat,
castle, carriage, and dog-cart, passed to the next of
kin on the Carnagie side.

Lady Oswyn fainted away when she heardit. It
was hard, looking at matters as she did.

Baron Arle and his son were waiting near, and al-
though neither fainted on hearing the news, both
swore and cursed frightfully, which was much
worse.

It was~true that one of the conditions on which
Lady-Oswyn received herincome was that she should
never have her father or brother at Castle Arle; but
it was not true that she was not permitted to meet
them any where else.

Virgil Carnagie had hated the Arles with all the
bitter vindictiveness of an enmity handed down
through two hundred generations!

If he had studied the subject for years he could not
have invented a will that would have tormented and
huiuiliated his enemies more.

He knew that the Arles, all of them, loved Castle
Arle with that passionate devotion which most men
feel for the home—above all, the ancestral home. He
knew that Baron Arle and his son would calculate on
sharing Judith’s allowance, and had made it a large
one, perhaps on that very account to tempt them,
for he made that allowance dependent on the ban-
ishment of'father and son entirely from Arle, their
own home, and their only reminiscence of former
grandeur. It was the refinement of vengeance.

Not that Virgil Carnagie believed they would
henceforth really avoid Castle Arle, or that he wished
the Lady Judith deprived of her income if they ven-
tured thither, but that they would be compelled to
venture secretly, if at all, within the halls of their
own ancestors, and to think of him with bitterness
and gall every time they did so.

Lady Oswyn, Baron Arle, and Dewitt Arle met in
solemn conclave immediately after the reading of the
will. They met at the apartments of a person known
to the reader already as Madame Felina.

Dewitt Arle was polite and sneering by turns.

Baron Arle looked, as he was ambitious to look,
like an elegant and fashionable gentleman of leisure.
He must have had in his time to resort to many and
strange expedients fora living. He might have been
hungry at this very moment, and anxious to shun
the unfortunate tailor from whose innocent credulity
he had obtained the handsome suit he was wearing.
But there was no sign of such a thing in his appear-
ance. Hedid look much older, perhaps quite the
twenty-two or three years he had gained since we
first saw him.

He seemed peevish, too, and carried himself very
ill-naturedly.

He had plotted so long—ever since his daughter
Judith, as a child, gave hintof the magnificent
beauty she was to become. He had reared and
trained her almost in ignorance of her own name, for
the single purpose of marrying her to the Lord of

“Carnagie at last, and venting in one terrible ven-
geance his hatred and envy of the whole family. It
had looked very simple in the plan, and had seeued
a success, When, as Beatrix Fanshawe, Virgil Car-
nagie had atlast married Judith Arle. But when
Virgil had actually, in his intoxication of happiness,
made his will in his wife’s favor, Baron Arle
could hardly contain his exultation. Nothing could
hinder the Carnagie treasures from passing to the
Arles now, he said, proudly, to his daughter.

“Except his discuvering who Lam, and altering his
will,” gently reminded Judith.

“Oh, that, perhaps. But thereis no danger, not
the slightest,” replied the happy baron, and went on
calculating what alterations should be made at
Castle Arle some day with this Carnagie money,
what grandeur should reign within those rebuilt
walls. Heé€éven fancied some threadbare and seedy
scion of the Carnagies standing atar off and gazing
with hating and envious eyes.

Alas, what a trifle had wrecked the sanguine
baron’s hopes so far!

What a wall was now built between him and all
that he longed for! He wet his daughter Judith al-
most savagely.

“After all I have done to improve the fortunes of
the Arles, to be balked by you, you, a woman with
only your face to help you on,” he said, viciously.
“Tf the Carnagie money had been at the control of a
woman, J might have married her, and we should not
be sitting here, as we are now, three failures.”

Lady Judith sat with her beautiful face marble

ale, her dark eyes setin a sort of angry scorn and

atred of everybody.

“You need not put the failure of your schemes
upon ine as you did the work,” she said, contemptu-
ously. “I ghould have done well enough if Dewitt
had staid where he should. My husband loved the
dust under my feet. If I could have kept him from
discovering that I was Judith Arle till his son was
grown he would have learned to love me enough to
forgive me for that one great fault, and for my sake
he would have restored Arle himself.”

Dewitt Arle laughed.

“Such a joke, Judith, as that would have been—
such a joke, in fact, as the whole thingis! Egad!
that night I — at Cafnagie House I never slept a
wink for laughing. There were three of your Car-
nagie dough-heads hanging on the walls of my sleep-
ing room, aud I lay and grinned at their impotence
to harm me, as no doubt their ghosts would have
liked to do, till I almost fancied they were coming
out of their frames to rend and tear me.”

Lady Oswyn shuddered.

“Tt would have served you rightif they had,’ she
said, angrily. ‘‘Did you know they have a tradition
among the Carnagies that some of them have the
gift of second sight, and that whenever a lord of Car-
nagie isin danger, he has the power of revealing
himself to the next of kin?”

“Really? No, indeed. Is it possible?’ sneered

Dewitt.

Judith looked at him with her stern, handsome

“JT have kept my son studiously ignorant of this
tradition, and when he went to Sir John Vandeleur
I exacted from him a promise not to. inform him of
it. Iknow that Hector did not suspect such a thing
until recently. Yet for yearshe has seen at times
our prisoner at Castle Arle!”

Both Baron Arle and Dewitt started.

Then Dewitt sneered again.

Without looking at him Judith went on.

“What would you think of Hector describing the
room he is in both outside and in. What would you
think of my son, who never yet set foot within Castle
Arle, making drawings like these ?”’

She produced a number of pictures, some of them
mere sketches, those already alluded to in a former
chapter, but more were finished drawings of the
same face as that which Hector had described as
terrible. Very long white hair floated like a halo
about this face, and the beard fell heavy, long, and
white below.

The face itself was thin, peaked, and shrunken,
the skin yellow and waxy looking, like that of an
old corpse. The eyes had a frightful fire, such as
one might imagine burning in the dreadful sockets
of the buried dead. :

Many of these pictures were painted and carefully
finished, especially those containing this face, upon
which great care seemed to have been expended and
a wonderful minutiz of detail. ; :

The result was something so fearfully alive that it
was no wonder the group staring over Lady Judith’s
shoulder stood white-faved and appalled. ;

“Tt is very lucky for us,” Lady Oswyn said, turning
to give a slow luok into each blanched face, ‘that the

 

 

will of the late Earl of Carnagie forbids his son ever
crossing the threshold of Arle.”

Dewitt Arle sneered no more.

Whei the pictures were put away, he stood and
stared gloomily at the floor.

“It is very hard,” he said. “T had been calculating
so on your getting this money at last.”

“TI know you have,” Lady Oswyn answered, coldly.
“But don’t worry; I have my allowance still, and
your debts shall be paid onee more. Worthless, self-
ish, vain, and obstinate as you are, lam no better,
and so I will share with you,if you don’t try my
temper too severely.”

‘It is shameful to lose. it, after all,” Baron Arle
said, crossly. “I have plotted more than forty years
for that money, and a stroke of a pen has robbed me
of it at last.”

“T don’t consider it lest yet,” Judith said, With her
eyes glittering.

Her father turned his head and looked at her
curiously.

“Ts your son quite strong and well?” he asked.

“Quite so. Thanks,” she answered, sarcastically.
“But Felina here says I shall outlive him, and that
he will leave ime all his money at last.”

“My lady !” exclaimed Madame Felina. “I said that
if he was managed rightly ——”

“Ah, true,” said Judith, carelessly. ‘‘Well, I shall
manage him in the future as I have in the past. He
would take his heart out of his bosom to-day for me,
if I asked it.”

Baron Arle continued to gaze at -his daughter in-‘
quiringly. He had caused her to be reared and
taught strictly under his own eye from infancy. He
thought he knew her well. But he did not compre-
hend her now. :

“Your son is very dear to you—is he not?” he
asked, watching her intently.

Judith’s eyes flashed.

“Why do you ask me that?’”’.

“Because he ic a Carnagie, and I don’t see how you
can.’

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
“YOU WILL BE HUNTED DOWN TO YOUR GRAVE.”

Lady Oswyn grew suddenly pale as alabaster.

“Do you want to kill him, as you did his father?’
she cried, in sudden rage. ‘‘Beware! you touch him
at your peril. I was not sureof the other. But this
one—if he disappears in any mysterious way, I shall
come to you for him, and I wilLhayve him or you!’

“Simpleton!” muttered Dewitt. ‘Do you think we
are such demons as to tell his mother if we mean to
harm him ?”’

“However,” added Judith, ‘“‘he—he has not made
his will, nor shall he till lam ready. I know how to
protect him from such wolves as you two are. He
will be as safe from you as though hidden in the heart
of the fold, so long as he has not made his will.”

So saying, the Countess of Carnagie resumed the
luxurious wraps she had thrown off on entering, and
left the house.

Her father escorted her, with great deference and
formality, to_her earriage, which waited near, and
then returned to discuss the new aspect of affairs
with his son.

“You will have to cultivate this precious grandson
of yours, I fancy,’ said Dewitt Arle, with an odd
glance at his father.

Both laughed, and the baron said, thoughtfully :

“I can’t see why our plans all fail—so many and
such good gnes. Some of them ought to succeed.”

“Perhaps,” returned Dewitt, “that as Felina here
says, the devil is for us, but the Almighty is against
us.’

Felina had withdrawn to another part of the room.
She did not seem to hear them. Only the outline of
her pale, statuesque face and graceful, slim figure
was discernible in the gloom.

“Tush!” answered the baron, sharply. “Listen to
her as much as you like, but don’t repeat her twaddle
to me.”

Dewitt Arle laughed again.

“You will doubtless suggest to the* earl, your
grandson,” he said, ‘‘that a young man so devoted to
his mother as_ he is, ought to make the earliest
amends possible to her for his father’s cruelty and
injustice.”

“T shall,” Baron Arle answered, in a stern, im-
placable voice. “It will be very strange if he does
not adopt the course I shall suggest, on my mere
suggestion. Butif he hesitates, I have half a mind
to force hiin to yield to my wishes, by telling him he
is no Carnagie after all, and can be stripped of both
his title and wealth at my bidding.”

Dewitt Arle shook his head. .

“That would do with anybody but a Carnagie. You
might convince him he was not a Carnagie, but you
wouldn't make him do anything so deliberately false
and treacherous as willing away money not his. I
am not so old as your father, and I hate the Carna-
gies. They are regular vipers. They sting us out of
the very grave. But at the same time, I must con-
fess, I don’t believe all the powers of evil combined
could compel a Carnagie to stain his soul with lies
of auy sort, to be treacherous or dishonorable to
either friend or foe.”

“T’m afraid you are right,” said the baron, angrily.
“He’s more a Carnagie than Judith is an-Arle. I
night swear tohim that he was all Arle, but he would
never learn to like ws.. He shrinks from us now.
Have you noticed it? Poor fool, he little guesses
what reason he has to shrink; and though he adores
Judith, and was reared to hate the late earl, I believe
he worships his memory now, and has got some very
queer ideas concerning his death.”

“Should it become neeessary to remove Hector
Carnagie from our path, what will you say to Ju-
dith? She will certainly demand him of us, particu-
larly ifsshe discovers that he has made his will in
her favor without her knowledge.”

“T don’t think so. She will be in such despair at
first, thinking she has lost all by not acting in time,
that when she discovers the will, she will have no
difficulty in believing those solemn declarations of
innocence we shall make to her.”

“T doubt that.”

“Doubt, then. But what can she doif she doesn’t
believe us?”

$F appraes that we shall feel our beautiful Ju-
dith’s claws at last. But perhaps not; and, at any
rate, the money would then belong to the Arles, and
that is the main thing.”

Baron Arle took the first opportunity to confer
with his grandson, Hector Carnagie, on this matter
of the will.

To his delight, the young man, though he shrank
from him—Hector could not himself have told why—
seemed very favorably inclined to the main question,
and only asked a few days to think of it.

These few days Hector had asked for,in order to
confer with Sir John Vandeleur, whom, in spite of
his mother’s infinence, he had always greatly re-
spected, and to whom he had made a promise never
to make his will without speaking with him upon
the subject.

Notwithstanding the great reserve which had
always existed between this honest and high-minded
gentleman and his sensitive ward, notwithstanding
one distrusted and the other adored the same woman,
there had always been a sort of affection between
them. Sir John regarded Hector almost as a son,
and Heetor had often wished that his father had
been like Sir John Vandeleur.

An icy thrill ran through Sir John when Hector
Carnagie told him of the proposition Baror Arle had
just made to him concerning a will in his mother’s
favor. He made no attempt to conceal his agitation
and horror from the young man.

Pausing midway in his excited pacing of the room,
he looked at Hector with solemn and pitying eyes.

‘He is so young, so brave, and handsome,” he said
aloud; but, as if in soliloquy, “Must he be sacrificed,
too?’

Then, directly addresslng Hector:

“IT would not believe your father when he warned
me how near he was to death, and now I fear you
will not believe me when I warn you that from the
day you make your willin the manner you propose,
and they know it, you will be hunted down to your
grave as he was!”

“Whom do you mean by they ?”

“T mean Baron Arle and his son, Dewitt,” Sir John
answered, sadly.

“You speak of my own grandfather and my uncle—
of my dear mother’s father and brother,’’ Hector re-
turned, in an accent of dismay and anger.

“Tt is true, I do. Did not you just tell me that
Baron Arle made you pronise not to tell your mother
of this will business ?”’

“That was because she has a superstition that
people do not live long after making a will.”

The young man grew white at theideas suggested
by his own words.

“Ah,” exclaimed Sir John, with a pale anda terrible
smile, “Lady Oswyn knows her own father and
brotber better than you or Ido, and she is super-
stitious about having you make your will even in
her favor. Does not that one fact suggest to youa
frightful thought?”

Hector was deeply agitated.

“Tt cannot. be. Oh, Sir John,” he said, wildly, ‘‘you
cannot mean that these men of my own blood would
touch my life? I know you have some strange belief
concerning the manner of my father’s death. But
these are awful suspicions to rouse without the most
absolute proofs.”

“IT know it, and those I have no/. But I was like
you. I would not believe that your father stood in
any danger of his life, though I knew that this same
Baron Arle killed your grandfather on the Carnagie
side, by base treachery, which has caused him to be
driven from the companionship of all true gentlemen
ever since.”

Hector Carnagie started to his feet, his handsome
young eyes in a flame, his cheeks ashen.

“Sir John, explain yourself. How did my grand-
father die?’

“He fought a duel with Baron Arle. Which was
most to blame does not matter now. Baron Arle fired
before it was time, and the Lord of Carnagie was
killed. It has been Lady Oswyn’s wish that these
reporis,as she calls them, should be concealed from
you. Butit is time, in justice to yourself, that you
knew them. J believe that your father was mur-
dered here in London by his enemies.

“Itis true that I had a letter purporting to be

 

 

written by him, and looking like his writing, some

weeks after his disappearance; but experts to whom |

T have shown this letter declare it to be a base coun-
terfeit—that he never wrote it. Ah,if I had but be-
lieved in his own presentiments of his coming doom,
I might have saved him, perhaps, from the treach-
erous fangs of the Wolves of Arle.”

Hector recoiled, white with agitation.

“The Wolves of Arle!” he repeated to himself,
though aloud. “Oh, what curseis this which is upon
me, and working in me!”

“Promise one thing my dear boy,” said Sir John
Vandeleur, “that you will postpone acting in this
will business for a year; or, if you think that too long
a time, that you will wait until my return from a
journey [ am obliged to make, and which will keep
me absent several months.”

“‘€ promise you,’ Hector auswered, more readily
than Sir John had anticipated.

**Meanwhile will you also notify Baron Arle that
you have decided to wait six months, at the same
time giving him no hint that you have mentioned the
subject to me?”

Will.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

REAPING AS WAS SI

,

 

One Woman’s Hate.
By CHARLES YT. MANNERS,

Author of “‘The Lord of Lyle,” ‘‘The Flaw in the
Diamond,” “‘A Woman’s Faith,” “A Red
Letter Day,’’ eic.

 

 

(“REAPING AS WAS SOWN” was commenced in No. 20.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXIX.—(CONTINUED).

Madame Judith stood still, glaring at Cora, but
speechless, whether with rage or growing horror,

Cora’s voice sank low and deep :

“Judith, you were old enough to have been mother
and sister both to me; and though it is alone through
the father that kindred blood flows in our veins, you
might have had heart for a motherless girl, and
spared her the heavy burden of shame and guilt be-
neath which your own spirit writhed. You might
have made an honest, happy woman of me. ButI
can forgive that. It is whatyour pitiless hand meted
out to John Devins that I will never forgive. Itis
for that I have searched to find the keenest pang to
give you back. And I have found it!”

How horribly her wild laughter rang out! Simon
Dunn shuddered, and Madame Judith shrank back.

“Come,” went on the inexorable avenger; “you
must come with me toS8t. John. I bring a message
to him—the answer to one I carried for him. Did
you know the dear youth was in love?’

The numbness that seemed to hold Madame Birk-

enhead’s tongue and limbs in their stirless spell was
dispersed at the sound of that one beloved name.

“St. John! What have you to do with St. John?’
she shrieked. ‘“‘Whatdo you mean to do? You shall
not.go to him.”

And she sprang forward to intercept the way.

But Cora only. langhed contemptuously, while she
laid her hand upon the door leading to St. John’s
suite. :

“T tell you I come in answer to his own beseeching.
I was here the other day when you were out, and
charged him witb his pretty secret, and volunteered
to bé his messenger. Come and see how eagerly he
will welcome me.” .

Madam turned wild eyes toward the door, and see-
ing Simon Dunn standing there, beckoned to him,
eagerly.

“Come with us, Simon. Who knows what she will
dot. The woman is raving mad! Come, to see that
my darling is not harmed.”

And Simon Dunn, grave, stern, impassive as granite,
followed them into the lovely crystal saloon.

Cora paused the moment the silken hangings
dropped silently behind them. Perhaps the first pang
of conscience sent its dart, or the first throb of pity
stirred her bitter heart. It was so cruel, for the sake
of wounding the most atrocious sinner, to strike
through such an innocent saint!

But already some premonition of evil had come to
him. St. John’s fair foreheac was drawn by black
frowns; hiseyes were full of pain and anguish. On
the floor around him lay strewn hastily discarded
newspapers; in his hand he held—the gold-clasped
volume that was missing.

Madame Judith staggered back, as if some mighty
hand smote her breast, when her eye fell upon it.

“St. John! St. John!” she cried, wildly. ‘What
are you doing?) What book is that?’

Simon Dunn laid a heavy hand upon Cora’s
shoulder.

“How dared you?” he asked, hoarsely. “This is
wanton wickedness, to give a son such arecord of his
mother’s sinful life!”

She glanced at him heedlessly.

“Who are you?” she asked; “and what fault can
youfind? Was not I innocent once? Was not John
Devins an honest man %”

St. John had dropped his book and stretched out
his hands toward his mother, his beautiful éyes wild
with woe, as he cried:

“Tell me itis false, mother! Tell me this is not
your writing! Tell me that this gold which has made
my life like a fairy princess’, for allits deprivation,
has not been obtained in this shameful, horrible
way.”

Her dry lips moved twice before a sound came, and
then her reply was not to answer his query.

“Where did you get the book, St. John ?”’

“It came to me with those papers but alittle time
ago,” he answered. ‘‘Mother, mother, tell me I am
not so accursed !”

“T sent the book. Itisacopy of the true one. I
stole it one day; [had a key made, and sat up all
night long to copy it, and slyly brought it back with-
out your dreaming of it. You trusted me so much,
Judith,” laughed Mrs. Cora, mockingly. “It lacks a
few of the later pages, but we will have them also
transcribed.”

“You have not answered me,” demanded St.. John
again.

Madame Judith flung herself at his feet, and tried
to seize his hands; but with a gesture of abhorrence
he waved her back, and shrank away.

Ah, this was the punishment she could feel! Both
hands were clutched wildly against her heart, and
she grew deadly pale, when she beheld that look
upon the only face whose smile of love was the
truest joy of her life.

“My son! my son!” she gasped.

“Ts this true?’ demanded he again, his blue eyes
flashing. “Have you dared to heap together such
ill-gotten wealth for.such nefarious, diabolical pur-
poses? Have I been reveling off of such accursed
spoils ?”’

“Of course it is true, my dear St. John,” answered
Mrs. Cora. ‘‘You read it on her face. But, dear me,
when you know more of the world you will have less
tenderness of conscience. Why, you may still be
honorable and prosperous in the gay world. This
gold will buy anything you please—a new name, a
worthier home, and found an orphan asylum besides !
But [have brought your answer, St. John; I have
brought your answer from the girl you love.”

He turned witha dreary smile.

“What will she say to a blighted name like mine?
Oh, the sweetest hope of all is lost also !”

“No, no, St. John,’ wailed his mother. ‘Lady
Alice will marry you. We shall live abroad, and all
this is to be given up. We will keep clean hands now.
You shall order everything. Ob, my son,it is bard
in you to turn upon a mother who idolizes you! I
did not know you could be so hard. I promise you
that Lady Alice will marry you.”

“Lady Alice, indeed !” cried the triumphant Cora.
“It is not Lady Alice, but Lady Evelyn. You re-
member my telling you, Judith, that I fancied
Evelyn Ingester was winning a lover, and you bade
me let it goon, and hinder nothing. So you never.
told her of the lady of the park, St. John? Ifshe
looked over these sketches, as I did the other day,
I marvel she did not guess the secret. See! that is
the face of her you love, is it not?”

And she seized a framed girl’s head resting upon
the bracket by the table, and held it up.

“This is the maiden of your choice, is it not?’

“Yes, yes,” murmured St. John, distractedly. “I
have loved her better than life! Tell me her an-
swer !”

“You love her—— Hear it, Judith—your son loves
this daughter of the Ingester you hated and pursued
with such deadly vengeance. Did you guess, St.
Johu, it was your wood nymph she was cheating of
home and fortune? Evelyn Ingester is her name!”

Wider and wider with horror grew Madame Ju-
dith’s glaring eyes, and she echoed the words
huskily.

“He loves her! St. John; my son! AmIawake?
St. John loves Evelyn Ingester?!”

“Yes, I love her. Give me her answer. Aunt,”
eried St. John, sharply, ‘‘without her love there is no
joy in my life.”

“She is engaged to another—to the one into whose
arms your mother drove her, meaning her to find
disgrace and sorrow there. But her plans have all
failed—this wonderful woman, who made and un-
miade at her imperious will, behold! all her grand

 

projects have toppled about her in ruins !”

St. John had buried his face in his hands; he
looked up, now piteously.

“She loves another! Oh, then the last hope that
binds me to life is snapped in twain. Cruel, cruel
mother! to rear me so tenderly and foolishly aloof
from every ill, only to crush me thus suddenly and
overwhelmingly!”

Madame Judith crept slowly toward him.

“T did not mean it, St. John, St. John! I meant
you to have every blessing life could offer. Pity me,
torgive me——”

He lifted his wan face, and turned it toward her,
drearily.

“Tf will try not to curse you, mother; I will——”

The last words died out in a sullen gurgle.

Simon Dunn leaped forward and supported the
beautiful head, that suddenly dropped as a lily falls
when a cruel blow smites the stalk.

A crimson trickling line oozed over his pallid lips.
A frozen film covered the blue eye. He sank back,
looking like a corpse.

Madame Judith’s heart-torn cry, as she groveled
there upon the floor, might have melted a heart of
stone. And resentment almost as hard was indeed
touched.

Cora rushed away for help, while Simon Dunn said,
solemnly:

“Woman, your punishment is bitter enough. I for.
give you wy debt, and go tostay the officers of jus-
tice from arresting you -upon a dozen different
charges. The hour of direst retribution has already
come !”’

“You! you!’ she wailed, “what have I done to
you, Simon Dunn? Surely, I have never harmed
you.”’

“Judith Wolfe,” answered he, slowly and calmly,
and—little as he ever dreamed it could be—pitifully
also, “I am—Richard Ingester !”

She raised herself from her groveling despair to
stare blankly up at him; and then, with one wild
heart-torn cry, the indomitable spirit yielded—she
fell back in convulsions.

 

CHAPTER XXX.
“THE HAND OF HEAVEN HAS SMITTEN HER!”

The late mistress had made a thorough abdication
at Blossom Terrace. _Mrs. Cora had never gone half-
way in anything, and while she threw contemptu-
ously away from her every costly garment and
trinket which Mark Ingester’s wealth had purchased
for her, and prepared herself to go forth in the
humble array beseeming’ her lawful husband's sta-
tion, she quietly planned a formal explanation to the
whole household, which was rigidly executed.

She sent word to Mrs. Rex to gather.all the ser-
vants and the farm agents togetherin the honse-
keeper’s parlor, and when the wondering group were
assembled, she came down among them, not a whit
abating her lofty look or tone, and told them they
were free from all sway of hers, that their true mis-
tress was, and should always have been, the daugh-
ter of Richard Ingester, who was really the true
owner and lawful heir, even in Mark’s life-time, since
it had long ago been discovered that Mark Ingester’s
mother had married, supposing her first husband
dead, lost at sea, whereas after she became a second
time ga wife, the first vagabond husband secretly
made his appearance, and was bought off by her, and
his existence concealed.

Mrs. Cora’s dark eye flashed when a low growling
murmur rose from the rear group of old attached
servitors who had known Dick Ingesterfrom a boy.
She turned upon them as imperiously as when her
silken robes had trailed upon the floor, and her
hands flashed with costly gems.

“Understand,” she said, ‘“‘thatno one has compelled
me to give up my place here. 1 might have carried
on the deception successfully ; but 1 did not choose.
Your dead master lies yetunder this roof. If Richard
Ingester was cruelly wronged Mark was party to it,
and you cast your reflections on that bier. For my-
self, I am as thankful to take leave here as you
doubtless will be to see me go. Iknow I have done
very little to win affection. I was not happy enough
in the position to be in good humor with wyself or
any one else. Let it pass. I shall wish all prosperity
and content to dwell here, though I earnestly hope [
shall never set eyes upon this house again; and you
doubtless will give a sincere ‘Godspeed’ to my de-
parture.”

When she had spoken this last, she turned slowly,
and with a quiet dignity, not one of them could ig-
nore, walked through their midst out of the room—
straight out of the house, and .passed alone and on
foot down the avenue—away forever from Blossom
Terrace.

The startled servants, who had so heartily hated
and despised her, were actually awed into involun-
tary respect. One looked at the other stupidly, all
drew long breaths of relief, but none offered the
wild huzza many a time promised,if only a kind
Providence should rid them of their unwelcome
mistress.

Old Anthony was the first to speak.

“Mr. Mark lies dead in the old house,” said he,
tremulously, and in a low voice; “therefore it is un-
becoming for any comments to be made now, and
here. “Neither will it be seemly to make any public
rejoicing when our young wistress appears. But we
want her here—I know we all want her here. Some-
body should go and bring her home to her rights—
Major Dick's daughter, our Miss Ingester of Blossom
Terrace.”

And all applauded this suggestion; and it was in
answer to it that, before the night fell, Paul Perci-
vale and his mother brought home to them their
sweet young mistress. Her face was like an April
day, all agleam with tender smiles and showery
tears.

‘“‘What will they say to you, Paul, when they know
your wish to bear this sweet blossom away to Perci-
vale Hall?” questioned his mother. “It really seems
cruel to leave one or the other place untenanted. I
think I must stay here with her until the funeral
ceremonies have taken place.”

‘May I not be a visitor likewise? I cannot bear to
go home alone,” he asked, playfully.

And thus it was arrranged.

Proud and happy were Mrs. Rex and Anthony as
they hurried through their preparations for these
honored guests.

“Thank Heaven, my old eyes have seen this sight,”
murnured the old man again and again, while he
brushed off the gathering dew upon his eyelids. ‘Ah,
Master Dick—Master Dick, perhaps you know—per-
haps you see!”

Later in the evening, Evelyn Ingester was sitting
in the little parlor, her hand clasped fondly in Mrs.
Percivale’s, with Paul before. her, watching every
change of her lovely, expressive face with the fond
devotion of his lover eyes, when a visitor was an-
nounced by the annoyed servant.

“He would not give his name, nor be denied,” said
the latter, indignantly. “And I should have shut the
door in his face, only he spoke with Anthony and got
permission to come in.”

“It may be a messenger from—that woman,” said
Paul. “Well, she has behaved so decently at the last,
we ought to hear her request. I would have him
shown in before us all, dearest.”’

And so the stranger, a tall man with a cloak
wrapped all around him, was ushered into the apart-
ment, and took the proffered seat, and bowed re-
spectfully when Paul said:

“You asked to see Miss Ingester, sir? This is she,
but you should give her your name.”

“We will letit wait until I have told her a short
story,” answered the stranger, quietly. “I might
have sent the card of Simon Dunn, contidential agent
of Madame Judith Birkenhead, but that would hardly
have won your favor, or made you wiser. What I
wish to tell is the story of a most marvelous escape
from death in the terrible gulf of an Alpine glacier
not quite a year ago.”

Evelyn sprang to her feet, and stretched out her
hands to him with a delirious cry.

“Father! father! I know you already, in spite of
the white hair and heavy beard! The first sound of
your voice stirred a strange throb in my heart! Do
not torture me! Speak quickly, say you are my
father, and then let me hear the story.”

The trembling arms were stretched out to her in
tender yearning.

“My child! Evelyn, my darling!”

And the next instant father and daughter were
clinging to each other, and sobbing and weeping out
of the joy that was too strong and deep for lighter
expression.

“Major Ingester !”’ exclaimed Paul, in utter amaze-
ment. ‘‘This is indeed miraculous!”

Mrs. Percivale spoke not a word, but her face was
wet with sudden tears.

It was a long time before anything like composure
returned to any of them. Then the strange story was
told. How in the fall of the breaking ice, Major In-
gester Had lost his consciousness, but reviving out
of the very coolness of the icy gulf in which he had
fallen, aided, perhaps, by the flowing blood from a
wound on his head, he had found himself resting
upon a narrow ledge of the massive icy precipice
only half way down the dizzy descent into which the
more unfortunate guide had been precipitated.

“T am quite sure that the concussion, or the blow,”
he went on, “must have crazed my brain, for I re-
member the strange, wild fancies that came over me,
as I lay there looking up atthe ice and sky, which
were all that met my vision. I did not fully com-
prehend the horror of my situation either. If I had,
my nerves must have failed me afterward, or I
should have shrieked for help, and thus drawn the
attention of the party above, who, it seems, were
searching for some means of reaching our bodies. I
know I only lay there quietly staring up at the sky,
and numbly thinking I was growing very cold. But
presently as [turned myself carefully and flung my
arm upward, I discovered a large opening in the
great wall of ice.

“Really and truly I believe it was only a vague,
delirious curiosity that led me to raise my head to
this aperture, and look into it. Then I perceived that
it was a narrow tunnel leading upward. Since I
have pondered upon the wonderful circumstance, I
perceive that some pouring stream on the upper sur-
face must have bored out this passage while the ice
was forming, and thus made an exit into the gulf
below for one of the numberless tiny rivulets that
arein spring-time pouring down the glaciers. One
cannot explain all these mysteries, But the aper-

 

ture was there, and painfully and cautiously I clam-
bered into it, dragging myself through its lateral but
steadily rising ascent prone on my face, and using
my bleeding hands and bruised knees to help me on
by means of its many honey-combed recesses, which
were so many steps and lifts.

“The exertion must have done me good, for though
I rested often, and probably for a considerale length
of time, each new effort found me more cager to
reach the blue-lighted sky shining lustrously at the
other end. I am sure that delirium lent me strength,
for I seemed to be sure some wonderful thing waited
there for me, like a fairy throne, or an angel's vision.
I reached the outlet, Sand found myself a few feet
below the upper surface.

“While I was yet peering out of this icy cavern, I
saw a face looking down upon me, and the sight
brought me to reason. It was Judith Birkenhead. I
heard her cry, her terrified declaration that she had
seen a ghost, and instinctively I drew back and lis-
tened. Many and many times since I have waked at
night, shuddering from head to foot, from a repeti-
tion, in dreams, of that terrible experience.

“I heard the echoing sounds of the spiked staves
clinking in the ice, the dying away of voices. I was
aware that all human help was deserting me, yet I
could not cry out, nor speak, nor move. A deadly
languor held me; then delirious fancies returned. 1
recalled her words: ‘A bodiless head ; his ghost will
haunt me!’ and promised myself that it should be so.
Then I remember I laughed long and loud, and this
laughter must have been my salvation, for upon
opening my eyes I saw a man’s face looking over the
brink in wild-eyed astonishment. The sight was like
an electric shock. I dragged myself from my circular
dungeon far enough to stretch up my arms to him.

“‘Hush!” I cried; ‘tell no one, Is the woman
gone?’ ;

“He did not answer me, but still stared. Then f
remembered [ had spoken in English, and that I was
in the glacier. I tried my poor jargon of French, and
he answered promptly:

“Yes, the woman was gone, and all the men. He
had staid behind to coil the ropes, and carry them to
his chalet, for he lived alone on the mountain.

“He lowered me a rope, and I bound it around my
waist. It was but a few feet, nevertheless that was
a perilous, a frightful ascent. When I was once upon
the upper surface, I had only strength to beg:

““*Hide me! hide me! Let no one know you have
saved me!’ and then I fainted dead away.

“Fate willed for me to live. Any other of the
guides would have failed me in this emergency; but
this fellow was a Hercules and misanthrope. He
lived alone upon the mountain, a rigid hater of soci-
ety and all the world, for the sake of a silly girl who
had jilted him, as I afterward learned. He dragged
me to his poor hut, he cared for me faithfully during
a brain fever, which ensued, and, best of all, he kept
my existence a secret, all, as I afterward found, be-
cause I begged to be hidden from a woman’s search.

“Dear tender hearts, why do I pain you with all
the wretched particulars? When I came to myself I
was there alone with the mountaineer, weak and
helpless, and well-nigh dead. Generous man! I shall
never cease to bless him for his untiriug care of the
stranger thrown upon his narrow resources. We will
seek him out, and do something, if it is possible, to
pee our acknowledgment of the great debt owed

im.

“T grew stronger at length; and was then struck
with consternation at the change in my appearance.
My hair was snow-white, a shaggy beard had grown,
deep lines were in my forehead, I did not know my
own face. AndI said noone else would recognize
7 aoe even that sharp-eyed enemy who believed me
dead.

‘‘} grieved bitterly over your sorrow, dear Eve-
lyn; but you had long departed for England, and T
said it was better for you to be left in ignorance,
until I had secured your rights. Then I matured a
plan, not alone of vengeance, but to obtain the proofs
of my claim which I had so heedlessly yielded up
when the bitterness of a blighted hope turned
my _ spirit to recklessness. I knew that Judith
Wolfe had been the prime mover in the whole
conspiracy. From her I meant to wring the hidden
proofs. I took an oath that I would deny my yearn-
ing heart its revelation te you until I was able to
give you your rightful position here. Some other
time I will show you how I worked my way to Eng-
land, insinuated myself into her good graces, and
held the position of confidential agent to Judith
Birkenhead, weaving slowly and surely—by the aid
of my two confederates, John Devins, the man eru-
elly wronged by her machinations, and Amalie,
whose sister’s life was sacrificed remorselessly by
Madame Judith’s injustice—a web of evidence around
her, that was to bind her hand and foot, and leave
her at our mercy. Well, well, I have hated that
woman with a deadly hatred, but the hand of Heaven
has smitten her more deeply than I could ever have
done, and I have forgiven her—the poor wretch who
is watching her only child dying slowly, but surely,
knowing that it was her own hand that worked his
doom. Lameven remorseful now for the juggler’s
tricks that have tormented her with haunted nights
and ghastly visions.

‘How can [ helpit? I who came back to find my
darling safe, ny inheritance secure, my father's
honored place waiting me—and—kind friends who
have cherished my daughter as fondly as I should
have done!”

As he said this he pressed his lips fondly again to
Evelyn’s, and then went forward to hold out his
hands to Mrs. Percivale.

“Alicia, you will give me a friend’s place at least ?”

She yielded both her hands to his, and the eyes she
lifted were full of faith and tenderness.

“And now, let us give Anthony, dear old Anthony,
his share of all this wonderful joy,” cried Evelyn,
hastening to summon that faithful servitor.

‘‘And let me dropa tear of forgiveness upon my
brother’s dead forehead. Poor old Mark! I have no
harsh thoughts of him. I shall take my place to-
morrow at the funeral service, and reveal my exist-
ence to the world.”

‘“‘What a fever of excitement all this romantic mar-
vel will create! I think, Paul, dear, all remem-
brance of your doings and troubles will be entirely
obliterated from the public mind,” said Mrs. Perci-
vale, ‘before this newer and greater astonishment.”

“Heaven send it,” answered Paul, fervently, ‘“‘but
there is one person, I apprehend, who will be likely
to recall itall. Mr. Gid Wellington is not likely to
be entirely satisfied with the denouement.

This surmising was verified the next day. The
great news of Major Ingester’s return, alive and well,
Was sent abroad with wonderful rapidity, and nearly
all the prominent gentlemen of the county came
hastening to poor Mark Ingester’s funeral, which
was talked of years and years afterward as the most
ae -event in the history of the neighbor-

ood. .

Judith Birkenhead heard the tolling of the church
bells, and hid her haggard face against the pillow,
where rested the cold white cheek of her dying boy.

St. John did not heed her grief; indeed, he gave no
attention to anything which went on around him.
He did not seem insensible either—that was the bit-
terness of her grief. She knew how he shrunk from
the touch of her hand. She knew that he was dying
because the weary, sickened spirit would not seek to
live, but loathed the lot which she had worked so
many years to give it. ;

He sank slowly, but surely, and never once spoke
a word of blame or forgiveness, lying there in dumb
anguish, in patient weakness, till the release came,

The mother closed those marble lids above the
beautiful blue eyes, dropped one fierce wild kiss upon
the broad, cold forehead, and saw the precious clay
laid in a lovely spot where flowers would bloom and
wild birds sing. Then she closed her great house,
sold out all her valuable possessions, and bequeathed
the whole as the endowment of a retormatory insti-
tution, in which she sought an humble place as a vol-
unteer nurse. She soon became, however, a carefully
tended patient, falling into a mild, harmless insanity,
very pitiful to see, since she was forever wandering,
wandering over the house and grounds, moaning for
a lost child, and often pursued by a headless ghost,
which she declared she had made herself in wanton
mischief, and therefore it was sent to punish her.

John Devins took his wife to America, where he
was comfortably started in trade through the gener-
osity.of Major Ingester.. Nick went with them, and
all three attended patiently fora year and more a
pale, listless, heavy-eyed girl, whom no one who had
seen her in the crystal saloon could ever recognize as
Zoe. Faithful Nick had his reward in time. Slowly
she came back to health and strength, though never
to her old lithe grace and beauty, and she made him
a true aud faithful wife; but St. John’s name was
never nentioned between them, and no reference to
the old life was ever allowed.

Although it was more than a year before that oc-
currence took place, there was not so much trouble
as Mrs. Percivale dad anticipated in depriving Blos-
som Terrace of its fair young mistress. When Paul
bore Evelyn away to Percivale Hall, the major more
quietly escorted his first love to the old home of the
Ingesters.

“*‘Exchange is no robbery,’” quoth smiling An-
thony, who witnessed both ceremonies of marriage.
‘If he will have our dear Miss Evelyn itis only fair
that Major Dick brings his mother here.”

Among the wedding gifts came two costly memen-
toes of love from Florence, where Hubert De Courey
and his bride were spending a year.

“T wish you all joy, with all my heart, and never
wrote a sincerer word in all my life,” wrote Agatha,
underlining her words in a style that made Mrs.
Ingester smile merrily, it. was so characteristic of her
fierce, impetuous young friend.

«And allis well that ends well,’ ’’ quoted Paul,

(THE END.)

{Another vigorous and fascinating story, by
CHARLES T, MANNERS, Will soon be begun. ]}

——— oo or

Tt has been noticed that many smokers, after biting
off the end of a cigar and lighting it, cough slightly. Why
is this? Because in,the first few whiffs the smoker gets
in histhroat some fine particles of tobacco. To prevent
this irritation of the throat, and the consequent coughing,
the smoker, after biting off the end of the cigar, Should
put in his mouth the end to be lighted, blow through it,
and thus expel the dust. Then put the proper end in the
mouth, and light the cigar.

 

   

 

3

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REET Avo
TD)

    

     

lhe Sh,

  
  

Vee

NWEW YORK, JULY 5, 1890.

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WHEN YOUR BOY COMES FROM SCHOOL.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

What an appetite he has! How hungry he is
always! How the cookies vanish and the ginger-
bread disappears before his determjned onslaught!
He is all noise, and impulse, and warts, and freckles!
His hands are dirty—his finger-nails rimmed with
black; he has stuck a “cud of gum” to the shelf in
the pantry to clear the way for the edibles, and
his trousers are torn at the knees, and he smells of
fish-bait and peppermint candy; but he is your boy,
and you love him.

The house is turned upside down immediately. He
wants a string for his kite. He wants some lead.
He wants a bigger fish-hook. He wants his ball
mended. He wants money for Jim, to pay him the
boot on the jackknife he has swapped. He wants to
go fishing with Tom and Jack.

He crams his mouth fullof bread and butter, and
with the jelly running out of the corners, he makes
his wants known.

‘Ma, can’t Ihave a bicycle? Iwant one. Where’s
pa? Who’s been here with a carriage?) Where’s my
box of worms? JT wish I had a pistol, or a shot-
gun. Jim’s got one. Say, ma, teacher says I’ve
been late twice, and it's only just once. Jim’s been
late a dozen times, and never got marked. I did ten
examples to-day. I wish I had a new slate. Oh, ma,
the circus is coming next month! Can’t I go every
day? I wish I was _a circus, or a menagerie!
Wouldn’t I have jolly old times! Going to school is
awfulslow! Tom’s dog bit Mike Lane. They think
he’s got the hydrophobia. It was in the leg, and he
had two white ears and a white tail, and he’d sit up
like—like—well, like anything. I should like to have
a dog! Say, ma, ain’t there any custard? Tom has
mince pie all the year round at his house! Oh, say,
ma, can’t I have three kittens? Mike’s mother’s cat
has got five, and they’ll give me three! Mike said
so! Ain't they real good? Hallo! there come the
boys! They’ve all got their poles! Where’s my
line? Don’t let Minnie eat up all the cake! I shall
want some when I get back! You won't let her, will
you, ma?”

And with a whoop and a hurrah, he dashes out of
the house, and leaves a track of mud behind him, and
a generally disordered room for you to clear up.

But you do not mind it. You go about it maybe
with a sigh, but you are not unhappy in doing it.
You are only tired. Heis no doubt a pest—at least,
he would be to any one else—but not to you. He is
your boy—the brave, generous, wide-awake boy who
loves you, and who is fo be the prop and stay of your
old age.

You look after him as he scampers off along with
the other boys. Tanned and torn, noisy and boister-
ous, his cap on askew, his shoes untied—but still
your boy. : R ;

How glad you are that he is yours! How you pity
those women who have no boys like him! How you
recall his good qualities, and allow his faults—and
Heaven knows they are many—to retire into the
background! It is true he pulls the cat’s tail to hear
her growl, and he likes to set the hens all to cackling,
and it is fun for him to tie tin cans to the stray dogs ;
but you excuse him by saying that he is not cruel—it
is only his fun; and you miss him when he is gone,
and you long for him to come back; and when he
sneaks in about dark, with his feet soaking wet, and
his face bitten by musquitoes,{and his hands scratched
with briers, and two frogs and a small-sized mud
turtle, by way of trophies, you listen to his doleful
story of how Tom pushed him into the brook, and
Jim caught all the fish that he scared _up—and you
clean him, and comfort him, and love him, for is he
not your boy ?

BORN TO MAKE MONEY.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

 

“Tt is a gift. Nature bestows it on some and denies
it to others,” remarked a front-stoop philosopher,
the other night, as we were talking of a rich neigh-
bor's luck,

*“That’s so,” echoed another. ‘In school, as a boy,
our neighbor over there was always on the swap,
and always got the best of the bargain. He was not
very studious in books. But he seemed to be study-
ing all the while how to make a trade. Now that I
recall that chap’s brown studies, I think that’s the
entire secret. The, fellow’s cast of thought always
was on comparative values. He would ask, ‘Which
kind of a knife do you think is best? ‘Would you
rather be a good swimmer or good skater?’ ‘Is there
more fun in ball or tag? and other similar questions
of comparison.”

If you will examine closely, you will observe that
a keen and successful trader, when alone, evidently
runs to comparing things mentally. He is forever
comparing the growth of towns, cost of this house
and that, the value of one horse with another. In
his talk he shows this; comparisons abound. He
puts comparisons into figures. He will whip out an
envelope and figure, ‘‘Now, here’s what that sold for
last year. This is what itis this year.” While other
men, looking at a dwelling, would simply take in its
beauty or defects, he, the born money-maker, is
thinking, “‘Would I prefer this to my place? If yes,
how much, and why? If not, why not, and how
much of the why not?” : :

The born money-maker thinks of everything as
moving up or down a scale of values. He always has
a starting point, and then a jackknife or a piece of
land is ‘‘off” or “on” so many points from that. His
mind works unconsciously just like one of those
thermic measures which indicate the maximum de-
gree of temperature by a halting bead of red. Tell
him the highest or lowest price of a lot or a stock, he
never forgets it; it sticks in his mind like a burr ina
sheep’s wool. He remembers prices as naturally as
some men remember faces, and others remember
localities. There is no accounting for this except, as
I say, by confessing thatit is born inaman. Why
can one man always tell which way is North and
another, when out of his own street, is always turned
round? Why can one man remember a tune and
whistle it on once hearing it, and another can scarce
pound it into himself? These are gifts of nature.
And the money-make1’s ability to cling to prices and
quote fluctuations is the same singular, natural en-
dowment. Other men may acquire a partial facility
by study; but no man can compete with your born
money-maker. :

Your money-maker sees one thing—money. Almost
always he is deficient evérywhere else. His affec-
tions are small; not that he means to be cold-hearted,
but that he is simply not born to love or be loved.
He is not intentionally cruel, but he does not feel
other men’s woes; mercy is not one of his attributes,
any more than a fiddle-bow is in a plumber’s bag.
He is not fond of amusement; nothing amuses him
so much as making money. He does not generally

 

'

joke much; if he tells a good story it is only that he
may put youin good humor for a trade and throw
you off your guard. You feel, while you are laugh-
ing, that it is dangerous, and you look up quickly, to
see his cold eyes pausing on you with a shrewd
gleam, like sunbeams from ice. He is no great eater,
and rarely a drunkard, though he may treat the
crowd often enough. He belongs to few things;
may be, as a boy, he joined some fraternity because
he thought it might boost him into advantage; but
he soon tires of the lodge-room, and especially of the
continual calls of sweet charity. If he goes to
church, he means to make it pay; not that he really
is mercenary in his religion, but that he cannot help
making the church pay. Everything pays with him,
for he was made that way.

He cares nothing for office; could get along just as
well if not elected; but if he is elected, there is
money in it for him where other men were all out of
pocket. Nor do I now describe the political shyster
or jobber; [am speaking of the reasonably honest
man who is born to make money, I say he will make
it out of an office that no other man dare touch.

Your born money-maker forgets his love of flowers
and books, pictures and horses. These natural func-
tions, if he had them, wither and die because he gives
them little and less exercise. When he has become
very rich, probably he builds a fine residence. Butit
is his wife and daughter who plot the grounds by the
aid of alandscape gardener. His family have their
Own way about the structure, by the help of an
architect; on the internal fittings, by the wisdom of
the most expensive decorator. The money king,
poor soul, does not find time or pleasure in such use
of his money.

“My dear,” he says to his wife, ‘I’m getting quite
a pile together. I want to use it some way. Builda
tine place. Fit it up.”

“Will you stop to enjoy it with us?” she asks.

He promises. But he never performs; bis enjoy-
ment is notin his library, reading Tennyson and tak-
ing in the fine view. Rather down in his musty
office getting more money. He ismade that way,
and can’t help it. A sleeping-car five nights in a
week, not his elegant chamber with its glorious
view. Instead of his spacious bath-room, with costly
perfumed woods, he uses the thumping end of a Pull-
man two hundred and fifty mornings in the year.
His houses he knows he has, and that they are said
to be fine; he paid enough for them, Jupiter knows;
and he is going to enjoy them—next season. He is
the mere treasurer of the family, the dollar-finder.
The boy at college tries to love him, and the father
is going to let him—next year.

Next year is the money-getter’s great year. He’ll
be out of his press next year, have more leisure next
year. Poor self-deceived fellow! He would die if
not making money or attempting it. He is made for
it. Heis fit for nothing else. He ought to know
himself better than to ever so much as dream of

stopping. Other men envy him. The more fools
they. There is but one cure for his slavery. That is

to begin to give away. As fast as he makes let him
give, and even he can be happy.

WAS IT A GHOST?

BY W.

 

 

W. CARTNER.

The following strange story was related to me by
the principal actor in the drama, and a number of
persons who were present at the recital said they
were acquainted with both of the men who once
figured as partners. The names are fictitious, but
the incidents and locations are authentic:

I was working with an engineering corps, who
were making a preliminary survey of a route for the
Atlantic and Pacific R. R.

Our camp was located at the foot of a mountain,
near the Little Colorado River. We had been work-
ing hard all day, trying to find a suitable place to
cross the river, and I was very tired, and was the
first man to lie down to sleep. I remember distinctly
when my bed-fellow came to bed, and that was the
last I knew, until I was awakened by some one
shaking me, and a voice saying:

“Come out here, Charley; I want to show you
something.” .

The person who spoke to me was holding up the
edge of the tent close to my head.

The moon was shining brightly, and as I crawled
out from bed I saw a man standing a few feet from

the tent. I did not recognize him as being any of
our boys, and as I stood trying to make out who he
was, he said:

“Come with me; I want to show you a silver
mine.”’

I followed him up the side of the mountain until
we fame to a well-defined trail, when he stopped and
said:

‘“‘Before we go any farther you must promise me
that you will not say or do anything in regard to the

mine until you go to Laguna, where, by inquiry, you
will find a man by the name of Henry King. He was
once my partner, and while we were prospecting in
this country I found this mine. An accident pre-
vented my telling him at the time, and I have not
had the opportunity to let him know of the find since.
He will inform you of the nature of the accident that
happened to me. Tell him that Jack Long showed
you the find, and requested that it be shared equally
between you.’”

It struck me as being a remarkable story, and I
questioned him in regard to it.

“Why do you not go to Laguna and inform your
partner? And why do you give me, a total stranger
to you, a half-interest in your find? Why not keep it
yourself ?””

“For reasons you could not understand. I cannot
speak with my partner. There is more money in the
mine than one man should have, and I think you are
deserving of more wealth; and to pay you for doing
what I ask of you, is the reason [ offer it to you. To
me the mine amounts to nothing. A man in my po-
sition does not require any mines, as you will lear
from King.” f

I reluctantly made him the promise he required,
and he turned and lead the way up the trail. I fol-
lowed him over the mountain and down the opposite
side, until we cameto where the mountain broke off,
and formed one side of a deep canon.

Here he turned to the right, and after going sev-
eral rods, he stopped and picked up some pieces of
rock, which he gave to me, Saying:

“Take these with you and examine them by day-
light. All this loose rock is broken from the ledge,
and this,’ pointing to a large out-cropping of rock,
“is the ledge. Itis silver, and very rich. Now mark
the place, so that you can bring King here. Show
him the rock, and tell him that Jack says there is
plenty of it. Good-night.”

I felt a queer sensation creep over me as though I
had seen a ghost. I stood for some time, half expect-
ing to see him return; then I picked up several
peat of the rock, returned to camp, and went to
bed.

In the morning it all seemed like a dream, but
there was the ore, and I could see that it was filled
with some kind of mineral.

I showed a piece of it to the engineer. After look-
ing at it for a short time, he said:

“It is wire-silver. Where did you find it?’

I told him a person had given it to me, and said it
was wWire-silver.

T did not attempt to return to the ledge, for fear I
would be followed.

When we reached the vicinity of Laguna, f left the
corps and went to hunt up my future partner. I had
no trouble in finding him, but wishing to satisfy my-
self that he was the right man, I asked him if he ever
knew a man by the name of Jack Long.

“Yes,” he replied; ‘Jack used to be my partner.
Were you acquainted with him ?’

Whereupon I related my story to him, and gave
him some of the mineral.

I shall never forget the expression of his face as
he stood before me while I was relating my experi-
ence to him. He never removed his eyes from my
face until I was through; then he quietly sat down
and examined the mineral.

“You say you never saw Jack until the night he
showed you this mineral ?”’ he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Never heard of him ?’

*“Never.”

“Well, you have told mea queer story. Jack and
I were prospecting on the Little Colorado, at the
point you mention. On the tenth of August Jack
left. our camp, saying he was going over on the very
mountain you speak of to do a little prospecting for
quartz. We were looking for placer gold, and I put
in the day prospecting a bar on a small stream that
enters the Colorado near the place you speak of. He
did not return that night, and the next morning I
went to look for him. I found him on the side of the
mountain, stone dead. He had been caught and
erushed to death by a bowlder that had become
loosened and rolled upon him, killing him instantly.
Now, how could you have seen and talked with Jack
Long, when he has been dead for over a year ?”’

It was my turn to look astonished, and I could not
do much else for some time.

“On what day of the month did you say you saw
him ?”’ he asked.

“On the tenth of August,” I replied.

“Just a year from the day he was killed,” he re-
marked.

“What does it mean?’ IT asked. “The man who
awoke me and led me over the mountain was as much
flesh, bone, and _ blood as either you or I, and he said
his name was Jack Long. He was a short, square-
shouldered man, and when speaking his voice was

not much stronger than a woman's.”

“That was Jack, all over; but how could it be?’
he added, in the same breath, and I thought he looked
at me suspiciously.

“My friend,” said I,-“‘you can answer that question
as wellasI; but there is this aboutit, I never saw

 

 

 

Jack Long nor heard of him until the tenth of this
month. [have been working with the same engin-
eer for the last two years, and last summer we were
working in Missouri, and only came out here in June.
Now all you have to do to learn if I am telling the
truth is to go and question him. What object could
I have in showing you a silver mine, when there are
boys in our own Company who would have been too
glad to have bought an interest in such a prospect?
If you are afraid to go alone with me, take some one
with you. No, [should not have come to Laguna to
give you a half-interest in the find if I had not prom-
ised Jack Long I would do so. Now,if you want to
go and see whether I can prove my part of the story,
well and good; if not, say so, and I will take some
of my friends and go, for [ know whereit is and am
going to claim that mine.”’

“We will start to-morrow morning.” he replied,
“vyouand I. I have horses, and everything we need.
ame over to my cabin and we will get ready for the

rip.

We arrived at the foot of the mountain about noon,
and after eating our dinner we started to make the
ascent. I felt nervous and excited, but was conti-
dent I could go to the place. I soon found the trail,
and went to the top, and down the other side to the
sanon, then to the right, and there was the bowlder,
Beyond this, a few feet, must be the ledge.

A cold sweat bathed every part of my body. Sup-
pose there should be no mineral? I never halted
until I reached the same spot on which I stood with
Long, and where he had bid me good-night. I looked
on the ground at my feet; there was the mineral. fF
looked to my right; there was the ledge, with the
wire silver in sight. I turned to my companion,
saying:

“Now, what do you think ?’

He was as white as chalk, and his voice trembled
as he uttered the one word:

““ Ghost !”

We sold the property to a company for enough to
make us both independent. Now who, or what was
it that took me to the ledge ?

AUNT DEBORAH'S COTTAGE.

BY M. SILINGSBY.

 

 

 

“Let us ride over to Aunt Deborah’s cottage, and
get some cherries,” said Agnes, as we headed the
pony chaise up the little hill to the right, on the
main road, after leaving the avenue leading from the
residence of my uncle, Dr. Rugg.

I had started, on a bright July morning, two days
before, with all the joyous anticipations of a youth of
eighteen, on my first visit to Newmarket, where
dwelt my uncle, the doctor, and Cousin Agnes. It
was just two-and-twenty years ago, and at that time
you may be sure that I looked on the bright side of
life, though perhaps the impulses of my heart may
be no less kindly to-day than then.

“Who is Aunt Deborab?” I asked, interrogating
‘my pretty cousin, who was a year younger than my-
self, and, in my opinion, much more unsophisticated,
for I was blessed with all the autocratic self-conceit
of a young representative of the “Hub.”

“Oh, she is a splendid old lady,” said Cousin Agnes,
in answer to my interrogatory, “and she can tell you
such a romance about her own life, too. She owns
the beautiful white cottage I will point out to you
when we reach the top of the hill.”

“Thank you, Cousin Agnes,” I said. ‘And has she
some nice cherries? And will she tell us the ro-
mance interwoven with her life in consideration of
our patronage ?”’

“Oh, yes; but she'll not accept anything for the

cherries, Cousin Mau. She is as rich asa Jew, and
she don’t know the meaning of stingy,” was Agnes’
answer. ‘And the old major, her husband, is just as
liberal and kind-hearted, and pleased to see young
people—the more the merrier, is his motto,’ was my
pretty cousin’s supplementary conclusion.
When we arrived at the summit of the hill, over-
looking the level country beyond, which was spread
out like a beautiful panorama as far as the eye could
reach, Agnes pointed out a little white villa-like cot-
tage, embowered amid fruit and ornamental trees,
like a miniature ark of peace in a sea-green ocean of
foliage, saying:

“That is Aunt Deborah’s cottage, as it is generally
styled by the good people of Newmarket. The rea-
son why it was so éalled, I suppose, was in conse-
quence of Major Hall’s deeding it to her on the day
of their marriage, and the touching events which
subsequently grew out of that Marriage. But! will
not anticipate Aunt Deborah by attempting to tell
the story of her trials and struggles, and the patient
and enduring manner In which she bore her cross
up to the hour of amost happy and unexpected re-
prieve.”

Thus naively did Cousin Agnes excite my curios-
ity, cruelly closing her pretty mouth at this point,
without further condescending to gratify it.

We shortly after entered a narrow, shaded drive,
lined on both sides by stately rows of patriarchal
trees, and were soon at the front gate of the cottage.
Two middle-aged people, with wonderfully benevo-
lent features, stepped briskly out upon the veranda
to welcome us, which they did with a genuine air of
hospitality that could not be counterfeited. They
both looked like persons thoroughly at peace with
all the world. Aunt Deborah, though a trifle embon-
point, was still, nevertheless, unusually comely and
attractive in appearance. She carried her knitting-
needles and a ball of silkin her left hand, while her
gold-bowed spectacles were shoved high up on her
finely developed, matronly forehead. The major, as
aman, was exactly her counterpart—so far as man
may be likened to woman in physical appearance—
and evidently of about the same age. Any one
would have concluded at a glance that they were
brother and sister, perhaps twins—so striking was
the resemblance which they bore to each other.

The major, also, wore a pair of gold-bowed spec-
tacles, with this difference—his were firmly astride
the bridge of one of the handsomest and most ex-
pressive aquiline noses I ever saw on a human face.
He had a newspaper in one hand, and a highly col-
ored meerschaum in the other, which he had just re-
moved from his lips in bestowing his hearty wel-
come upon Agnes and myself. He was attired in a
well-fitting suit of mixed gray, which set off his
plump, florid features, and finely formed head to ad-

vantage—to say nothing of his rotund, though other-

wise well-shaped figure, His curly brown hair, and
slight side-whiskers were sprinkled with gray, while
his lively blue eves danced with genuine humor and
merriment. He was apparently about fifty-five
years old, and as a whole,in general appearance,
strikingly resembled the best pictures of Washington
Irving.

mat Deborah, who bore, as we have before said,
such a striking similitude to the major, considering
the difference of their sex, was attired in a plain
black silk dress and spotless white apron, with no
sort of furbelow or ornament, save an oblong gold
brooch and ear-drops—a present from the major—
and manufactured to order from a single nugget of
South American gold. On the whole, it would have
been impossible to have found a more prepossessing,
contented, and happy-looking couple, had you
searched the world over.

“Welcome, Agnes, welcome!” was the friendly
salutation of Aunt Deborah. “The black-hearts are
dead-ripe, and so are the ox-hearts, and the cherry
birds are making sad havoc with them. The goose-
berries are in fine condition, and our white plums
are beginning to be eatable. You and the young
gentleman can have your fill out of the variety we
have to offer you,” and she took Cousin Agnes by
both hands, as she stepped on to the veranda,
nearly dropping her ball of silk in the action.

“That's it, my boy! Hitch right to the ring in that
post!” cried the major, beaming on me one of his
most genial and happy simniles.

We were ushered into a cozy sitting-room, where
the cool summer breeze was wafted through the
open windows, freighted with the delicious sweets
of the season.

Luke Palmer, the major-domo of the major’s estab-
lishment, brought in first, to his employer's order, a
bottle of native wine and glasses, after which he
went forth to the fruit orchard with three small
baskets. When he returned he brought with him a
plentiful supply of plums, gooseberries, and cherries.

We drank wine in a eozy way, and partook of the
ripe, delicious fruit, fresh plucked from tree and
bush, chatting away inthe meantime in the most
pleasant and unrestrained fashion. :

T hinted, at length, to Agnes what she had said in
reference to the romance interwoven with the
varied warp of Aunt Deborah’s existence. My curi-
osity was excited, and I was anxious to hear the
life-dream of one who had so strongly awakened my 7
sympathy and veneration. ~

“Oh, Aunt Deborah!” cried Cousin Agnes, taking
her cue from the hint [had given her, “I want you
to tell Cousin Maurice that story of your own life ex-
perience which you have go often told us. There is
no one that can tell it as you can, if they had heard
it a hundred times..I am sure, for one, that I
couldn’t.”

“My darling,” said Aunt Deborah, laying her soft,
plump hand caressingly on Agnes’ shoulder, and
glancing affectionately at the major, “it seems to me
that you must have the patience of a martyr to listen
so often to that homely, threadbare story of the
years of sorrow and blight in the life of one whose
soul has since been a constant overflow of sunshine
and content. Butif itis homely and unadorned, it
may serve to interest for want of better—possibly to
point a moral; and as it will be new to the young
gentleman, your cousin—unless some one of the
many to whom it has previously been told should
have forestalled me—I will repeat it in my unpolished
way, knowing thatin my little Aggie IT can never fail
to have one patient, if not interested, listener.

“Plain, plebeian Deborah Clark was considered, at

 

 

2

 

tolerably human. That, as I have often told you, was
the name (bore before my marriage to my husband
here, thirty-five years ago.

“Albert was a young and thriving trader at that
time in Newmarket, having been started in business
two years before by his father, who was a raan of
considerable wealth and social influence, but who
died suddenly from heart disease afew months be-
fore our marriage. He purchased and laid out these
grounds, and built this cottage just a year before. he
died; and to day we can relish the fruits of the labors
that he never lived to enjoy.

“T was a poor girl compared to Albert, but of a
family as old and respectable as any in the place.
And hereT may safely say that after a brief acquaint-
ance IT learned to love him with a devotion and earn-
estness that could suffer no change or abatement—a
sober, enduring, elevated passion, calculated for the
full period of a life-time, where some rich harvest
seeds would be left to be wafted into heaven, to
germinate there into a more full and perfect under-
standing of the inner life:

“When Albert and I were married, he deeded me
this cottage, and the twenty acres of land surround-
ing it, saying it would be something to fall back upon
in case of any misfortune or business reverses. He
had already completed for my reteption a fine two-
story front in the center of. the village, which was
furnished with all the elegance and luxury that a
young bride could desire. I entered the new estab-
lishment happy in its possession, happy in my hus-
band’s love; but { fear, too vain—too selfish and
narrow in my_estimate of the blessings of life, to
continue on without some drawback, calculated to
open my eyes and purify my soul. I do not think I
was ever bad-hearted—only proud and uncharitable
in my sentiments toward those whom fortune had
placed beneath me, or dealt with less kindly. TI did
not ask whether I was possessed of any intrinsic
talents or virtues, aside from my social position,
calculated to elevate me above many—perhaps in
God’s eyes my superiors-—or to the social level of
others who might be morally the inferiors of the
former; and it did seem to me in my ignorance of
Truth, though I thought myself a Christian, that
there should be lines—copper, silver, golden lines of
demarkation drawn in society ; but I had no thought
or idea of sounding the human soul to discover the
kind of ore it contained, before instituting those so-
cial classifications. I went no deeper than the pocket
in my ideas of what these social abuses were, and
how they should be removed, and caste established.
And how many are there wlio go blindly groping
through life in vain search after what they never dis-
cover—Truth, Humility, and Charity.

“When the gift deed of the cottage was_made out
to me, the business was transacted at the office of a
young lawyer lately established in the town, named
Daltdéh—Richard Dalton, or Dick Dalton, as he was
more frequently called—who had somehow con-
trived to wheedle himself into the friendship and con-
fidence of Albert, and from the hour of our first
meeting at his office, is to be traced the rise, or dawn,
of the one great trouble that subsequently overspread
like a gaunt black shadow the rose-tinted horizon of
our young lives.

“Dick Dalton was a dashing, handsome, long-
headed man, gifted with some intellectual ability,
and a clever amount of worldly tact—of insinuating
address and oily smile, with wicked, dark eyes that
had something of the fascination of the serpent
about them. He was older than Albert, and more
conversant with the world and its manifest springs
of action, and sueceeded after a brief acquaintance
in wielding an unlimited influence over him.

“On all possible occasions, whenever circum-
stances threw me into his society, he never omitted
to bestow upon me the most assiduous attentions—
rarely neglecting to follow me with the most in-
sidious compliments, under the guise of especial
friendship and affection for Albert, and Albert at
that time firmly believed in his sincerity and honor.
But, as is often the case, it ultimately proved to be
one of those instances of misplaced confidence for
which there is no legal redress. He hurried him
from one pitfall into another, in the complicated
arena of stock speculation, the grand bubbles burst
ing with an utter financial collapse, which terminated
in the complete ruin of Albert in twelve months.

“He came to meone night with a haggard, wild
face—an insane gleam of despair in his beautiful
blue eyes—at least they were always beautiful in my
sight—and said, ‘Deborah, Iam ruined—ruined past
all hopes or chances of recovery; but the cottage is
still left to you—that is one comfort.’

“After this startling revelation, he rushed from
the house like one beside himself, and came back to
me no more till long years after—years of utter lone-
liness and sorrow, in which I had worn the somber
weeds of widowhood, and mourned him as one that
was dead. A few weeks later, the store, the mer-
chandise, and the two-story front in which T lived,
with its costly furniture; the horses and carriages,
and personal effects generally, were sold under the
sheriffs hammer to appease the creditors, and I re-
tired in grief and humility to the little cottage where
you now see me, attended by a single servant-of-all-
work; aud. here I have since resided for a period of
over thirty years. And in this place, to which I am
now so fondly attached by long associations, I have
passed the darkest as well as the briglftest and most
peaceful hours of my existence.

“Six months after the mysterious disappearance of
Albert, Dick Dalton paid me a visit of condolence,
and placed in my hands a letter purporting to have
come from the American Consul at Havre, stating
that Albert Hall, an American seaman, had been
murdered in that port; and then, by way of consola-
tion, offered his own hand in marriage. :

“T spurned him with contempt. I could not bear
to look upon the wretch—the villain who had wrought
me so much misery. He never insulted me again, for
I have never since set eyes on him. I heard, how-
ever, that he died some years since, a miserable, dis-
solute vagabond. Whether he was ever haunted by
remorse, I know not; such men rarely are.

“For the next twelve years struggled on in my
lonely widowhood, without hope other than heaven.
Istrove to be good, and to bear my cross without
complaining. I would have devoted my life to
charity, but my circumstances were too poor to ad-
mit of my giving much.

“T visited the sick, and did all in my power to al-
leviate the miseries of others, for 1t seemed ina
measure to lift the load from my own heart—to
lighten the burden I was so patiently struggling to
bear. And so those twelve weary years were
passed.

“On a windy September evening, just at sunset, I
saw a stranger approaching. He inquired if I could
give him food and shelter for the night. He looked
feeble and old, and was weighed down with a heavy
bundle. TI pitied his forlorn condition, and readily
acceded to his simple request.

“He came in, very thankful seemingly, and I gave
him some toast and a cup of warm tea, after which I
made him a comfortable bed on the lounge. I thought
him a very pleasant and harmless old man, but as-
tonishingly inquisitive fora stranger. He asked a
multitude of questions respecting my past life; if I
had been married, and if I still loved my husband
sufficiently to desire his return, supposing he should
come back as empty-handed as he went. My replies
seemed to please him—more especially when I as-
sured him that I had never for a moment ceased to
love my husband with the most devoted affection,
and that a crust with him at the moment he left me
would have been preferable to the most luxurious
existence that could have been offered by another.
But Albert was dead, I sighed, and I should never
see him any more. The stranger smiled pleasantly,
and said:

«Perhaps he may yet come back to you. In my
experience I have known stranger things than that
to happen.’

“The next morning I heard my guest moving in
the room below, before I was dressed. When I de-
scended he was gone, but in his stead there stood an-

other person with his back toward me. He was
genteelly dressed, but seemingly twenty years

younger than my guest of the preceding night, but
they were identically the same. He faced toward me
when he heard the door open. Merciful Heaven!
could my eyes.deceive me? No, there was no de-
lusion. It was my own Albert alive and well. He
had been all this time in Peru, and had amassed a
competency. He had come to me in disguise, partly
not to give me too great a surprise. and partly to
draw from me, surreptitiously, a confession of my
present sentiments toward him. He found me un-
changed.”
a ee 0° ee

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

It is dredful eazy tew mistake what we think for
what we know ; this iz the way that most ov the lies
git born that are traveling around loose.

Ambishun iz like a tread wheel; it knows no limits;
yu no sooner git tew the end ovit than you begin
again.

We are never in more danger ov being laft at than
when we are laffing at others.

Free living leads tew free thinking, free thinking
_— tew free loving, and free loving leads tew the

evil.

It iz az hard work tew make a weak man upright
az it iz an empty bag.

Good breeding seems tew be the art ov being su-
perior tew most people, and equal tew all, without
letting them know it.

Children are like vines; they will klimb the pole
yu set up for them, be it krooked or strate.

oo
THE LAUGHING PLANT.

 

 

In Central and Eastern Arabia there is a plant
whose seeds produce effects analogous to those of
laughing gas. It attains a height of from three to four

feet, with woody stems, wide-spreading branches,
and light-green foliage. The flowers are produced in
clusters, and are yellowin color. The seed peds con-
tain two or three black seeds of the size and shape

 

eighteen, very pretty, and for that coneomitart,

 

of French beans. Their flavor is a little like that of
opiuin; the taste is sweet, and the odor from them
produces a sickening sensation, and is slightly offen-
sive. These seeds, when pulverized and taken in
small doses, operate upon a person in a peculiar
manner. He begins to laugh loudly and boisterously,
and then sings, dances, and cuts up all kinds of fan-
tastic capers. The effect continues about an hour,
and the patient is extremely comical. When the ex-
citement ceases, the exhausted individual falls into
a deep sleep, which continues for an hour or more,
and when he awakens he is utterly unconscious that
any such demonstrations have been made by him.

—_>-o—

Correspondence.

 

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

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

 

ZL. R.C., Auburn, N. Y.—The Egyptians had various
methods of embalming, and carried the art to great per-
fection. In modern times, essential oils, alcohol, cinna-
bar, camphor, saltpeter, aid pitch or rosin have been em-
ployed, as well as tan, salt, asphalt, and Peruvian bark.
Corrosive sublimate, the chloride and sulphate of zine,
the acetate and sulphate of aluminium, creosote, and car-
bolic acid have all been recommended by the embalmers.
Sir Gardner Wilkinson says that the Egyptian embalmers
were probably members of the medical profession, as well

as of the class of priests. Joseph is said to have com-
manded the physicians to embalm his father, and Pliny
states that during the process certain examinat‘ons took
place which enabled them to study the disease of which
the deceased had died. They appear to have been made
in compliance with an order from the Government, as he
says the Kings of Egypt had ordered their bodies to be
opened after death for the purpose stated—the knowledge
of the nature of their ailments. Thenard’s ‘“‘Chemistry”
contains a description of a method employed in recent
times by Dr. Chaussier: ‘The body, thoroughly emptied
and washed in water, is kept constantly saturated with
corrosive sublimate. The salt gradually combines with
the flesh, gives it firmness, and renders it imputrescible
and meapable of being injured by insects and worms.”
Another process is employed for anatomical preparations
as well as embalming—injecting a concentrated solution
of sulphate of alumina into the veins of the body. It has
also been found that sulphate of zinc, prepared of differ-
ent degrees of strength, is very efficacious. It is stated
that an injection of about a gallon would perfectly well
preserve a dead body. Most recently, carbolic acid and
camphor dissolved in petroleum and colored with ver-
milion have been employed, it is said, with much suc-
cess.

Emigrant, Memphis, Tenn.—ist. The country of Hon-
duras, Central America, is in general mountainous. The
exports consist chiefly of horned cattle, dry hides, indigo,
bullion, and mahogany. The latter grows nearly all over
the State, but most abundantly near the Bay of Hon-
duras. Other products are fustic, Brazil wood, annotto,
copaiba, copal, ipecacuanha, caouchouc, and numerous

excellent fruits. Sarsaparilla and vanilla grow on the
north-east coast. Both are of the best quality. 2d. Yes.
The sugar-cane is indigenous, and yields two or three
crops ayear. 3d. Gold is foundin the sands of all the
streams. 4th. The copper mines are said to be of great
richness. 5th, The coffee is of good quality. 6th. Educa-
tion has of late years become a prominent interest in the
State, and the Government established a national college
in 1878. 7th. Honduras is governed by a*President, a
single Minister, and an Assembly of 37 Representatives.
8th. The American Minister to the Central American
States is Lansing B. Mizner. Residence, Guatemala.
The Honduras Minister to the United States is Senor
ay Jeronimo Zebaya. Address him at Washington,
. . a

B. W. B., Augusta, Ga.—The minister you refer to,
Ephraim K. Avery, died in Pittsfield, Ohio, Oct. 23, 1869,
aged 70 years. He was charged, as you state, with the
murder of a young woman named Sarah Maria Cornell, a
member of his church at Fall River, Mass., where he
was stationed in 1832-33. He was tried both by an eccle-
siastical and a civil court; the former acquitting him,
andthe latter failing tomake a case against him. In
spite of this the popular feeling was against him, and he
finally withdrew from the ministry and lived the quiet
life of a farmer, becoming noted for his industry, and
winning his way, it is stated, to the friendship, confi-
dence, and respect of his immediate neighbors. Miss
Cornell was affianced toa young man at the time of her
betrayal and murder, and though she and the minister
were known to be on intimate terms, no particular atten-
tion was attracted to either until the tragedy occurred.

-The body of Miss Cornell was found in a hay-stack in a

hayfield remote from the highway. Mr. Avery was @
Methodist, and a preacher of eloquence and ability.

Ann Clive, New Haven, Conn.—ist. “The Angels of
Buena Vista,” by John Greenleaf Whittier, was sug-
gested by the statement that at the battle of Buena Vista,
in Mexico, the women were seen hovering near the field
of death to give aid and attention to. the wounded. One
poor woman is said to have been.found surrounded by the
suffering of both armies, succoring alike the Americans
and Mexicans. 2d. “The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee” is
by Sir Walter Scott. When James was driven from the
throne, Viscount Dundee remained faithful to the fallen
monarch, and raised the standard of rebellion against the
government of William and Mary. The forces of the lat-
ter were commanded by Gen. Mackay when Dundee en-
countered them at the Pass of Killiecrankie, July 27,
1689. After both armies had exchanged fire, the High-
landers rushed on with their swords, and their foes seat-
tered and fled. Dundee fell by a musket-shot while lead-
ing his men to the charge. 3d. ‘The Burial-March of
Dundee” was written by William Edmondstoune Aytoun.

B. W. B., Philadelphia.—ist. ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was
produced at the National Theater, this city, under the
management of A, H. Purdy, July 18, 1853, and was per-

formed consecutively until April 19, 1854, and thereafter
was acted three evenings a week, besides Wednesday
ind Saturday afternoons, until May 13, 1854. 2d. “Our
American Cousin” was first acted at Laura Keene’s
Theater, this city, Oct. 18, 1858, and was performed con-
secutively until March 19, 1859. 3d. The Jarrett & Palmer’s
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin” Company sailed from this city for
England on Aug. 3, 1878.

Mrs. M,, Belleville, N.J.—To make beef soup, put on
to boil a shin of beef, 1f convenient, early in the morning.

An hour before dinner put in the vegetables, corn, toma-
toes, potatoes, or any other the season affords. Half an
hour before dinner add pearl barley, vermicelli, or dump-
lings, as may bepreferred. Season with salt, pepper, and
catsup to taste.

Amateur, Staten Island.—The prize for which the Vol-
unteer and Thistle contended was the cup won by the
yacht America in English waivers in 1851. In the original
race for the cup in question the America won the race
from the Aurora, the second yacht, by twenty minutes.
The other yachts in the squadron were far behind. The
cup has never been won by a British yacht.

Leslie A. D., Brooklyn, N. Y.—_Accerding to the super-
stition attached to certain gems, the emerald belongs to
May, its brilliant green suiting the spring verdure. It
is supposed to insure happiness in Jove, and domestic
felicity. The pearl signifies tears and pity, and is as-
signed to November.

Johnny Jumper, River Falls, Wis —ist. A letter ad-
dressed to Samuel R. Thayer, the American Minister at
The Hague (Netherlands), may elicit the information you
desire. 2d. “German Without a Teacher’ will cost 25
cents; “French Without a Teacher” the same price. 3d.
Bathe in water containing a little spirits of ammonia.
Belle Clair, Onoville, N. Y.—ist. The frequent use of
castor oil and brandy will help to darken your hair in
time, but only a hair-dye will give it the color you wish,
which we would not advise you to use on account of its
injurious effects. 2d. Glycerine diluted with fresh lemon
juice will aid in whitening and softening the skin.

Zela, New Orleans.—Manitou is pronounced as if spelled
man-e-too, the accent on the first syllable. It is the name
of alarge river of Quebec, a county of Michigan, and a
post village and summer resort of El Paso County, Col-
orado; also of a creek in Colorado. Manitou is also a
spirit, god, or devil of the American Indian.

Old Voter, Harlem.—In 1861 thefe were three candi-
dates for Mayor of New York, namely, Opdyke, Gunther,
and Wood. The first named was elected by a vote of 613
over Gunther and 1,213 over Wood. The Republicans
supported Opdyke, Tammany Hall Gunther, and Mozart
Hall Wood.

R. E. C., Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.—ist. Charley Ross
was abducted on July 1, 1874. His father was Christian
K. Ross, a resident of Germantown, Pa. 2d. The fate of
the boy still remains a mystery. If living he would now
be over twenty-one years of age.

H. B., Walton, N. Y.—The present population of Utah
Territory is estimated to be 229,895 ; that of Salt Lake City
in 1880 was 20,768. We have no estimate of its present
population, but of course it has grown in proportion with
that of the whole Territory, which in 1880 was 143,903.

Constant Reader, Boston, Mass.—Mrs. H. B. South-
worth, who killed Stephen Pettus in this city on Nov. 22,
— died in her cell inthe Tombs on Tuesday, Jan. 7,
1890.

A. IL. M., Detroit, Mich.—The first banking institu-
ore ie California was started in San Francisco on Jan.
, 1849. ;

Orestes, Cambridge, Mass.—Hiram Powers, the Ameri-
can sculptor, died in Florence, Italy, on June 27, 1873.
His age was 58.

General Reader, Bordentown, N. J.—The song of “Ben
Bolt,” by Thomas Dunn English, appeared in the New
York Mirror in 1842.

B. W. L. C., Concord, N. H.—Oil City, Pa., isa princi-

 

pal oil market in the Pennsylvania oil regions; hence its
name.

R. &. C., Wilmington, Del.—Henry George is not an
Englishman. He was born in Philadelphia, Pa., Sept. 2,
1839, of American parents.

R. W., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The height of the chimney of
the Fall River lron Co., Fall River, Mass., is 350 feet.

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

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wien», «was THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

te

 

 

 

TO-DAY.

 

BY MINNIE KELLOGG CONE.

 

Oh, let us not hide from our loved ones,
Those we hold dearest and best,

The flowers of affection we nurture,
And bury them deep in our“breast.

For lips may be snowy to-morrow
That are red like the roses to-day ;

And hearts may be breaking with sorrow
O’er words we've forgotten to say.

Oh, why should we keep our caresses,
Or words of endearment and cheer,

Until either blessing or cursing
Unheeded shall fall on the ear;

Then let us not save all the flowers
To strew on the graves of our dead,

But scatter a few on life’s pathway,
Tv comfort the living instead.

For there in the Land of the Silent oe
They’ll need not our praise or our blame;
To-day those we cling to most fondly,
To-morrow the angels may ciaim.
So smooth out the rough, thorny places
So cruelly wounding the feet,
To-day let us mix with the bitter
A draught of love’s nectar so sweet!

Then let us not wait in bestowing
The love-words we never will miss;
For lips may be marble to-morrow
That hunger to-day for a kiss.
And when we shall hear the faint plashing,
As o’er the dark river we go,
For all the fond words and caressing
We will not be sorry, I know.

Tis Slory Wil Not be Pushin Bok Pn

Lady Roslyn Pensioner,

By Mrs. HARRIET LEWIS,

Author of *“‘A Life at Stake,” “The House or
Secrets,” “‘The False Heir,” ‘*The
Heiress of Egremont,” etc.

 

 

[“LADY ROSLYN’S PENSIONER” was commenced in No
33. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

‘CHAPTER VII.
THE VISIT TO MRS. ADRIAN.

“There’s not a look, a word of thine,
My soul hath e’erforgot;
Thou ne’er hast bid a ringlet shine, —
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine,
Which I remember not.”—MOORE,

The house belonging to Mrs. Adrian, and which had
been described by Vayle Malvern as a “small square
box,” stood just without the village of Roslyn. There
was no wide lawn to give dignity to it, no grand old
trees, no beautiful gardens. A path led from the
gate to the door, and at one side was an open, grav
eled lane, used as a carriage-way. A poplar tree
waved before the entrance, and a few bushes flour-
ished on either side of the path.

The house itself merited the description that had
been given of it. 1t had originally been erected as
a shooting-box for the titled grandsire of the late Mr.
Adrian, but a large posterity had made it necessary
to convert it into a dwelling-house, which had been
settled upon Mrs. Adrian at her marriage.

It had few pretentions to elegance. A bay-window
had been thrown out of the small drawing-room—a
large, ample recess, that was more like a small room
than a window, and which gave an air of spacious-
ness to the otherwise cramped apartment. The
chimneys had been converted into graceful appen-
dages, and the porches had been made ornamental
as well as useful.

But that was all. The outline of the little building

remained the same, looking hard and unyielding.
The accommodations of the dwelling sufficed only
for a very small establishment—one that might be
deemed far too small fer the gay and fashionable
Mrs. Adrian, unless, perhaps, in the days of her first
mourning. B . :

Regarding her, as she half-reclined in the curtained
window and looked anxiously down the road, one
would not have imagined that she had come to this
little country-house in order to indulge unrestrain-
edly in her grief for the loss of her husband.

Yet such was the reason she had assigned for
leaving Vienna and taking possession of the more
insignificant of two homes secured to her for her life-
time by the settlements of her marriage.

She wished to bury herself in some quiet nook, she
had declared, where she could meditate upon her
terrible bereavement and the virtues of her departed
husband, “and no place was so favora)le for medi-
tation as that little box at Roslyn.”

But this decision had been made while in utter
ignorance of the earl’s intended marriage.

Some wonder had been excited among her friends
that she should consider such retirement necessary,
when it was notorious that she had not lived happily
with her husband. Her dear “five hundred friends”
were well aware that her extravagance and fondness
for society had nearly distracted the late Mr. Adrian,
who, being but a younger son, with five or six elder
brothers, had not the purse of Fortunatus. He had
not married a fortune, as younger sons are wont to
do, and had been obliged to accept a government ap-
pointment in India,-where he had perished, as before
mentioned. ‘

If Mrs. Adrian had not a fortune in bank stocks,
her husband had, when marrying her, deemed her
richly dowered in beauty. :

She was a fair, large woman, inclined to embon-

int. fer complexion was very fine, having always
eon carefully guarded from sun and wind, and there
was asteaay bloom upon her cheeks, which the en-
vious declared was the work of art. Her hair was
prown, and carefully arranged, after the fashion of
the day, in a manner to indicate the greatest gen-
erosity on the part of nature. Her motions, which
were few, as she reclined there, were extremely lan-
guid, and indicated habits of great indolence.

It was her chief characteristic. To lie upon a couch,
with a new novel in her hand, was to her the height
of felicity, and she indulged herself in it without
stint.

The bloom and freshness of youth had long since
departed, for years of dissipation must be paid for.
She was thirty years of age, and she gave promise of
becoming in ten more stout and ruddy.

Although, in detail, her charms were not overpow-
ering, yet, in her tout ensemble, she was what is
termed a fine-looking woman. ‘

Her principal attraction was her manner, which
to her admirers was absolutely fascinating. She was
skilled in repartee and graceful badinage, in the art
of delicate flattery, and had sufficient tact or, art to
place a visitor upon good terms with himself, as the
surest plan of pleasing him. a

Her attire was of the deepest black, mitigated by
an unlimited display of beads and bugles of jet, and
her widow’s cap had avery pretty look, perched at
the back of her head in such a manner as not to in-
terfere with her elaborate coiffure. It resembled
more a morning head-dress than the emblem of a
woman’s deepest woe. :

“T wish I could take the horrid thing off entirely,”
she said, impatiently, catching sight of it in the nar-
row strip of mirror paneled in the window between
the sashes. “Yet I suppose I should be looked upon
as a monster if I were to discard it. I wonder if it
makes me look older than I should do otherwise.”

She decided, after due investigation, that, under
her skillful arrangement, the cap did not materially
detract from her good looks, and then resumed her
attitude of watching the road.

She was expecting the Earl of Roslyn.

“Though I don’t suppose he’ll come,” she mur-
mured, in atone expressive of the deepest annoy-
anee. “I was so grieved to learn that he had mar-
ried. Ithink I was never so shocked in my life. I
know that he kept single for years because I had
jilted him, and he could not get over it. { supposed,
of course, that I had only to come back and see him
to become the Countess of Roslyn. He must have
ceased to love me, for I wrote hima fortnight ago,
and he could have broken off his marriage if he had
felt inclined. Of course, he won’t come over here
this morning, and I was foolish to ask him. He will
not be apt to leave his bride of a day, to call upon
the woman he loved first.”

She looked chagrined beyond measure.

It had, indeed, been a heavy blow to her—this mar-
riage of Lord Roslyn. Throughout her wedded life
one of her chief boasts had been, that the handsome
young ear] kept single for her sake, and she had been
unwifely and unwomanly enough to dream thata
time might come when she would reward his con-
stancy, and accept the title he could bestow upon

er

The news of his engagement had reached her at
Paris, and she had continued her journey, hoping to

 

 

see him before he should be married, but she had ar-
rived too late.

She had come up from London in the same train
with the bridal party, although unseen by them, and
had watched their enthusiastic,reception at the little
station of Roslyn, with a bitterness of feeling be-
yond description. She had a good opportunty of ob
serving the youthful bride, and her first thought was,
that she had never in her life beheld such glorious
beauty as that of the young countess. Her next was
one of bitter envy and unreasoning dislike.

Phis fair young maiden had stepped in between
her and the prize that had been waiting for her so
long, just at the moment, too, when she had come
forward to claim it, and an unrelenting hatred
against the Lady Adine sprang into being in Mrs.
Adrian’s soul, -

“T wonder if he loves her!’ she mused. ‘Probably
he does. He was but a boy when he loved me, and
that was but a boy’s ardent fancy, as Lalways knew
He has, probably, given her the strong love of his
manhood, which [ have lately so foolishly dreamed
of awakening. I could never win his love from her,
if I were to try. I look like an elderly woman be-
side her. My brown hair cannot bear comparison
with her pale golden locks, and she is slender, while
Iam growing stout. She looked and walked like a
queen, [ like a woman of the world,” and her tone
grew bitter. “No one would look upon me beside
her. My dream is ended. I may as well return to
Vienna to-morrow.”

The decision cost her a great deal of pain; for, as
mueh as she could love, she had loved the Earl of
Roslyn. She had sacrificed him once, and would
have done it a second time just as readily had he
not been what he was, but it hurt her to hear of his
marriage to another. Ever since the tidings of her
widowhood had reached her, she had dreamed of
becoming mistress of Roslyn Manor, and to know
that another woman reigned there, gave her a pang
—— than she had felt on learning of her husband’s

eath. ;

She continued to think of the young countess and
the earl, until, as it seemed to her, there was danger
of losing her senses. She decided that her note to
Lord Roslyn, requesting him to call upon her, would
be politely ignored, if opened at al), and she imagined
that, if read, the bridal pair were smiling over this
advance from the woman whose only claim upon him
was that he had once admired her.

“T will not stay here to be laughed at,” she sud-
denly exclaimed. “I have acted like a dotard in
sending him that ridiculous note. Why should he
eall upon me now that he is married? I have done
a@ most unheard-of thing. The bridegroom will, of
course, have only eyes and ears for his bride fora
month at least; and if he should come, what good
would itdo? I should have to listen to Lady Ros-
lyn’s praises, and a list of her perfections—no, I will
not stay !”’ F

She sprang up with unwonted energy, and touched
a bell, which was answered by her maid, a broad-
faced German woman, whose exquisite taste amply
atoned for her peasant-like appearance.

“You can re-pack the trunks,’ said her mistress,
abruptly. ‘We shall return to Vienna within the
week. I am tired of this dull place already.”

The German’s stolid countenance was expressive
of satisfaction, and she withdrew hastily to execute
the command.

Mrs. Adrian then returned to the window.

She was standing there, with a frown upon her
face, idly tapping upon the pane, when the Ear] of
Roslyn’s pony carriage came in sight.

She saw that his lordship and his coachman were
its only occupants, and that the carriage was about
to stop before her dwelling.

With a quickened step, not to be expected from her,
she sank down in a studied attitude upon the silken
couch, laid a volume of consolatory poems in her lap,
and appeared to be absorbed in one, which enjoined
resignation and fortitude to the unavoidable dis-
pensations of Providence.

Her black-bordered handkerchief reposed in one
shapely hand, as if in constant requirement to check
the flow of tears.

She was sitting thus when the earl was announced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘* REMEMBER IT, MY LORD ?” EXCLAIMED THE WIDOW.
‘WOULD THAT I COULD FORGET!”

Her look of surprise was well affected as he entered
the room, and she arose to welcome him with pre-
tended agitation.

“This is so kind of you, Lord Roslyn,” she said,
giving him her hand. “I repented writing to you as
soon as the note was sent, fearing that you would
not be willing to leave your bride even for an hour.”

“Lady Roslyn desired me to call,” responded his
lordship, gazing, not without emotion, upon the wo-
man who was still cherished in his heart. ‘‘She wishes
to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Adrian.”

“The countess is very beautiful!” said the widow,
guardedly, determined to probe her visitor’s heart.
‘IT think I never saw a lady with beauty so striking
as hers. -I saw her yesterday for the first time in my
life, and I can well understand the furor she has
created every season since her introduction into so-
ciety.’

This acknowledgment, while truthful, cost Mrs.
Adrian’s envious heart a pang, but it was not made
without an object. *

The earl acknowledged the compliment, receiving
it with evident pleasure, but there was no lighting
up of his eyes, no glow upon his cheeks, such as
might have been expected.

The keen-sighted widow did not fail to observe this
coldness. 2

“But her personal beauty, I suppose, is her least
lovable quality,” she said, insinuatingly. ‘‘Her love
and sympathy outweigh mere physical attractions.
A eee blessed by perfect sympathy is rare in this
world.”

“Tt is, indeed,” replied the earl, unconscious that
his words and toneewere a revelation to his hostess.

“You must accept my congratulations, my lord,”
and the widow sighed. “I should have written you
a congratulatory note, but the truth was, I was so
shocked by the news of your marriage—not shocked,
I did not mean that,” she added, hastily, “but sur-
prised. I had thought—I had fancied——”

She paused, in affected confusion, and lowered her

AaZe. :

The earl comprehended the meaning she intended
to convey, and his heart thrilled, as she had hoped
it would.

“You thought me still unmarried, then ?”’

“Yes, I thought so. I had noright to hope any-
thing from it, but, after my husband’s death, I—
[|_—

She broke down again.

; His lordship looked at her a few moments in si-
ence.

He acknowledged to himself that she looked much
older than when he had seen her last; that she had
grown stouter, and that she could not be compared,
for physical or intellectual beauty, with his bride.

But the memory of his early passion for her cast a
glamour over her in his sight, and her manner en-
thralled him.

“You remembered, then, my boyish fancy?’ he
asked, lightly.

“Remember it, my lord?” and she turned her gaze
upon him. “Can one forget a terrible mistake that
has wrecked one’s life? Can one cease to regret _a
folly in throwing away a gem that wonld have made
one’s life a perfect dream of happiness? Remem-
ber! Would that I did not! Would that I could for-
get!” ;

The earl was pleased at this implied confession of
a regard for him, and at the same time he felt un-
comfortable.

It seemed rather unwomanly in her to unvail her
heart, when the unvailing could do no good, and he
thought within himself that his young bride could
never be guilty of such an act.

The admission heightened his respect for the
countess, and lessened it for Mrs. Adrian.

“You have receutly experienced a great loss,” he
said, glancing at her somber attire.

“Yes,” she answered, “I suppose so. I dare say
you are shocked at my manner of speaking, but I
have not lived with my husband for so long a time
that he has been, as it were, dead to me for years.
And then, I will tell you frankly, my lord, I never

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

loved him. My heart was oecupied with the memory

of another, and poor James and I had so little in
common. He loved me, though,” she added.

The earl called to mind the reports he had heard,
relative to the misunderstandings between the
Adrians, but he said nothing.

The widow had discovered, from his words and
manner, that he had not accorded to his young wife
the love he had once given her, and, strange as it
may seem, a wild hope took possession of her soul—
a hope that Roslyn might not be forever lost to her.

“You received the letter I sent you a fortnight
since from Vienna, I suppose?” she said.

“T received it this morning,” was the response.
oF saw the notice of your husband’s death last even-
ing.”

‘ “And you did not know until then that I was
ree?’

His lordship replied in the negative.

The widow’s blue eyes sparkled.

“If you had known,” she could not avoid saying,
softly, looking up at him With ill-concealed tender-
ness.

“Tf Thad known,” he answered, “it could have
made no difference. I had been for two months the

 

 

 

 

 

“OH, RELLEN, HOW CAN I REPAY YOU?” WHISPERED
THE GIRL, DROOPING HER HEAD.

betrothed husband of the Lady Adine Sayton, who is
now my wife.”

“You love her, then?” she asked, almost in a whis-
per, and almost involuntarily.

“Pardon me, my fair confessor,” the earl responded,
smilingly, “but that confession must be reserved for
the ears of my wife.”

Mrs. Adrian bit her lips, but she was not foiled.
oe knew already what she had desired him to own
to her.

Satisfied with the progress she had made, she per-
mitted the conversation to drift into other channels,
and exercised her old fascination; but the earl felt
there was something lacking in her.

His visit was seareely so pleasant as he had antici-
pated, and he madeit as short as possible, without
appearing abrupt. He invited her to cali upon his
bride, which she promised to do, and he then arose to
take his departire.

The widow put her plump hand in his, begging him
to call often, and she watched his egress from her
dwelling, and his departure in his carriage, with a
satisfied smile.

The earl drove toward home thinking:

“She is greatly changed, or else I am changed.
Her presence does not affect me as of old. Once or
twice I thought she actually overstepped the bounds
of womanly delicacy, in speaking of an affection for
me. She knows that Iam married, and that 1 could
say nothing to such a confession. Besides, it was in
bad taste, after jilting me as she did. If I had ever
desired to be revenged upon her, that desire can be
gratified now. Iam sorry for her, if she really loves
me, but I am not sure that I wish myself unmarried.
If Adine did not dislike me, and if I loved her as
much as E admire her, I should prefer matters as they
are. Adine is a wife to be proud of, but then she has
no heart. One thing Iam resolvéd upon—that it is
not safe for meto visit Mrs. Adrian often. And I
must uproot her from my heart.”

Meanwhile the widow had resumed thé reclining
position from which his entrance had aroused her,
and gave herself up to pleasant anticipations.

“He loves me yet,” she mused, “and he does not
love his countess. Oh, if James had only died earlier,
and I had received the news sooner! But I must
make the best of the present state of affairs. I can-
not, of course, marry him, and I shall’go back to
Vienna—but not yet. Ican make him love me more
than ever, I can make his queenly wife weep her-
self blind—for she must love him—and then it will
be time enough to leave Roslyn.”

She reached out her hand languidly for the bell,
and summoned her maid, to whom she said :

“Unpack the trunks, Gretchen. I shall stay.”

And then, as the woman withdrew, she planned
how she would spend the weeks of her retirement,
and by what'means she could bring about a desirable
end which looked impossible.

“Tf I could make her jealous,” she thought, art-
fully, “and persuade her to abandon the earl, he
could get a divorce on the plea of desertion, and I
could marry him. If she wouldn’t leave him, some
other excuse for a divorce might be obtained. They
say that ‘where there’s a will there’s a way,’ and hav-
ing the earl's affection to begin upon, [am sure I can
bring about the result I most desire. I wish I had
Vayle Malvern in my interest. I believe him to be
at heart perfectly unscrupulous, and somebody said
in Paris he used to be devoted to the Lady Adine
Sayton. If he should hate her now for refusing him.
and stepping in between him and his expected in-
heritance, he might assist me.”

She continued to think of Malvern, whom she had
known well before her marriage, and since encoun-
tered abroad, and had almost determined to send
him a message to come to her, when, looking out of
the window, she beheld the object of her thoughts
entering the gate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE STRANGER REGARDED RELLEN KEENLY, AND A
HOARSE EXCLAMATION AROSE TO HIS LIPS.

The next moment Vayle Malvern was ushered into
her presence.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE DISGUISED STRANGER.

“Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.”
SHAKESPEARE.

Commanding her emotions by a strong effort, Mrs.
Polack plunged at.once into the subject distressing
her, saying: F

“You know, Rellen, all that I know myself of Alix’s
history—how she came under my protection, and all
the mysterious circumstances connected with her.”

“Certainly, mother,” he responded,” directing a
startled and inquiring glance from the ex-schoolmis-
tress to the young girl.

“Yes, Alix knows all about it,” declared his mother,
interpreting his look. ‘‘I had thought of keeping the
story from her, fearing to excite her by a mystery, to
which no explanation could be given. I thought her
unele dead, since I had not heard from him for three
years, and hoped to keep the child always with me.
But circumstances rendered it necessary that I

what we suppose to be the eighteenth anniversary
of her birthday. And the revelation was not made
too soon, Rellen !”

“IT don’t understand you.”

“Alix went over to the post-office in the hope that
there might be a letter from you explaining your non-
return to-day, and she received one for me—one
from the man who called himself her uncle. He is
in London, and is coming here to claim Alix, and put
her where she can support herself.”

“Let me see the letter !”

Mrs. Polack handed the missive to her son.

He perused it carefully, scrutinizing every word,
and then said, slowly:

_ “One thing is evident—the man believes Alix to be
imbecile.”

“His object in drugging her in her childhood was to
weaken her mind, I am positive!” declared Mrs. Pol-
ack. “If she had not received the wise and careful
treatment, and the tender love we gave her, I fear
she would have been what he desired. I can never
cease to thank Providence for warming my heart to-
ward the poor motherless little creature.”

Thetears started to the girl’s eyes, and she knelt
down beside the lady who had bestowed more than a
mother’s care upon her, and buried her head in her
loving bosom.

“My dear little Alik!” said the ex-schoolmistress,
pressing her lips upon the feathery mass of curls.
“You have more than repaid me. Oh, Rellen,” she
added, addressing herson, “if it had not been for this
child, I should never have lived until your return. I
had a terrible illness last summer, a contagious fever,
the servants all went away, and Alix alone stood by
me, nursing me night and day. I owe to her my life.
Nothing could persuade her to desert me, not even
the solicitations of the physician. She is as-brave as
she is gentle and lovely.”

Rellen Polack’s face worked with emotion, and he
bent forward, lifted one hand of the girl’s, and raised
it with tender respect to his lips.

“Heaven bless you, Alix !” he whispered.

The little maiden did not look up, bit a scarlet
flush could be seen creeping from her cheek to the
very tip of her dainty, pearly ear.

“T think, mother,” observed Rellen, recurring to
the letter, ‘“‘that this man’s object in coming here is
quite apparant. He believes Alix’s intellect to be in-
jured, and he thinks it necessary to place her in some
asylum for imbeciles, fearing that if he leaves her
here longer, her history may become food for com-
mon gossip, and speculations be indulged in with re-
gard to her. He evidently is troubled about her.
There is no affection for her manifest in the letter,
and I am inclined to think he is afraid of her!”

“Afraid of her! Afraid of our little Alix!”

“It seems so to me. I think that, when he dis-
covers that his attempts to weaken her ming have
failed, he will insist upon removing her from our
care.’

Mrs. Polack clasped the maiden closer, murmuring
that she would never let her go.

“If he bereally her guardian, he has the law on
his side,” said Rellen, thoughtfully. “He can com-
pel her to go with him. He may be her own father
or brother.”

“JT don’t think that,” remarked the ex-schoolmis-
tress. “I believe that he is her deadly enemy. The
last look he gave her, was one that I could never ex-
plain, but it has always seemed to me to have been
made up of fear and hatred. How could he have
feared a little child not yet six years old ?”

“Thatis a mystery that we shall probably not un-
ravel in this world,” declared Rellen. “It is clear,
though, that Alix is in danger at his hands.”

“JT shall not leave Aunt Lettice nor the lodge !” said
Alix, resolutely. ‘“‘“He can have no claim upon me
like hers.”

“No, you shall not go, Alix!’ said Rellen Polack,
his feniinine face taking a look that was wholly mas-
culine, and his eyes glowing with a determined fire.
“If you cleave to us you sball not be torn from us,
except over my dead body. I will defend you while
there remains a spark of life within me!”

Alix’s face assumed an answering glow, and she

 

Ay

¢

SS

Ss

 

 

 

 

‘IS THIS ALIX ERLE?’ HE DEMANDED, HOARSELY,
AS SOON AS HE COULD FIND VOICE.

arose to her chair, with a look of gratitude and devo-
tion.

Poor innocent child! Rellen Polack was to her the
embodiment of uobleness, goodness, and chivalry !

“Oh, Rellen,” she said, ‘I can never repay you.”

The love for her that was the strongest passion of
Rellen’s heart flamed up at her grateful words, and
he said, passionately:

“You can repay meif you will, Alix. You have it
in your power to make me the happiest of men.”

“How?” whispered the girl, drooping her head and
blushing like a rose.

Rellen turned and bestowed a significant glance at
his mother, who was trembling with delight, and who
arose to withdraw in obedience to lhtis look.

Alix remained a picture of charming confusion.

Rellen drew nearer to her with beaming eyes and
glowing face, deterinined to offer her the protection
of a husband from her mysterious enemy, and with
protestations of love upon his tongue.

But before Mrs. Polack had time to reach the door,
and before the youug man had taken the girl’s flutter.
ing hand, the sound of wheels was heard, and a
vehicle drove up to the little front gate.

“Perhaps it is Alix’s uncle!” gasped the ex-school-
mistress, with an appealing look at her son.

Rellen immediately stepped to the window.

‘He was in time to seea man alight from the vehicle
—a man exactly answering to the description of
Alix’s mysterious guardian.

‘Yes, he has come!” he said, calmly. “Seat your-
self, mother, and do not be frightened. I will see this
man. Alix, my love,” and he came and took the girl's
suddenly cold hand, ‘I do not want him to see you at
first. Stay in the adjoining room until I call you.”

He conducted her toa small retiring-room which
adjoined the drawing-room, and left her there, for
she did not venture to express a wish in opposition
to his.

For, though feminine as he appeared, Rellen Pol-
ack had a more than masculine will, and commanded
obedience—instant, unquestioning obedience, when-
ever he chose. There were few who dared to oppose
his commands, or set up their will against his, for
there was a fire in his eyes, and a look about his
mouth, that would have made a brave man quail be-
fore him.

But Alix had no wish to oppose him. She was only
too happy to obey him,

Rellen had barely returned to the outer room, and
bidden his mother be of good. courage, when a
stranger was announced.

Mrs. Polack arose to greet him, while her son re-
tired a few steps to study the new-comer.

The stranger was a tall man, with a massive frame,
strangely muffled up for the sultry June weather.
He was attired after the manner of clergymen, but
his coat was of eheap alpaca and so long that it sug-
gested the clergyman’s gown. ~

His head was adorned with a sandy-hued wig, the
hair of which fell thickly about his neck. His face
was half hidden by an unusually heavy beard that
fell upon his breast, and strangely heavy eyebrows
gave a singular effect to the upper part of his face.

He wore an immense pair of green spectacles that
were set upon his rubicund nose in such a way as to
permit him to peep now and then above them—a sure
sign that they were not needed for the purpose of
strengthening his sight.

In his gloved hands he carried a cotton umbrella.

His disguise—if disguise it were—was well con-
ceived and skillfully executed.

No one, without previous suspicions, would have
a doubt that he was not what he seemed—viz., a
clever man addicted to good living, and with im-
paired hearing and weakened eyesight, who was
taking a journey for the benefit of his digestive
organs. E

But Rellen Polack knew his attire to be a skillfully
got-up disguise, from the sandy-hued wig down to
the alpaca gaiters inclosing the large, well-shaped
feet.

He had full opportunity to continue his investiga-
tions, for the intruder had not detected his presence.

“This is Mrs. Polack, I suppose ?” said the stranger,
addressing the ex-schoolmistress, who stood before

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

 

 

 

should tell her the truth, and so I told her to-day—on | him, regarding him with the severe expression with

which she had been wont to awe refractory pupils.

The lady bowed, responding:

“And are you Mr. Erle, who left his niece with me
thirteen years ago ?”’

“Tam,” was the hoarse reply. ‘You received my
note from London ?”

Mrs. Polack replied in the affirmative.

“Towe you anapology for not having written to
you with regard to the child for the past four years,”
said Mr. Erle, “but circumstances prevented my do-
ing so. 1 ama poor clergyman, and [ could have ill-
spared any money for continuing her education. Be-
sides, I am convinced that the child had no capacity
for learning, and that the money would be thrown
away. I hear that you closed your school four years
ago. Did you keep the girl with you, or place her in
a charitable institution ?”’

Restraining her indignation, Mrs. Polack replied:

“T kept her with me.”

“Is she living now?” inquired the stranger, with
a remarkable eagnerness in his husky tones and
evident hope that she was not.

“Yes, she is living,” answered Mrs. Polack.

“But merely existing, is she not?”

And the eagerness with which the stranger listened
for a reply was actually intense.

“Tam not sure that I understand you, Mr. Erle.”

“T suppose,” he said, more slowly, “that my un-
fortunate niece is not liberally endowed with intel-
lect, and I hope you have made her useful. I have
no pride in her, and shall not be angry if you tell me
that you have made her your servant. For, though
Iam in the church, and Alix is my niece, I have no
reason to be proud of her existence.”

“Alix has been-very useful to me,” said the ex-
schoolmistress, very truthfully. “I think I could
not get along without her, andI hope you will not
think of taking her from me.”’

The stranger appeared pleased at this reply, if one
might judge from the way in which he peered over
his spectacles, his blue eyes snapping open and shut
with great rapidity.

“T don’t know that I have any objection to her re-
maining with you, Mrs. Polack,” he said, huskily.
“If she knows enough to be a good waiting maid, I
am perfectly satisfied. It was an experiment my
bringing her to you at all. I have often thought that
I should have placed her in some asylum before go-
ing abroad.” a

Mrs. Polack longed to remind him that he would
never have dared to take the drugged child to a
public asylum, lest an outery should be made about
the cruelty with which she had been treated, and the
deep mystery surrounding him.

She longed to tell him that he had preferred a girl’s
school as a home for the little one, because it was
safer and more retired; but she curbed her impatient
tone lest she should injure her darling’s cause.

She simply said:

“Tf you are a poor clergyman I cannot understand
how you should have lived abroad so many years.”

“T have lived by teaching the Continental lan-
guages ; my health would not permit me to occupy a
pulpit,” was the ready response. “I had a large
family of my own to support and train—ah !”

He had caught a sight of Rellen Polack, who still
remained in the background. ;

“Who is this young gentleman whom I have not
observed before, Mrs. Polack ?’ he asked.

“He is my son, Rellen Polack; a gentleman who
does business in London,’ answered the proud
mother.

The stranger regarded Rellen keenly, and a hoarse
exclamation arose to his lips, while a look of as-
tounded recognition flamed forth from his eyes.

He had evidently seen Rellen Polack before.

As Rellen caught that astounded look, an uncom-
fortable sensation crept over him, and he felt con-
vineed that he had seen Alix’s mysterious relative
somewhere before.

But where

Could it have been when abroad? Or was it when
he dazzled London society as the gay and fascinating
Count Lechelle ?

Who was this man? he asked himself, with an un-
easy feeling, but the question involved a mystery
which he could not fathom. -

Beyond that first look, there was nothing in what
was Visible of the stranger’s countenance to show
that he had ever seen the son of the ex-schoolmis-
tress before.

“T was startled at beholding your son when I sup-
posed we were alone,” remarked Mr. Erle, more
hoarsely than before. ‘‘I am a poor, broken-down
man, madam, startled by the fall of a feather. It’s a
sad thing to have such weak nerves. But to return
to the subject on which we were conversing. I sup-
pose my niece is nearly grown up.”

“She is not tall, neither is she large,’ said Mrs.
Polack. ‘She is eighteen to-day, if the date of her
birth which you gave me were correct.”

“Can you think [ would have made a mistake upon
a point even so immaterial as the date of my niece’s
birth, Mrs. Polack?’ inquired the stranger, with a
glance full of suspicion.

“My mother did not intend to convey a doubt of
your statement, Mr. Erie,” said Rellen, quietly, yet
watching the man with a close and unmoved gaze.
“But as many parents forget the birthdays of their
children, an uncle, with a large family of his own,
cannot be expected to have an infallible memory
upon such a point.”

The stranger retreated a few steps, and partially
turned his back upon Rellen, who continued to
scrutinize him, with a longing desire to snatch the
wig from his head, the beard from his chin, the spec-
tacles from his nose, and learn the mystery of his
identity.

That he was a poor clergyman he did notin the
least believe.

“So Alix is small, Mrs. Polack,” said the stranger,
in atone expressive of gratification. “And an im-
becile, too. As she must occupy a very subordinate
position in your household, you will not, of course,
expect me to pay anything more for her.”

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Polack, eagerly.

He regarded her keenly above those hideous green
spectacles he wore, and an idea had evidently been
suggested to him by her eagerness.

“You say that she is a great assistance to you,” he
remarked, ‘‘and you will not then, perhaps, expect
pay ment for the last four years ?”

“T should not receive another penny from you
upon Alix’s account, Mr. Erle,” declared the ex-
schoolimistress.

“Suppose I go away again and do not leave my ad-
dress, what will she do in the event of your death, or
a caprice to cast her off ?”’

“T will provide for her. I shall never cast her off,
for I have become attached to the poor child.”

“Very well, then. I think I will abandon her to
your care. Butif Ido, I shall never come near you
or her again. I am not fond of imbeciles.”

Mrs. Polack carefully repressed all sign of pleasure
at this announcement, and quietly reiterated her
promise to provide for the girl.

“Very well, then,” said the stranger, repeating the
words he had used before. “I think I will resign
the unfortunate girl to you. But, before I go, I
should like to see her. Yes,’ he added, in a sort of
nervous tremor, “I must see her before I take my
departure.”

Poor Mrs. Polack had ventured to hope that her
charge might not be asked for, and that, conse-
quently, her intelligence might remain unsuspected,
but that hope was crushed now.

What should he do when he should discover that
Alix was unusually gifted with mental endowments?

She shuddered in anticipation, and leaned heavily
against the back of the arm-chair.

“Call Alix, Rellen,” she said, faintly.

He moved toward the window and pulled aside the
blinds, letting in a flood of golden sunset light, and
then he stepped closer to the stranger and looked up
into his face.

The pretended clergyman thrust his hand within
his waistcoat, apparently clutching a pistol.

“T beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Polack’s son, pass-
ingon. “I will call Alix.”

And, with an uneasy, unsatisfied look, he went into
the retiring-room.

He found Alix kneeling by the window-seat, a
peaceful expression on her pure and lovely face, and
a tranquil light in her sunny eyes.

“Come, Alix,” he said, gently lifting her to her feet.
“Have no fears——”

“T am not afraid, Rellen,” she answered, softly,
looking up into his face. ‘I have faith that I shall
not be taken away from this dear home.”

“You faith is well founded, dear Alix,” he an-
swered, “particularly if it be founded upon my prom-
ise that you shall not go.”

Alix looked up serenely, showing in whom she
trusted, and ®he said:

“T have faith in you, Rellen. I do not believe that
this man would dare to take me away, if you were
= look at him with that awful look you sometimes

ave.’

“Then I think I shall have to try it upon him,” de-
clared Rellen, forcing a laugh. ‘You know my er-
rand in here, do you not, Alix? He wants to see
you.”

: Alix suddenly trembled, and clung to Rellen’s arm.

“Hush, my poor, frightened dove!” he said bend-
ing over her, with his great, redeeming love for her
quivering in his voice and shining in his eyes. “He
shall not harm you. Trust in me!”

The little maiden struggled for courage, deriving it
from Rellen’s gentleness and kindness.

‘He thinks you an imbecile, Alix,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t you think you could feign imbecility, so that
he might go away and leave you to us?”

“But would it not be better to try and find out who
IT am?’ asked Alix. “I will not act a falsehood,
Rellen. I am not afraid of him.”

And again she glanced upward. :

Rellen saw that look, and an uneasy smile flickered
about his mouth, but Alix did not see it.

“Come!” he said, quietly, putting her arm in his.

Alix looked up confidingly at him, and he conducted
her into the drawing-room, leading her to the very
center of all that sunset radiance, and then he glanced
defiantly at the stranger.

At first the maiden’s gaze drooped to the floor, but
she soon looked up at her mysterious relative with a
resolute, unflinching gaze.

Rellen Polack had chosen her position well, for.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

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vinta cl Mac Hapa ile pales a ehh pct eat C Li lla hhh

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««aiszs THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

VOL. 45—No. 36,

 

they attempted to rise, they were helped along by! ligionin him. He’s a hathen, anyhow, and bad luck

bathed in the glow of the sunset, Alix looked like a )} They are not of that kind. They attack in the rear,

being of light.

Where the stranger had expected to see a small,
meanly dressed waiting-maid, with a listless, vacant
expression, he beheld an elegantly attired young
lady, with a straight, lithe form, and a glorious face,
beaming with health, beauty, and intelligence.

He stared at her incredulously.

There was no mistaking her mental capacity. A
cultivated intellect of no mediocre order beamed
froin her sweet eyes, was visible in every feature of
her delicate and refined face, and showed itself in her
quiet, self-possessed, and lady-like manner.

“Ts this Alix Erle?’ he deinanded, hoarsely, as soon
as he could find voice. “Is this the child 1 brought
here thirteen years ago?”

“She is the same,” answered Mrs. Polack.

“But—I thought you said she was imbecile?”

“Tt was you who said that. Alix has a very fine
intellect, Mr. Erle, notwithstanding the fact that she
was drugged in her childhood to destroy it,” Mrs.
Polack could not help saying.

The stranger glared at her over his spectacles.

He then gazed again upon the maiden, and, as he
gazed, he grew agitated, his cheeks paled even under
the rouge that powdered them, and he leaned upon
his umbrella as upon a walking-stick.

“She looks like Some one he does not like to remem-
ber,” thought Rellen. :

Attempting to conquer his agitation, the stranger
said:

“It is a great surprise to me to find my niece so in-
telligent. I had thought to find her otherwise.
Alix,” he added, with assumed affection, ‘‘do you not
recognize your uncle? You used to be very fond of
Uncle Tom.”

“T do not remember you,” said Alix.

He looked relieved, and said, eagerly:

“Your memory is not very good, is it ?”’

“Yes, itis very good, in some respects. But I re-
member nothing of my life before coming to this
place. My first six years are a complete blank to
me. [have not even a hazy and dim recollection of
them, as most people have.”

The stranger’s eyes sparkled and snapped with
light, and he asked:

*“‘Do you wish to stay here, Alix ?”’

“T wish it above all things,’ she answered. “I
could not leave Aunt Lettice. This is the only home
I desire.”

“You are sure you have no recollection of me ?”’

Alix repeated that she had not, with considerable
surprise.

“Then, Mrs. Polack,” he said, turning to the old
schoolmistress. “I will leave her with you. You
will never see me again.”

He lifted his umbrella, and as he did so his spee-
tacles fell forward a little upon his nose.

Alix met his gaze fully.

A puzzled look passed over her countenance, and
she put her hand to her forehead, as if memory had
made an effort to assert itself, while a strange terror
erept into her eyes, and her cheeks grew deathly

pale.
; “T—J can’t remember,” she said, clinging to Rellen,
and looking pitifully at him.

The pretended clergyman muttered a_ horrible
curse, and stalked out of the house and down the
path to his waiting vehicle.

As he drove away, he looked back, and saw at the
drawing-room window Alix’s puzzled and terrified
countenance.

But the girl’s memory refused to arouse itself and
to yield up a single clew to the mystery of her life.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
pyre

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

The bellé of Australia;

OR,
WHO AM I?
By WILLIAM H. THOMES,
Author of “The Bushrangers,” ‘ Running the

Blockade,” ‘“‘The Gold-Hunters of Australia,”
‘© A Slaver’s Adventures,” etc.

 

 

{“THE BELLE OF AUSTRALIA” was commenced in No.
25. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER XXX.—(CONTINUED.)

The chief took the candle, and with a motion of his
booted and spurred foot indicated to the Chinamen
that they must getup. They responded with alacrity
to the command, for they knew that if they did not a
kick would hasten their movements.

“Lift up that mattress,” Mr. Murden said to the
Chinamen.

Gin Sling obeyed, but I am sure that he said some-
thing wicked in his native. tongue, for he did not
dare to swear in English to the officer.

The chief examined the floor long and earnestly.
He suspected a trapin the badly fitted boards, and
that I had concealed the girl beneath them. He
went over the walls, and then, feeling satisfied, put
the candle on the table, and looked at me a little
puzzled.

“Are you satisfied?’ I asked, for I had remained
standing all this time.

“Yes, that the girl is not here.”

“T have convinced you that I spoke the truth. Now
let me further prove to you that I am not the person
you think I am,” T said.

“You will have a nice time to do that, my lord,”
with a grin that was very provoking. “Did you, or
did you not, marry Miss Kebblewhite ?”’

“T did marry the lady. Ido not deny it, and very
proud I should be of the fact under other cireum-
stances.”

The chief shrugged his broad shoulders,
siniled.

“Go on,” hesaid.

“Do you think that if I were a lord, and had allthe
money that a lord is supposed to possess, that I
would be here, in a miner’s costume, and consorting
with Chinamen ?’ I demanded.

“Noblemen have queer freaks. You are not the
first who has led a wandering life, and associated
with the scum of the earth,” motioning to the two
Chinamen, who were listening with wonder depicted
on their yellow faces, yet did not dare to move or
speak.

“T have heard of such insane freaks; but, as
Heaven is my judge x5

“Oh, don’t preach, my lord, or I swear I shall sus-
pect you of worse crimes than those which you are
supposed to have committed. Whenever I hear a
man prating of his goodness and virtue, I always tell
my officers to watch the fellow, and see what lay he
ison. Asaman ofthe world you have no occasion
to actapart. Be natural as you can.”

“T am not acting a part, Mr. Murden, but I am
trying to render myself worthy the wife I have de-
serted.”’

“Well, my lord, don’t play it too fine. Butif you
prize this wife as you assert, you will go back with
me, my lord ?”’

“No, not until a year has elapsed will I appear be-
fore her. Then she will have learned to forget me, or
to appreciate me for what I am.”

The chief shrugged his shoulders, his favorite pro-
test.

‘Your masquerading may have a design in it,” he
said. “I do not pretend to understand the whims of
the quality. They are so mysterious that even a
police officer can't comprehend them. But I will
talk to you on this subject to-morrow. I have ridden
all day under a hot sun, andam tired. I need rest.
I can’t endure as much as formerly. In the morning
we will discuss the subject of your return to Mel-
bourne. Havel your lerdship’s word that you will
make no attempt to avoid me until then 2?’

“Certainly. I am here to stay, and to win a for-
tune, if possible. Heaven grant that I shall.”

“Your good fortune lies in Melbourne, and there I
hope to see you soon. Your wife is far from well,
and would welcome you wost cordially, forgive you
very cheerfully, and forget the greatest insult that
ean be inflicted on a woman—desertion on her bridal
eve.’

“She would welcome me as the Earl of Afton, I
suppose ?” I asked, a little bitterly.

“Of course, the countess should weleome her hus-
band by his title. I don’t know if people in high
rank say ‘duck,’ and ‘darling,’ or simply ‘my lord,’
and ‘my lady.’ I used to call my wife ‘old woman,’
and she was accustomed to it, and rather liked it;
but when she retaliated, and called me ‘old man,’
I thought it was time to stop, and return to first
principles. Well, good-night, ny lord. I will see you
inthe morning, [ hope. Shall I kick the Chinamen
out of the hut?’

“No, they are useful to me, and I have need of
them. They are honest and industrious.”

“You do not know them any more than you do the
people of Australia. I tell you there is treachery in
every glance of the fellows’ eyes, in every movement
of their hands. Keep them at a distance, if you know
what is good for yourself. If you desire, I will leave
one ofimy men here to-night to see that no harm hap-
pens to your lordship,” the chief said. It was evi-
dent ire didn’t love Chinamen.

“Tt is unnecessary, sir. I rescued one of the men
from a terrible fate in the bush the other day, and I
do not think he has forgotten the act quite as soon
as this. I will run the risk, and, even if the China-
men are as bad as you represent, I have a revolver to
defend myself.”

“Bah!” with an expression of disgust. “do you
think the fellows would fave you and your revolver?

and

 

 

 

and use an ax ora hatchet. I know them as well as
I know the tricks of the black fellows. Come, my
lord, be advised by me.”

“Please do not call me a lord again, Mr. Murden. I
am plain Angus Mornington, and do not wish to sail
under false colors. As such I married my wife, and
as such she must receive me, if she ever does.”

‘As you please, sir. But I will see you again in the
morning,” and then the chief bowed, and left the
shanty.

The terrified Chinamen lay down and whispered in
Chinese, and I once more went to sleep, and did not
awaken until long after sunrise, and then I found
that Gin Sling had arisen and got breakfast, and that
it was waiting for me, with a nice pot of tea, and
some hard-tack, and broiled mutton, the latter ob-
tained from a fellow who hawked sheep through the
camp, and made a profitable business out of it, as he
stole most of his stock.

After breakfast the two Chinamen went to work on
the annex of my hut. I bought a deserted shanty
near mine for a song, tore it down, and removed the
best part of the rubbish to my claim, and, after the
celestials had got to work, went over to Mrs. Hig-
gins’ to make arrangements for Kitty’s return to
Melbourne by the noon stage. rf

Tomy surprise, Mrs. Higgins did not respond to
my “good-inorning” with as much cordiality as she
had exhibited the night before. In fact, she looked
cross.

‘“‘How is Miss Kitty this morning ?’ I asked, with a
penaeine smile, and not a particle of guile in my

eart.

Mrs. Higgins gave a sniff that could have been
heard all along Sturt street, and then expressed her
opinion very foreibly.

“T said last night,” she cried, “that you were either
a fool or. a hypocrite, and that time would show
which. Time has shown.”

From her condemnatory remarks, I learned that
she believed me to .be a deceitful rascal. To my
amazement she deelared that I had called at the
house on the previous evening, at nine o’clock, and
after a brief interview with Kitty, the latter and lL
had left the house together.

“Do you mean to tell me that Kitty is gone?’ 1
demanded, almost bewildered at the information.

a “T mean to tell you that she is gone, as you well
now.”

“The man who took her away resembled me, did
he?’ I asked, still bewildered.

A scornful sniff, that knocked all preceding sniffs
into a cocked hat, was the answer, accompanied by
the words:

“Tt was you, and there’s no use talking about it.
Go away from me, and don’t speak to me again.”

“Yet, Mrs. Higgins, you are mistaken. It was not
I, I do assure you most faithfully.” -

“And a pretty time I had of it this morning,” she
said, ‘when Mr. Murden called on me to see the girl,
and found that you had run away with her. He swore
awfully, and galloped off with a black tracker to find
the trail. He said that you were the biggest liar on
the face of the earth; and, faith, foronce I agreed
with him, for I think that way myself. Well, well,
l’m ready to believe anything of men now. Drat
yourimpudence! Get out of here, or I’ll scald you!”

Mrs. Higgins was gettingangry, and she had reason
for her rage if she really believed me capable of all
that she charged.

“The chief has gone in search of me, has he?” I

‘asked, after a moment’s pause.

A sniff and an angry look.

“He need not have gone far to find me, Mrs. Hig-
gins. I did not leave my shanty from eight o’cloek
last night until an hour since, as I can prove by the
two Chinamen who sleptin the same room with me.”

“And do you think that I’d take a Chinese heathen’s
word any sooner than I’d take yours? You have only
to lie, and they’d swear to it for half a crown.* Such
testimony don’t go down with me, now I tell you, so
go along about your business, and don’t come here
with your innocent airs any more. or I’ll hurt you.”

With a muttered malediction on my double, who
was causing me all this trouble and intense annoy-
ance, I returned to my hut and Chinamen in no envi-
able mood, and all day long labored at the addition
to wy shanty, and by night it was all ready for oceu-

yancy, washed and dried, papered with some old il-
fustreted journals, and it had quite a gays and com-
fortable appearance when my bed was made up on
the floor. [ had now determined to remain at the
mines, for I saw two or three chances to make money,
and I needed a home, even if gold-digging was not a
success. But I should require Mike’s assistance to
carry out my plans, and waited for him quite anxi-
ously. If all other schemes failed I resolved to cut
and haul timber for bracing the deep shafts, as it
brought a high price and was scarce.

Several days passed, and we were kept busy clean-
ing up the rubbish around the hut, building a cook-
ing-house, and fire-place, and constructing a bathing-
hole on the banks of the stream, so that I could take
my bath after the labors of the day, and feel all the
better for it. My Chinamen were not as fond of the
water as a Japanese, but I made them wash, although
sometimes they shirked and lied about it.

In the mean time the three pirates used to visit us
regularly every day, and sit on a log, and smoke,
and banter us for not working the mine, and after
they tired of such pleasant amusement, they would
go to the nearest ale-house, and get drunk, and boast
of their rascality. Still Mike did not put in an ap-
pearance, and [ began to feel a little worried about
him, as bushrangers were reported on the road, and
doing a lively business in robbing all who were not
strong enough to resist an attack.

“Gin Sling,’ I said, one morning after breakfast,
“how much longer does that Chinese friend of yours
intend to remain here?”

“He goie nowe, s’posee youe no wante.”

“Then let him go, for we have no more work for
him. ew much shall I pay him for what he has
done?’

‘“Notie. He likie me, he likie you, and he workie
ittie nowe. He goie workie wid Chinaman again.”

The friend of Gin took his departure after break-
fast, and then I determined to bring to light my big
nugget, and have it in the bank before night, for I
did not know how soon Mr. Murden might return,
and make trouble for me, as I knew that he would
not accept my assurances that [had nothing to do
with the abrupt departure of Kitty. Mr. Murden
was a very good man, but he was as obstinate as
Mrs. Higgins about some things. He thought that
he could not be wrong.

I sent Gin down the shaft, and told him to dig
thirty or forty buckets of gravel, and send them up,
and when I gave a whistle, he was to load in the
nugget, and then come to the surface. While I was
working the windlass, and emptying the dirt, the
three old pirates came along, as usual, and sat down
on their accustomed log, and alinost went into con-
vulsions of laughter when they saw me laboring, and
looking over the gravel, as I emptied it, in the hope
of seeing the color of gold, or a small nugget.

I paid no attention to the fellows, and all their
harsh words did not produce a reply. Then one of
the pirates went to the ““Digger’s Rest,” and returned
with some beer and a fresh supply of tobacco, and
then drank to my health and to my exertions, and
said some profane things, and blew clouds of smoke
toward me, and laughed, and wanted to know if 1
would sell out: cheap, and to let them know when I
got tired of such stupid play. Even Mother Higgins,
who, I think, had a little motherly feeling for me,
after all her harsh words, came toward the shaft, and
looked at me rather sorrowfully, as though she
wanted to make up and be good friends, but when I
smiled at her in a pleasant way, she sidled oft, but
stopped long enough to say:

“Now, Mr. Angus, don’t be a fool any longer. I
know you are wicked, but still you might reform.”

«Vell, of all the cussed fools that ever I did see,”
one of the pirates said; and just then I gave the sig-
nal, and the big nugget was loaded into the bucket,
and I made a seeming effort to draw it to the surface,
pretending that it was much heavier than it really
was.

‘“‘He’s got a bite, Jim,” said the old ruffian who had
<< me the claim. ‘‘He’s cotched a gudgeon, or a
vhale.”’

I said nothing, but drew the bucket up, and emp-
tied the nugget on the ground, a big shining lump of
solid gold. ;.

“It’s a whale this time, mates,” I cried, as I lifted
up the treasure, and carried it into the shanty as
quickly as possible.

“Hullo! vhat in the devil are you doin’ vid that?”
roared the three ruffians, coming toward me, and
three more surprised pirates were never seen.

“That ’ere belongs tous. Ve only left it there to
keep till ve vas ready for it. Jist yer hand that over, or
it’ll be the vorse for yer, now I tells yer.”

“Yes, it’s ours,” they all roared together.
jist give it up to us.
games on us.”

They would have entered the hut and seized on the
nugget, but I had expected all that, and was prepared

or it.

‘‘Mates,” T said, as IT stood in the door-way, and
raised my heavy revolver, “if you dare to enter this
shanty, or to cross the threshold, I’ll shoot you dead!
Mind what I tell you, for I’m in earnest. -Gin, go for
a policeman, and tell him to come here immediately,
and help escort a big nugget to the bank. Run for it,
and let no one stop you.”

“Me offe,” was the answer, and away he went, al-
though one of the ruffians did attempt to intercept
ea failed, for Gin was like an eel in his move-
ments.

€ “Yer
Ve von’t stand any of yer tricky

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE RESULT OF THE TRICK.

“Tt’s a Yankee trick, a cursed Yankee trick, and
yer a rascal to take advantage of three ’onest men,
vhat are hold and poor, and ’as no money but that
ere nugget to get ’em in a ’ospital.”

“Is it a Yankee trick ye spake of, boys?” cried a
familiar voice. ‘‘Will, here’s a rael ould Oirish one,
and, bedad, I hopes ye loikes it. Take that, ye beg-
gars, and that, and that, and thin tell me if ye loikes
it as will as the Yankee trick that ye spake of.”

There was a whistling sound in the air, some solid
blows, and I saw a stout stick flourishing around the
heads of the three pirates, and then heard prolonged
howls, as the old ruftians tumbled to the ground. As

several vigorous kicks, that must have hurt, for Mike
oe heavy boots, and the toes were sharp, aud very
lick.

“Do ye want some more of the same kind, ye dirty
spalpeens, that insults a true-blooded American, that
honors the country by comin’ here at all, at all? Git
out wid ye, afore I commits bigamy, and murders
every blessed one of ye. Don't stop to spake, but
go, for I can’t restrain my shillalah when once it gits
to workin’, and I’m jist spilin’ for a fight, fer I
haven’t had one since me time was out, some tin
days ago. Whoop! let me git at’em agin!”

But the three old pirates had taken the hint, and
gone, as fast as their [egs could carry them, to the
ale-house, and then related the wonderful news that
T had found a nugget as large as a barrel, and worth
at least twenty thousand pounds. As most of those
present thought the fellows drunk, or lying for a
purpose, no notice was taken of them, and this was
fortunate for my plans, for, as soou as I had wel-
comed Mike, I told him to run to the tax-office, and
take ont Claims, each side of mine, one in his name,
and the other in that of Gin Sling.

“And who is Gin Sling, sur?’ asked Mike.

“A Chinaman, who is working for me,” I replied,
although it was no time to answer questions.

“A bhathan, sur?’

“Yes, but a really good fellow, and one you will
like. Nowrunon as fast as you can. Here is the
money to pay for the tax, Remember, Gin Sling.
Don’t forget.”

“Sure, ’ll remember. It’s a very spirited name.
Oue don’t forget the gin. Faith, I wish I had some
now, for it’s tired Iam. But I’m off, and, if yer
honor would jist see that me personal property is
taken from the team, and give the lad what brought
thein here a little drop of somethin’, I’ll tell ye all
about meself when I return,” and he was off.

T helped to unload the team, and found my ham-
mock and clothes-bag all right, and that Mike had
among his effects the long, rusty musket that he
thought so much of, and which he had promised I
should fire s6me day, as a great personal favor.

I gave the driver a drink of beer, and something to
eat, and learned that he was a shepherd on Mr. Keb-
blewhite’s run, and that Mike had delayed leaving
his place until the last moment, because a party of
bushrangers, some four in number, had raided on
the sheep, and killed quite a lot, just out of pure
wantonness. Mike and the others had lain in wait
for the fellows, assisted by an old Quaker, but had
not been able to encounter the robbers, and, as they
appeared to have left that part of the country, Mike
packed up, and joined me.

While I was talking with the stockman, a mounted
police. officer returned with Gin Sling, and offered 5o
escort me and the nugget to the bank. The man was
astonished at the lump of gold, and declared that it
was the purest specimen of the kind that he had
ever seen in Ballarat.

T packed the nugget in a blanket, on the China-
man’s back, and walked to the bank, and astonished
all who saw it by pou ae that the gold be
weighed, and its value estimated.

“Do you mean to tell me that this came out of the
Bank-of-England Mine?” asked the cashier, in aston-
ishment.

“That is what I mean to say,” was my reply, and I
spoke the truth.

‘*Well, some people are born lucky, and you are one
of them,” the cashier said.

“Oh, that is a mere baby to what I intend to find,’
was my careless reply, but I must eonfess that I had
no idea that my words would come true. I was only
bluffing a little for the benefit of those who had
laughed at me so heartily when I purchased the
mine.

All the bank officers left their usual avocations to
question me, and to examine the nugget. They
were delighted with it, and seemed really pleased
with my good fortune, and not a man present said
a disagreeable word about my being a Yankee.

After all, we do like to congratulate a person on
his good luck, almost as much as we like to learn
of a dear friend’s misfortune, ahd loss of money,
and influence in the political world.

When every one had guessed the weight of the
nugget, the old miner came in, the same one who had
borrowed several shillings of me, and forgotten to
return them, as his memory was falling quite fast as
regards money matters, but still he could remember
inany things that were not of near so much impor-
tance as returning loans.

The old fellow pushed his way to the front rank,
looked at the lump of gold in silence, wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, for his agitation
caused drops of water to fall from his lips, and then
he said, in slow, deliberate tones, as if to impress
each one within his hearing of the truth of his
yarns:

“T’m an old man, and if any one ’as a bit of ’baccy
about ’em, ’e can’t do better than to bestow it on me,
and a glass of beer or rum, but I prefers the last, if
it is all the same to yer, ’cos on an occasion like this
peoples should be generous, and all that. Thank yer,
sir—yer is wery kind. Now therum. Vait must I?
All right, sir, but I’opes yer’ll make it two glasses
vhile yer is about it, for the information [’m about to
impart is wery waluable, and no one hever ’eard the
story afore now. It’s just goin’ on for ten years, sir,
since I ’elped find the *Velcome Nugget,’ in this wery
camp, and [ll tell yer all about it, sir. Yer see, I vos
down in the mine, and I seed it fust, and I jist sit
right down, and couldn’t speak for a full hour, and if
some one vould give me alush of rum TI could talk
much better than I does now, as it’s dry work.”

“Oh, clear out, old chap,” said the cashier of the
bank. “We have heard your lies for the last five
years, and you never tell a story twice alike. You
never saw the ‘Welcome Nugget,’ or lent a hand to
mine it. Git out,’ and the old man was waltzed out
by a policeman, in spite of his protestations. Justas
we thought we had got rid of him, and when we were
all patting the nugget, and guessing atits weight, the
old miner once more edged his way through the
erowd, and took up his position near me, and again
resumed the thread of his discourse, only interrupted
by being turned out of the room by the policeman.

‘Yes, gents,” he said, “as I stated afore, 1 couldn’t
speak afore an hour or two, I vos so surprised, but I
called for some lush, and my mates kinder thought I
was faint like, and they sends me down a nip of rum.
I vish some of yer gents vould do the ’andsome thing
by me atthis time. I could go on vid my sermona
little more lively if yer vould.”

“Officer, run that old fraud out of the room,”
roared the cashier. ‘‘We have no time to fool with
him. If he won’t go, kick him out. He will corrupt
the whole of us with his outrageous lies.”

The policeman ran the old fellow out once more,
and then returned to feast on the sight of the nugget.

The nugget weighed just alittle over three hun-
dred and six ounces, or almost twenty-six pounds,
and was valued at twenty dollars per ounce, but, as
the lump was a great curiosity, the cashier said that
he would give me seven thousand dollars for it, in
our money; but 1 told him I thought I could do bet-
ter. Then a gentleman came forward, and said that
he would buy it for a historical and natural history
society, of Melbourne; and, after a little banter, I
was offered ten thousand dollars for the prize, and as
this was more than its intrinsic value I closed with
the bid, received my money, placed it on deposit at
an interest of ten per cent., bought a draft for two
hundred pounds in my mother’s name, and felt quite
satisfied with my day’s work. :

I afterward learned that the nugget changed hands
at a large advance, and I think that it is still in Mel-
bourne; andif it is not there is a fac-simile of it in
one of the institutions, and an account relating all
the facts as to the finding, but I think the black fel-
lows could have told a different story. However, I
never heard of them, or that they made a complaint
of their loss, for the native black is a wanderer, here
to-day, and on the sea-coast or in the interior to-
morrow. Ever moving and westless, without homes
or huts, they go where the most food is to be had,
and remain until the stock is exhausted, caring noth-
ing for wealth or clothing, and taking pride only in
their boomerangs, their spears, nullas, and waddies.

By the time I returned to the hut Mike had arrived
from the tax-office, with all necessary papers, and I
found quite a crowd assembled around the shaft, and
all discussing the wonderful luck which I had ex-
perienced, and then the laugh changed, and the old
pirates were objects of derision, and so badly were
they ridiculed that they soon afterward packed up
what.few traps they had, and went to other mines,
where their little game was unknown.

Of course a hundred miners, as soon as they heard
of the lucky find, rushed to the tax-office to take out
claims next to mine, but found that they had been
forestalled, and were compelled to accept of lots
some little distance off. But I had what I expected,
cash offers for Mike’s and Gin Sling’s claims, and
from ‘one hundred pounds the bids went up to five
hundred pounds each, and on that basis I sold, took
my cash, and putit in the bank, and let that go on
interest also.

Thus in one day I had banked tifteen thousand dol-
lars. I began to feel that the firm was able to hold
up its head, and,in honor of the event, I told Gin
to go and buy materials for a good dinner, a dozen
bottles of ale, and also such fruit as he could lay
his hands on, for we would do no more work that
day.

Then I listened to Mike’s wonderful adventures
with the bushrangers, his desire to be with me, and
his sense of duty that kept him looking after the
sheep of his emp*oyer.

While telling Mike of my being lest in the bush,
and of finding the Chinaman tied to a tree, I forgot
to mention all about the nugget that the blacks had
left behind them when they fled. I did not think it
desirable to let the story have too large a circulation,
and Gin had received a hint to keep his mouth
closed. A Chinaman can keep a secret much better
than a young woman. Evena corkscrew can’t draw
out of him what he does not want.to be known, so I
had no fear of his talking too much.

“So the hathen is to be wid us?’ asked Mike, as
soon as he had learned all the particulars of my ad-
ventures.

“Yes, Mike. Gin is a useful fellow, and can work
as hard as the rest of us. You will like him.”

“‘P’aps I shall, sur,” was the cautious answer; “but
I'd loike him better if the cratur had some little re-

 

 

 

to a hathen that has no religion.”

Mike got over his prejudice after a while, and he
and the Chinaman were good friends, although Mike
always called Gin by the name of ‘‘Hathen,”’ to show
that the celestial was not quite up to his standard in
matters of theology and salvation.

While Mike and Gin prepared dinner, I wrote tomy
mother a long and minute account of my travels, my
landing at Melbourne, my sudden marriage to a
beautiful young lady, who supposed me, somebody
else, my misfortunes, because I resembled an Bug-
lish nobleman, of Scotch ancestors; how I had been
traduced, and made to suffer, on account of that mys-
terious person, and asked her to write to me fully
and frankly why two men, of the same age, the same
name, yet one an Englishman and the other an Amer-
ivan, could look so much alike that one was con-
stantly being mistaken for the other.

I also wrote her that, what was still more singular,
the father of the nobleman had been the first lieu-
tenant on board the line of-battle-ship Asia, and that
[knew my parent had been first lieutenant of the
line-of-battle ship Ohio, and that I had heard him
speak of lying at Naples, alongside of the English-
man, for more than two months, or until he thought
that both ships would get aground on the beef-bones
thrown overboard.

Isaid that I shou!d remain in Australia at least
three years, that I had done well so far, and sent her
a draft on the Oriental Bank, in hopes that she would
use it to her advantage, and added that I would send
her more money just as soon as I learned that she
had received my draft, and answered my letter. I
hoped that she would approve of my conduct in
leaving my wife on the evening of my nuptials, con-
sidering that Florence had wedded me through a
great mistake, but that I loved the lady very dearly,
and hoped that in time she would love me, but that
I was not sanguine, and should avoid her until she
sent for me, and forgave, and acknowledged me as her
husband, without feeling mortified at her choice.

All this I told her, and many other thiugs which I
knew would interest her. Before dinner was ready,
T had wmailed my letter, and saw it go out in the mid-
day coach, dashing along the dusty road on its way
= geass and from thence by steamer to Eng-
and.

Our dinner was a great success. The mutton
chops were not as tough as some that we had had,
the tea was no more smoky than I had drank before,
the fruit was aboutas hot and wilted as one could
expect in the mines, and the hard-tack was ven-
erable. But the ale was good and lively, and the
first bettle Mike opened, two thirds of its contents
flew over Gin, and covered him with foam, until he
looked as though he had been through a typhoon in
the China Sea, and was hopelessly shipwrecked. The
only regret expressed was the loss of the ale, and a
towel’soon restored the Chinaman to a proper state
of cleanliness.

“Did yer moind the smooth-tongued Quaker, Mr.
Hangus?’ asked Mike, while we were at dinner.
“The devil that rode a pace with us near Webber's }”

“Oh, yes. What of him?’

“Well, he’s bin on the shape run for a wake past,
and said he’d help tackle the bushrangers, but when
we'd go for ’em wid him in company, sure there was
no findin’ of ’em. But what puzzles me ontirely is
that I saw ye one day, Mr. Hangus.”’

“Me, Mike?’ I demanded, astonished at the infor-
mation.

“Yes, sur. Sure I sung out to ye to come to yer
friend Mike, but ye only laughed, and took to the
woods; and why didn’t yer spake to me, Mr.
Hangus?”

“Tt was not I, Mike, but the person who is supposed
to look like me. Do you think I’d refuse to speak to
an old friend like you? I have not been absent from
Ballarat.”

“Well, now, it puzzled me,it did. Iecould have
sworn it was ye, Mr. Hangus. But, as ye say that it
wasn’t, ’m bound to belave ye. But the loikeness
was wonderful. Bedad it was,” and here the subject
was dropped.

Tn the afternoon we received many visitors, and all
were interested in the big nugget. We had many
offers to sell the mine, but I declined them all, as [
did not wish to swindle people too outrageously, out
of revenge for the small sell that had been put on me.
But I will say, in this connection, that the two claims
adjoining us, aud which 1 sold at large figures, did
turn out very well, and netted the proprietors a hand-
some profit, so they had no cause for complaint.

That night I slept in my old hammock, in the an-
nex, and left Mike and Gin the dining room to them-
selves. I could hear them talking, and boasting of
their countries, until long after ten o’clock, and then
I went to sleep, and, as usual, dreamed of Florence,
and that she was pleading for me to return to her.

The next day. we worked rather languidly at the
mine, but did not see a speck of gold, and so on for
days and days; andat length I began to grow weary
of always bracing the shaft, as it grew deeper, of
pawing over dirt, that did not contain gold, of hoist-
ing up gravel. and mud, which were worthless, and I
really began to debate whether I had not better sell
out, and try a new location, when an incident oc-
curred that set the whole camp in motion, and pro-
duced the greatest. excitement that was ever known
in the mining region of Ballarat.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

HIS HEARTS QUEEN.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of “Max,” “That Dowdy,” ‘“‘Queen Bess,”
*“Sibyl’s Influence,” “The Forsaken Bride,”
*“Brownie’s Triumph,” etc.

 

 

(“His HEART’S QUEEN” was commenced in No, 28.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents,]

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FACE AT A WINDOW.

ORD CAMERON admired
Wallace’s independence, yet,
while he saw he would hurt
him deeply by insisting upon
his acceptance of the check, he
could not feel satisfied to ac-
cept as a gift the valuable plans
‘\ which he had executed for him.

He therefore said no more
about the money, but, before he
slept, he wrote several letters
to prominent parties in New York, whom he knew,
in which he spoke with highest praise of Wallace’s
talents as an architect, and solicited their influence
and patronage for him in the future.

‘Perhaps these may prove to be of more advantage
to you than the contents of that other envelope which
you rejected,’ he remarked, with a smile, as he
slipped a half dozen letters of introduction into his
hands just before they retired.

“You are very thoughtful, Cameron,” Wallace said,
appreciatively ; ‘‘and I will thankfully make use of
these.”

The fifth of October, the date of Wallace’s de-
parture, dawned a bright, lovely morning.

Lord Cameron had arranged to accompany him to
Liverpool, determined to delay their parting to the
last moment, and dreading, more than he could ex-
press, the return to his estate in Essex County, when
he would begin to realize something of the loneliness
of his own situation. Wallace’s illness, and the care
which he had been forced to give him, he now real-
ized had been a great blessing to him, for it had pre-
vented, in a measure, his brooding over his own
troubles. ;

Vane had made thoughtful provision for his
friend’s vovage, supplying him with everything he
could think of to make his passage comfortable and
pleasant, and the two men, after taking an affec-
tionate leave of Lady Isabel, who also had become
very fond of Wallace, drove away to catch the ex-
press for Liverpool.

As they were passing through one of the busy
thoroughfares of the clty, their progress was hindered
for a few moments by a blockade of vehicles.

While waiting for an opportunity to advance, an-
other carriage, going in the opposite direction, slowly
passed them—for the stream of teams was not
blocked on the other side of the street—and when it
was directly opposite them the face of a woman
looked forth from the window, for an instant, then
the coach passed on, and she was lost to view.

An agonized cry had burst from Wallace at that
moment, and that, with his fixed stare at the passing
carriage, caused Lord Cameron also to glance that
way; but he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the
outline of a delicate face framed in golden hair, then
it vanished beyond his sight.

“Violet!” gasped Wallace, with ashen lips, and
trembling violently from head to foot. ‘Did you see
her? Oh, let me out, quick! quick! I must find
her !”’

He was terribly agitated_and unnerved, almost
frantic, in fact, and Lord Cameron greatly feared
ee attack such as had previously prostrated

iim.

He reached out his hand and pushed him firmly,
yet kindly, back upon his seat.

“Be quiet, Richardson!” he said, with gentle au-
thoritativeness.. “It_could not have been Violet. It
was but a delusion, a fancied resemblance, or a trick

 

 

of the imagination. Violet is dead. Did I not see
her with my own eyes? Did I not care for her, and
lay her to rest beneath the shade of that grand old
beech !—while you yourself have seen her grave.”

“Oh, but it—the face—was so like—so like!” mur-
mured Wallace, still fearfully overcome.

“My friend,” Vane continued, while he tried to con-
trol his own startled nerves, ‘you must nol allow
yourself to be so unnerved by a fancied, or even a
real resemblance to the loved one whom you have
lost. Itis not unlikely you may meet it again some
time, but you must bear it bravely. This great sor-
row has been sent upon you, and you must meet it
with courage and resignation, as one who believes in
God should meet the trials which He sends upon you.
There is work in the world for you to do, or your life
would not have been spared; take it up, carry it on
to its fulfillment, and do not ruin your health, your
brain, your great talent, by allowing the ghost of
your lost happiness to haunt and weaken you thus.”

The young man spoke gravely and very earnestly,
but his own face was almost as pallid as Wallace's,
and it was vad to see that he had been deeply
moved by what had ocenrred. It might even be that
he was striving to fortify his own sore heart and
wounded spirit with the admonitions’ that he was
giving his friend.

Wallace wiped the perspiration from his face, and
strove manfully to recover his self-possession; but
it was no easy thing to do, and it was long before he
regained his natural color, or ceased to tremble
visibly. ’

“IT know what you say must be true,” he returned,
when he could speak, “and my common sense tells
me that 1 was deceived—that the face could not have
been Violet’s; and yet—if—I could follow and find
the woman who looks so much like her—who seemed
to be her exact counterpart, I believe it would com-
fort me—would help to ease this ceaseless aching,
this never-ending longing of my heart.”

“It would not,” said Lord Cameron, positively, “it
would but unsettle you the more; and now that I
come to think of it the more, that face—though I
caught but the merest glimpse of its outline—was
thinner and older than Violet's.”

He immediately changed the subject, and strove to
divert the mind of his friend from the painful inci-
dent, but while he endeavored to talk and appear
like himself, he was secretly greatly shaken by what
had occurred, —

Most of the journey to Liverpool was spent in dis-
cussing Lord Cameron’s plans regarding the school
for the children of his tenants and the home for aged
people and orphans, and the young earl exacted a
premise from Wallace that, when the buildings
were completed and ready for occupancy, he would
come again to England to be present at their dedica-
tion, and pronounce his verdict upon them.

“You will not need to be absent from your business
more than three weeks or a month,”. he said, ‘‘and I
am sure you will have earned the right to that mueh
of a vacation by that time. However, I shall see you
again before then, since I do not intend to entirely
desert the land of my birth, even though my home
must be in England, and every year I shall make a
short trip to America. Iam not going to lose sight
of my friend either; remember, Richardson, we are
pledged to each other for life.”

The hand which he extended with this remark was
warmly grasped, and both young men felt that their
souls were ‘‘knit unto each other” in a bond as stron
and tender as that which had united David an
Jonathan of old.

The steamer was to sail at sundown, and the little
time that intervened, after their arrival in Liver-
pool, the two friends spent in looking over the mam-
moth vessel.

When at last the signal for departure sounded,
they parted with a lingering hand clasp and a simple
“God bless you;” but Lord Cameron, as he journeyed
back alone to his princely home, felt as if half the
light had suddenly gone out of his life.

Vallace had a quick and comfortable passage, and,
having cabled the time of his departure, and the
name of the steamer, found his partner awaiting him
at the pier upon bis arrival in New York.

He greeted him with great warmth, which had in
it an undertone of genuine sympatiiy for his troubles,
and then informed him that he had just secured a
contract for a sixty-thousand-dollar building; re-
marking, too, that he hoped Wallace felt in the spirit
for work, as they would have their hands full during
the coming year.

‘‘Work will be the mainspring of my life after this,”
Wallace briefly returned, but he appeared gratified
with the encouraging report of business which his
partner had given him. -

He threw himself heart and soul into his profession
from that day. He worked at his office from morning
until evening, When not out upon duties of inspec-
tion, and for hours in his own room at night; worked
to keep his mind from dwelling upon his great sor-
row, and until he was so weary in body that sleep
came to him, unbidden, as soon as his head touched
his pillow.

He took the earliest opportunity possible to pre-
sent his letters of introduction to the parties whom
Lord Cameron had addressed in his behalf.

These recommendations proved to be worth a great
deal to him, for to be the valued friend of an English
earl anda man of genius as well, were facts caleu-
lated to give him prestige with even the most con-
servative, and business flowed in upon the firm of
Harlow & Richardson in such a continuous stream
that they bade fair to have more work than they
could handle.

At the close of the first year, after Wallace’s return,
they found they had cleared twenty thousand dol-
lars, While they had contracts ahead for auother
twelve months, besides applications that were con-
stantly coming in.

Wallace had never been in better health than dur-
ing this time. He loved his work and forgot himself
in it, and was fast.winning a name and fame that
promised to place him, not far in the future, at the
head of his profession; while already rumors of his
success had somehow been set afloat in his old home
in Cincinnati, and people there were beginning to
talk of that ‘‘promising young Richardson” whom
they had once known only as an humble carpenter.

He had acquired also during this year both strength
of character and dignity of bearing, and was a*grand-
looking young man.

He went, now and then, into society, for Mr. Har-
low, who was some years his senior, had a delightful
home and a lovely wife, and they insisted upon his
visiting them occasionally. In this way he met many
agreeable people, who, in their turn, solicited his
presence iv their homes.

But society had comparatively few attractions for
him, even though several ambitious mothers smiled
encouragingly upon the rising young architect, and
many fair, bright-eyed damsels shot alluring glances
at him.

But he had no heart to offer any one, and met all
these advances with quiet, but dignified courtesy.

He heard regularly from Lord Cameron, who was
throwing all his energies toward. pushing his benevo-
lent schemes to completion, and the buildings which
Wallace had planned would, he wrote, be finished
and ready for occupancy by another spring.

“He had intended to visit America before this,”
his last letter said, ‘but the press of business and
the delicate state of his mother’s health had thus far
prevented; he hoped, however, before many weeks
should pass to tread again the familiar streets of
New York.”

He also stated that he had met Mr. and Mrs.
Mencke once during the past year. It was during
the London season, and he and his mother had run
across them at a brilliant reception—a circumstance
that surprised him somewhat, as he did not suppose
they would go into society so soon after the death of
their sister.

The meeting had occurred in this way.

After making an extended tour of the Alps, Mr.
and Mrs. Mencke had returned to London, to meet
Mrs. Hawley, who was to spend a few weeks there
and then go on to Milan, to remain for the winter
with Nellie Bailey, who had coneluded to devote
another year to her beloved music before returning
to America.

Mrs. Hawley was a woman who dearly loved so-
ciety, ayd always hada long listof engagements—
one who had it in her power to be so charming
could not fail to be a welcome guest wherever she
went—consequently, it was perfectly natural that
she should wish her friend to participate in her en-
joyment.

Mrs. Mencke at first faintly demurred upon the
ground of being in mourning, but Mrs. Hawley, who
did not believe in mourning anyway, easily over-
ruled her scruples.

“What is the harm?’ she questioned. ‘You can-
not do Violet any good by secluding yourself, and
no one here knows you well enough to gossip about
you. It would be different, perhaps, if you were at
home, where people have known you all your life.”

So Mrs. Mencke, who liked gay life as well as any
one, smothered her couscience,eand, never doing
things by halves, went every where.

It was ata reception given by the American Con-
sul that she met Lord Cameron and his mother,
Lady Isabel having been an intimate friend of the
gentleman’s family when her home was in New
York.

Mrs. Menecke, ignoring entirely the barriers that
had arisen between them at Mentone, appeared de-
lighted to meet her *‘dear friends ;” but the greetings
upon their part were decidedly cool, while Lady
Cameron looked the reproaches she could not utter
at Mrs. Mencke’s gay manner and attire, and uttered
a sigh of regret that the gentle girl, whom-she had
begun to love as a daughter, should so soon have
been forgotten by her only relative.

“Are you in London for any length of time, Lady
Cameron?" Mra, Mencke inquired, secretly hoping
that she might get an invitation to visit her at her
town-house.

“Only for a week or two longer, a8 iiy 86n’s affairs
call him to his estate in Essex,” was the somewhat
formal reply.

“Indeed! and have you been in town long?”

“About a month.”

“Really? I wonder that we have not met before,
then,’ Mrs. Mencke remarked, with some surprise.

“It is not strange,’’ said Lady Cameron, with a
sigh, “for my son and I are still too sad to care to go
much into company, aud we should not have been

 

   

     

 

 

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VOL. 45—No. 36.

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here this evening but for a special request of your
eonsul, who is an old and valued friend.”

Mrs. Mencke. colored: vividly at this reply, and
began to make excuses for her own presence there ;
but Lady Cameron, with a disapproving glance over
her elegant and showy costume, only bowed with re-
served courtesy in reply, and then, as Lord Cameron
accosted an acquaintance who was approaching, she
excused herself and turned to greet her friend, leav-
ing Mrs. Meneke boiling with rage over their distant
reception, and bitterly disappointed at not having
secured an invitation even to call upon them.

She felt humiliated as well as angry,.and too
wrought up to longer enjoy the gayeties of the even-
ing, she retired at an early hour from the reception.

The unhappy woman had other causes, aside from
the failure of her matrimonial schemes and the con-
tempt of the Camerons, for anxiety and unhappiness.

Her husband, during the last few months, while
visiting various resorts, had developed an alarming
taste for gambling, and had, to her knowledge, lost
large sums of money; while he seemed perfectly
reckless in his expenditure, and she felt sure, though
she did not yet dream the worst, that their own as
well as Violet’s fortune was fast melting away.

Deep and frequent potations at the cup, too, were
showing their effect upon him; he was growlng more
gross and coarse, and his temper suffered in propor-
tion with the continuous nervous excitement under
which he was laboring.

All this must have: an end sooner or later, she
knew, but she was not prepared to have it come so
soon as it did.

Four weeks after her meeting with the Cam-
erons the man returned to her, late one night, from
a terrible orgie. His face was bloated and crimson
from drink; his eyes wild and blood-shot, his hair
disheveled, and his clothing soiled and disordered.

Coming rudely into his wife’s presence, he cried
out, with a shocking oath: :

“It’s all gone!—hic—every—dollar we had in the
world, and, Belle, we’re—hic—beggars !”

“What do you mean, Will?” his wife demanded, with
a sinking heart and white face.

“Are you deaf?” he bawled, with another oath.
“We’re—hic—beggars, [ tell—hic—you. I’ve just—
hic—rattled away the hic—last dollar.”

There was a scene then, a8 might be expected, for
Mrs. Mencke was not a woman to tamely submit to
such wrong and abuse, and the thought that the
whole of her own, as well as Violet’s fortune, had
been squandered atthe gaming-table and the race
track was more than she could bear. She could talk
as few women can talk, and when she had ceased her
denunciations, Wilhelm Mencke was completely
sobered, and sat pale, and sullen, and cowed before
her. : :

She did notrealize how exceedingly bitter and
stinging her denunciations were until the next morn-
ing, when, upon rising, she found the jewel-box, in
which she kept the jewelry which she commonly
wore (her diamonds and more valuable gems being
locked in a trunk, fortunately) together with all
that Violet had possessed, was rifled of its contents
and her husband gone, together with his traveling-
bag and a change of clothes.

he desertion of her husband was the most humili-
ating of all her troubles; but her proud spirit would
not yield to even this blow. She calmly stated that
her husband had been suddenly called home and that
she was to follow him by the next steamer.

Fortunately she had considerable money with her,
and she settled every bill with a brave front, and
finally took her departure from the hotel with as
much pomp and state as she had maintained through-
out her sojourn there.

A week from the day of her husband’s flight she
was crossing the Atlantic alone, and immediately
upon reaching New York proceeded to Cincinnati in
the hope of saving something by the sale of her
house and furniture. The house had already been
disposed of, though she learned that not much had
been realized on it, for it had been heavily mortgaged
and the sale was a forced one.

This fact told ber that her husband was in America,
although no one had seen him, for the sale had been
made through an agent, and she tried to feel thank-
ful that he had had the grace to leave her the furni-
ture. This she turned into money, but it did not
bring her a third of its real value, for she was forced
to sacrifice it at auction.

Where now was the proud woman’s boasted wealth
and position? Where now her vaunted superiority
over the ‘“‘low-born carpenter’ because of his
poverty? :

Gone! for she had not—aside from some valuable
jewels and clothing—a thousand dollars in the world,
while she had the exceeding mortification of realiz-
ing the stern fact that she would be obliged to seek
some employment in order to live honestly.

It was the bitterest drop in her already bitter cup,
and, too proud to remain in the city where she had
hitherto been a leader in society, she suddenly dis-
appeared from the place and noone knew whither
she had gone.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.

It was on the 14th of May, nearly a year and a half
previous to the sudden downfall and disappearance
of Wilhelm Mencke and his wife, that a curious in-
cident occurred which has an important bearing
upon our story.

At the foot of one of the mountains which skirt the

Gulf of Genoa just a few miles east of the line which
separates France and Italy, there stood at that time
the dwelling of a well-to-do Italian peasant.
* That the man was above the majority of his class,
his neat homestead, his thrifty fields and vineyards,
and the general air of comfort which pervaded his
dwelling plainly betokened.

But he was a stern, harsh man, bestowing little
affection upon his family, yet exacting unquestion-
ing obedience and diligent toil from every member,
to help him maintain the thrift for which he was
noted and to fill his pockets with money.

On a dark and starless night, long after Tasso Si-
mone and most of his family were wrapped in slum-
ber, the door of his oe was softly opened,
whereupon a slight, girlish figure stole forth and
sped noiselessly away across the vineyard of olive
trees, toward the highway which skirted the gulf.

Upon reaching the road, the flying fugitive mod-
erated her pace, but walked on with a firm, elastic
step toward Mentone, which was the nearest town
over the French line.

For an hour she walked steadily on, appearing to
be perfectly familiar with the way, even in that in-
tense darkness, until finally she paused before a
low, rude building, or shed, which had been con-
structed out of rough boards to protect fishermen
from the hot rays of the sun, while cleaning their fish
for market.

She sat down to rest just outside upon a rude bench;
which she seemed to know was there, and opening a
parcel which she carried in her hands, she began to
eat of its contents.

Suddenly she paused and listened, for a slight move-
ment behind her, within the shed, had attracted her
attention.

A sigh that was almost a moan had greeted her
ears.

She did not move for several moments, but waited
for the sound to be repeated.

Soon she heard it again; a long-drawn, sobbing
sigh, like some one deeply grieved or in distress.

The girl arose, and, without a trace of fear in her
manner, made her way within the shed, showing by
her quick, decisive movements that she was as fa-
miliar with the ground as with her own home.

Here she struck a match and lighted a piece of
eandle, which she took from her pocket, when she
saw, with evident amazement, a beautiful girl lying
asleep. upon a shawl which had been spread over a
pile of sea-weed in one corner of the place.

The light also revealed the fugitive, whom we
have followed thus far, to be of a slight, graceful
form, straight as an arrow, and having a wiry energy
and resolution in her every movement which betrayed
unusual self-reliance in one so em

She was very light in complexion, having yellow
hair, black eyes, and bright, rosy cheeks, a somewhat
unusual combination in one who was a native of
that Southern clime.

She was dressed in the costume of the country, and
with a neatness and trimness that made her seem
almost dainty in the homely dress; while on her
head she wore a large, coarse straw hat, over which
a bright handkerchief had been thrown, and was tied
under her pretty, rounded chin.

She softly approached and leaned over the sleeper,
astonishment depicted upon every feature of her
young face; and well she might look surprised, for
the lovely girl who lay upon that wretched bed of
sea-weed was richly and tastefully clad, and bespoke
the petted child of luxury and fortune.

She knelt beside her, and, laying her hand lightly
upon her shoulder, said, in low, musical [talian :

“Wake, signorina.”

The touch aroused the fair sleeper, and she started
up affrighted; but, upon seeing the kindly face of a
young girl about her own age bending above her, her
expression of terror changed to one equally surprised
with that of her companion.

“Why is the signorina sleeping here in this miser-
able place ?” the peasant girl asked.

But her companion could not understand or speak
Italian, and shook her head, intimating that she did
not know what she had said.

To her ae ee the girl then addressed her in
broken French, repeating her question, and then the
fair stranger, appearing to think it best to cenfide in
her, answered, though with some embarrassment:

“T am in great trouble, and I am running away
from it.. I have walked a long distance, but became
so weak and faint I could go no farther, and stum-
bled in here to rest, and must have fallen asleep
from weariness.”

A look of pity and sympathy swept ever the peas-
ant girl’s face.

“Mademoiselle is hungry, perhaps?’ she remarked.

“Yes; I had no anppels I could not eat and am
faint. I have been ill and am far from strong.”

The girl stuck her candle upon arock and then,
going outside the shed, brought in her own lunch
which she had left lying upon the bench. It consisted
of some voarse bread and cheese, some cakes fried in

     

 

olive oil with a few dried figs, and all wrapped ina
clean linen cloth.

“Eat, mademoiselle,” she said, as she placed it
upon her companion’s lap.

The beautiful stranger seized a fig and quickly dis-
posed of it with evident relish; then she suddenly
paused and asked:

“But do you not need this yourself? I must not
rob yeu.”

: bg girl shrugged her shoulders, and shook her
read.

“Eat, signorina, eat,” she said, mixing her French
and Italian; and the other, without waiting to be
urged further, and apparently ravenously hungry,
quickly disposed of everything save the cheese.

“You are very good,” she said, gratefully, when the
last fig was eaten, ‘‘l thank you very much.” Then
with sudden curiosity she inquired, “But how do
you also happen to be abroad alone at this hour of
the night?”

Again the peasant girl shrugged her shoulders and
a dark look of passion swept ovér her face. ;

“JT, too, am running away,” she said. “I do not
like my home; [ havea step-father; he is cruel, harsh,
and wants to marry me to a man I do not love.”

“How strange,” murmured her companion, a look
of wonder coming into her beautiful eyes, while ant
expression of sympathy crept over her lovely face.

“My father owes him for a fine pair of mules, just
bought,” the girl resumed, a look of scorn gleaming
in her eyes, ‘‘and Beppo will call the debt square if I
marry him. I will not be exchanged for brutes—I will
not be sold like a slave, and to one I hate and
loathe, and I fly from him,” she concluded, indig-
nantly, tne rich blood mounting to her forehead.

“Where are you going?’ questioned the other,
eagerly.

“To Monaco, to find service in some family, as
maid or nurse, until [ can earn money to go to some
school to learn to study,” was the earnest reply. «

“You are not an Italian?’ the fair stranger said,
inquiringly.

The girl shook her head, a sneer curling her red
ips.

Evidently to be an Italian was not very desirable
in her estimation.

“My mother is Swiss, my own father was French,”
she briefly answered.

“Ah! that is how you happen to be so light and to
speak the French language. Will you tell me your
name ?”

“You will not betray me? You will not set them
on my track, if I tell you?’ said the peasant girl, ap-
parently longing to confide in the beautiful maiden,
but secretly questioning the wisdom of so doing.

“Surely not. Am [ not flying from trouble also?
Besides, I am going to another country,” was the re-
assuring reply.

“T am Lisette Vermilet,” the girl then said. “Iam
eighteen years old. I have worked from sunrise till
sunset every day for seven long years, in the field,
in the vineyard, or the dairy, ever since my poor,
foolish mother married her tyrant husband. [ do it
nomore. I take care of myself and be no man’s
slave, and I marry whom I will, when the right one
and the right time comes. But first,” she continued,
eagerly, her face lighting with intense longing, “1
study; [ learn abont the world and other things, like
some lovely French girls I saw at Mentone last year,
who told me all about the flowers, the birds, the
earth, and the sea. Oh! I weep when I think of how
much there is to know, and [ have lost it all—all!”
and her voice grew tremulous with repressed feeling
as she concluded.

“Poor child! you surely ought to have an educa-
tion if you wantit so much,” said her sympathetic
listener, in a kindly tone, while she regarded the
girl’s eager face almost affectionately. “But are you
not afraid that your cruel step-father will go after
you and bring you back ?”’

“Tasso Simone would beat me black and blue if he
should catch me,” she said, with a shiver, asif she
recalled some experience of the kind. ‘‘Ah! if I had
buta disguise he would not know me—I get away
better.”

A bright idea seemed suddenly to strike her com-
panion, for her face lighted eagerly.

“Let us exchange clothing,” she exclaimed, ‘‘then
no one will recognize either of us.”

“Ah! but the signerina has such beautiful clothes,
while mine are so poor,” sighed Lisette, in a depre-
eatory tone, but with a wistful glance over the

' daintily made traveling suit, at the tasteful hat, and

expensive boots which her companion wore.

“Never mind; yours are neat and whole, and no
one would ever think of looking for me in them,
while you will be much more likely to succeed in
eluding your cruel father in mine,” tlfe young
stranger persisted.

“The signorina is very kind,’ Lisette said, grate-
fully, as, with an impulsive movement, she bent for-
ward and kissed the fair white hand that lay within
her reach, while it seemed to her simple heart that
she should feel like a princess in that lovely dark-
gray cloth dress, with its daintily stitched bands of
blue silk.

Alas! she did not dream that it was to become her
shroud.

Yes, as has doubtless been surmised, it was Violet
whom Lisette Vermilet had found lying asleep up on
the pile of sea-weed in the fisherman’s shea.

After refusing to admit her sister to her room on
the night previous to the day appointed for her wed-
ding, she had continued her occupation of writing
forsome time. When she was through she read over
what she had written, and then deliberately tore it
into atoms.

“No, [ will not tell them anything,” she muttered,
with a frown; “I will just go and leave no trace be-
hind me. It may seem unkind to Lord Cameron, but
some time I will explain it all.”

She then arose and dressed herself in her traveling
suit, tied a dark blue vail about her face, and brought
a thick shawl from her closet. She then began to lay
out a change of clothing and her toilet articles, but
suddenly stopped in the midst of her work.

“No, [ will not burden myself with anything,” she
murmured, thoughtfully. ‘“‘f am not strong, and [
need all the strength I have to get myself away; be-
sides, [ can easily buy what I need in any town.”

She hastily drew on her gloves, without observing
that the rings, which she usually wore and which
she prized very highly, were still lying upon her
cushion where she had left them before taking her
bath. Shedid not even think to take her watch,
which she sadly missed and regretted afterward ; her
only thought was to get away as quickly as possible
from the doom awaiting her on the morrow—to flee
from all danger of violating her conscience and of
wronging a noble and generous man.

She then put out her light and sat alone in the
darkness, waiting for the house to become quiet so
that she could steal forth unobserved.

Two hours passed, all in the house seemed to be at
rest, and she noiselessly crept out of a window upon
the piazza, made her way swiftly around the house
to where a flight of stairs led to the ground, and then
sped away-in the darkness, with no definite idea
whither she was going.

She took the highway leading away from Mentone,
because she dreaded lest some one should meet and
accost her inthe town. She had a dim idea that if
she could get to San Remo, which was about twelve
miles east of Mentone, she could take a train going
north without being discovered, and accordingly she
bent her steps in this direction.

Her way ledalong the cliffs overhanging the sea,
before mentigned, and how she, to whom the way
was entirely strange, should have escaped the fate
which every one afterward supposed to have been
hers was wonderful. But escape it she did, and after
safely passing this perilous point she descended the
hill, and then the road closely followed the beach for
some distance.

Here she came upon the rude hut, or shelter, which
has been described, and being foot-sore and weary
with her long walk, she spread her shawl upon a
mass of sea-weed which she found in one corner, and
throwing herself upon it soon fell into a profound
slumber, from which she was awakened by the light
touch of Lisette Vermilet.

With this brief explanation of Violet’s flight, we
will return tothe two girls who were discussing a
change of apparel.

Violet was much strengthened by the food which
she had eaten and greatly refreshed by her nap,
while she was encouraged by the presence of the
young girl, who was also, strangely enough, flying
from a fate similar to her own.

She overeame the scruples of Lisette, and insisting
upon the plan she had eae the two girls, under
cover of that rude shed, made the exchange, Violet
declaring that every article be transferred in order
to make the disguise more complete. She only re-
served her shawl, as, in traveling, she knew she
would need it.

“Now,” she said, when their task was completed,
“ean you tell me the best way to get north. Iam
going to England, and from there to America, and I
want to get away from this region as soon as pos-
sible.”

“Mademoiselle would do well to come with me to
Mentone and take a train from there,” Lisette
replied.

“Oh, I could not do that,” Violet cried. ‘“‘T have just
come trom Mentone, and would not go back there for
anything.”

It will be observed that she had refrained from
saying much about herself thus far, for she did not
wish even this simple girl to know the circumstances
which had caused her flight.

Lisette thought a minute, then she told her to go
on to a village about a mile distant, where, in a
couple of hours, a train would make a brief stop at a
crossing. é

This, she said, would bear her back in the same
direction she had come, but she could go on to Nice,
where she could take an express direct for Paris.

Violet, much as she dreaded passing through Men-
tone again, saw that this would be the wisest course
to pursue, and decided that she would follow _the
girl’s advice. :

“You will not betray that you have met me, if any
one should question you, and you will keep out of
sight of people in Mentone as much as possible,”
Violet pleaded. :

“Surely I will not betray you, signorina, and I will
not show myself by daylight in Mentone,” Lisette
said, earnestly, “and you will get away without any

 

.

 

country where an English lady could not. Take
courage, signorina; nothing will harm you, and may
the Holy Virgin go with you.”

“T feel anxious about your passing through Men-
tone,” Violet said. “If you should be seen there to-
morrow you would surely be stopped, for my clothing
would instantly be recognized by those who will
search for me; they would compel you to tell where
and how you met me, and then they would telegraph
ahead and have me stopped.”

“Do not fear, signorina,” Lisette responded. “TI
shall pass through Mentone before light, for [am a
rapid walker. I go straight to Monaco, and seek
service in some French family going to Paris.”

Violet looked relieved at this.

“Have you money?” she asked.

“I have forty franes, signorina. T have saved for
eighteen months every sou I could get.”

Eighteen months saving eight dollars!

vg ‘regarded the girl with sorrowful astonish-
ment.

“That is very little; let me give you some more,”
she cried, and eagerly opening her well-filled purse,
counted out some gold-pieces amounting to fifty
franes more.

“No, signorina, not a sou,” Lisette returned, firmly,
as she waved back Violet’s extended hand. “My
heart is heavy now with all you have done for me—
giving me these beautiful clothes in exchange for a
poor peasant’s dress. I cannot take your money.”

“Please,” persisted Violet. “I have plenty, and can
easily spare you this.”

But the girl made a prond gesture of dissent.

“The signorina must go; and I must get on also,”
she said, gravely. ‘‘Keep to the straight road until
you come to the track in the village. You can get no
ticket, but the guard will charge you a couple of
franes for your fare. Adieu, signorina.”

. She was about turning away, when Violet stopped
er.

“Lisette,” she said, holding out her hand, “good-
by. You have been very kind to me, and I shall
always remember you kindly. I hope we shall meet
again some time.”

_Tears were in Lisette’s eyes as she responded in a
similar strain, and then led Violet from the shed.

“That way, go; adieu!” she said, pointing east-
ward; then raising the hand she held, she pressed
her lips impulsively to it and dropped it.

With a softly breathed farewell in response, Violet
turned and walked quickly away, while Lisette went
back into the shed, put out her candle and threw the
end away, after which she turned in the opposite
direction and began to climb the steep hill, or cliffs,
along which the highway led toward Mentone.

Violet went on her way in the darkness, her heart
beating rapidly with fear lest she should encounter
some rude fisherman or peasant who would stop and
question her.

She was foot-sore and weary long before she came
in sight of the village, fora mile was a long distance
to her unaccustomed muscles, while Lisette’s heavy
shoes hurt her tender feet sorely.

But, guided by the lights along the railroad track,
she found her way to the crossing the girl had told
her about, and, sinking down upon a pile of sleepers
by the road-bed, she uttered a sigh of relief that.she
had reached the end of her long walk.

She did not havea great while to wait, for pres-
ently the cars came thundering along, and soon she
was on the train for Nice, whence she took an ex-
press for Paris.. Now she felt safe from pursuit, as
she was being whirled northward%at the rate of forty
miles an hour.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

“HE WASN'T NO SMUGGLER.”

BY THE OLD ’UN.

 

 

 

 

The richest scene that I remember in connection
with the civil service of Uncle Sam was one that oc-
curred in the New York Custom-House some few
years ago.

A grave offense had been committed. The captain
of a brig in the West India trade had been detected
in landing on one of our piers two barrels of mo-
lasses, without permit or payment of duty. The
goods were seized by an officer on a dray and sent to
the seizure room, and the offender was summoned to
appear before a high and mighty Council of Three.

He obeyed the summons. The tribunal was held
in the private room of the Deputy Collector of the
Tenth Division, and I was invited to be present, as
the affair promised to be interesting. Atalong table
sat R. G. Moulton, Esq., the gentlemanly and witty
deputy in charge of the division; Mr. Franklin, the
acting naval officer, and the energetic Surveyor of
the Port.

Before them was the culprit.. He was a down-
Easter, from the State of Maine, and about as cool a

specimen of humanity as you could scare up between
the Aroostook and the Rio Grande. He was not a
whit daunted by the solemn aspect of the court. He
placed his hat on the carpet, sleeked his hair with
his brown hands, and cheerfully awaited the course of
events.

Mr. Franklin, a very handsome and dignified man,
as the senior of the officials present, took the initia-
tive.

“Captain,” he said, ‘‘you are charged with a heinous
offense. You are accused of having smuggled ashore,
with intent to defraud the Government of legal du-
ties, two barrels of West India molasses, of the New
York market value of thirty dollars, and we have
sent for you to see if you had any explanation of your
conduct to offer.” ;

“Gentlemen,” said the captain, rising, “I am ex-
tremely obleeged to you for this here opportunity of
vindicating my character. I am accused of smug-
glin’, but Lain’t no smuggler, and I ain’t no night-
bird. A plain statement of facts will serve to clear
me, and to show on what slender grounds—in fact,
on no grounds at all—the reputation of an honest
ship-master has been attacked. ~Them merlasses
what you allude to was purchased by no money and
no price. They was a gift to me by the consignees in
Cienfuegos. I didn’t put’em on my manifest. They
was not accounted for among the cargo. I fetched
’em to York on my private account. Gentlemen, I
have been sailin’ from New York to Cienfuegos and
back for upward of fifteen year. Every trip I have
fetched home two barr’ls of merlasses. I never paid
no duties onto them. I have been accustomed to
send thein merlasses to the old folks at hum—Saca-
rappa, Maine. This time I didn’t do that, because’—
here he looked in his hat, selected a bandana hand-
kerchief, wiped his dry eyes, and returned the
drapery to his hat—‘‘because—the—old—folks—is—
dead.”

After waiting, either to control his emotion, or to
allow time for the tragic hit to take effect, he con-
tinued :

“So, the old folks bein’, as I hev hed the honor to
remark, removed from this here vale of tears, and
beyond the reach of merlasses, I notifled a friend of
mine that keeps a grocery store in Greenwich street,
that I hed two barrels of merlasses which I wished
he would sell on my account, payin’ me the proceeds,
arter deductin’ his commission. I told him to send
his cart for ’em at twelve o’clock, meridian. I take
the liberty of emphasizing the word meridian, gen-
tlemen, because it shows that LI ain’t no night-bird.
Smugglers is.night-birds. I ain’t no smuggler, and I
ain’t no night-bird. Them merlasses was histed outen
the hold, slung onto the pier, loaded onto the dray,
and then your officer seizes them. Them is the plain
facts, and on them facts I rest my defense.”

“What you call your defense, my friend,” said the
Surveyor of the Port, “is a confession—a plea of
guilty. You admit the truth of the charge, and your
boast that you have been in the habit of defrauding
the revenue is an aggravation.”’

“Defraud! Revenue!’ echoed the innocent. ‘‘Gen-
tleman, I really don’t understand you. Them mer-
lasses wasn’t cargo—they wasn’t on the manifest.”

“They should have been,” said Mr. Franklin, ‘‘and
the two barrels are confiscated.”

“Gentlemen, you both surprise and grieve me,”
said the captain. “I hope you won’t oblige me to re-
capitulate my defense, but will give me a free permit
for them merlasses, and let me go on my way re-
joicin’ and singin’ hossanners.”

“We shall dono such thing,” said Mr. Moulton;
“we cannot if we would. The molasses is condemned
and will be sold at auction. You can only redeem it
by paying the appraised market value.”

“Payin’ thirty dollars for what was a free gratis
gift to me! Oh, no, gentlemen!” and the captain
sniiled at the absurdity. ;

“T think,” said the surveyor, ‘“‘that we can not only
confiscate your goods, but impose a fine on your
vessel. Itis a very grave matter for a sea-captain to
be engaged in smuggling.”

“But, gentlemen,” said the imperturbable smug-
gler, “I thought I hed demon-strated that I wasn’t
no smuggler and no night-bird. What [I done was
done at noonday.”

“You had better pay for the molasses and escape
all further trouble,” said Mr. Moulton.

The captain took up his hat, and said:

“Gentlemen, I will take your proposition into con-
sideration. In the meantime, I thank you for the op-
portunity you have given me of completely vindi-
eating my. character. Iain’t no smuggler—and I
ain’t no night-bird.” ;

The next day he appeared with his thirty dollars.
IT handed hima printed form to sign—a confession
that he had defrauded the revenue and a request to
be permitted to redeem his property on payment of
the market value, waiving all further proceedings.
He read the document and threw down the pen.

“T’ll be darned ef I sign any such stuff as that
’ere!”’ he said. ‘You heard me tell them gentlemen
yesterday, that I wa’n’t no smuggler, and no night-
bird.”

“Mr. Moulton,” I said, stepping to the door of the

inner office, ‘the captain refuses to sign.’

 

trouble, for a peasant girl can go about alone in this

“Let him go, then,” was the prompt reply, “and
we'll put the screws on him.”

The captain overheard.

“‘Darnation !” he said, ‘I’ve fell among thieves—
and [ s’pose I must do as honest men hey to do in
sich cases. Gimme the pen! Jerusalem! what pens
you keep here! There—there’s my sign manual, and
there’s ny money, and now give me an order for the
merlasses. An honest man ain’t no mateh for sealla-
wags. You've swindled me outer thirty dollars—but,
by thunder! [’ll be even with Uncle Sam afore I’m
half a year older. There’s ways enough to cheat the
revenue if a fellow has a mind to do it—and you can
tell your employers, my bosom friend, that they have
drove a honest inan to dishonest practices by def-
amation and despotism.”

And with that he hastened out of the office.

———__>- ©<+_______
THE THREE BEST PHYSICIANS,

 

The best physicians are Dr. Quiet, Dr. Diet, and
Dr. Merryman. Ifthe house-mother, as the Germans
call her, is worried, over-anxious, and irritable, the
children become dull, depressed, and also irritable;
the husband grows discontented, and either adds to
the general worry or seeks his pleasure out of doors,
thereby increasing his wife’s troubles; and the serv-
ants, ceasing to be under proper control, and getting
only cross looks and words of annoyance for their
pains, soon wax insubordinate. <A bad temper
in the mistress of a house is a curse to all about her;
but just as the majority of diseases are preventable
if due care and knowledge are displayed in the man-
agement of health, so bad temper and fretfulness are
in the vast majority of cases quite preventable.

Fretfulness and irritability are as much symptoms
of disease as the headache or neuralgia which they so
frequently accompany; and, as a rule, their causes
are overwork, want of change, indigestion and insuf-
ticient nutrition, anxiety, disturbed sleep, bad air,
or any or all of these unhealthy conditions combined.
Many women look upon devotion to their house-
holds, constant self-sacrifice in little things, and
neglect of their own persons, both externally and in-
ternally, as heroic, and glory in sufferings endured,
as they think, for the benefit of their husbands and
families; but no greater mistake could be made than
to think any one derives advantage from their self-
imposed injuries. €

Itis the duty ofa wife to retain her good looks as
long as she can for her hisband’s sake, and this can
only be done by obeying the laws of health. We have
read of a young lady at the Court of France in its
gayest day, who never painted or puffed, nor did any-
thing that all the others did, but depended entirely
on nature for her beauty of complexion. The queen
was in the habitof frolicsomely asking one of the
ladies to do something, and causing all the rest to
follow herexample. Well, one night it came to the
turn of the natural beauty, who at once ealled for
soap and water and a towel, and in the presence of
her majesty and court washed and dried her face. Of
course the other ladies had to follow suit, and we can
imagine what old frights some of them looked after
the operation.

As previously stated, the best and cheapest physi-
cians are Dr. Quiet, Dr. Diet, and Dr. Merryman, but
they are not consulted by some women as much as
they ought to be. Often a woman will go laboring
on at whatever she may have in hand, sewing, run-
ning up and down stairs, nursing and amusing the
children, dusting, and tidying, and superintending
the kitchen, when aching head and limbs, and tired
eyes, have long ago indicated that rest was needful.
She says that she does not care what she eats, and
that anything will doforher. She hurries through
her meals, and eitherruns about or begins to work
directly after eating. ‘‘This is not the way,” says Dr.
Diet, “to keep a good digestion.” Dr. Merryman pre-
scribes exercise in the open air: as much change of
scene and amusement as is compatible with honest
work (which also is necessary) ; cheerful society ; and
an occasional concert or visit to the theater.

‘*Ajling mothers make moaning children,” and it is
said that many young mothers of the upper and
middle classes are now ‘“‘ailing” because in their girl-
hood they studied too hard to meet the demands of
the ‘“‘higher education” of women.

a
A BOSTON GIRL MARRIED A KING.

 

Max Maretzek tells the story of the stage career
of Eliza Henzler, who became the wife of the King
of Portugal. She was the daughter of a poor Boston
tailor, who attracted the attention of an opera man-
ager by her fine voice and her well-shaped figure
and large brown eyes. When she became noted as
an opera singer, Dom Fernando, the consort of Queen
Maria della Gloria, of Portugal, took her under his
protection. Soon after the death of his queen, he

created our Boston girl Countess of Edia, and after
paying due respect to the queen’s memory, married
the countess, otherwise Eliza Henzler. Her husband
being originally a prince of the House of Coburg,
the Boston tailer’s daughter became sister-in-law to
Queen Victoria, aunt of the Prince of Wales and the
present King of the Belgians, and mother-in-law of
the reigning King of Portugal.

When Queen Isabella of Spain was sent into exile,
Bismarck tried to put a Hohenzollern on the Spanish
throne. Louis Napoleon opposed it, with an eye to
a Bonaparte for the position. At the same time a
strong coalition of the grandees of Spain favored
placing Dom Fernando of Portugal on their country’s
throne, with all the chances in his favor. But while
the grandees were content to have Dom Fernando,
their wives declared that they would never appear
at court should the plebeian Bostonese be permitted
to do the royal honors. A compromise was proposed
in secret caucus—viz., to obtain from Pius IX.. a
divorce—but Dom Fernando, rather than renounce
Eliza Henzler, put away the Spanish crown. Thus
the indirect consequences of heroic attachment were
the Franco-Prussian war, the downfall of Napoleon
ITI., the loss of Alsace and Lorraine to France, and
the still uncertain future of Spain.

>e~<

No man knows what a feather he may prove till
he gets into the wind of temptation.

 

 

 

 
  
 
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
    
 
  

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PEOPLE! WEIGHT REDUCED

 

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(rar y

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

8

 

VOL. 45—No, 36. —

 

 

 

 

"TIS BETTER TO LAUGH.

The sunniest skies are the fairest,
The happiest hours are best,
Of all of life’s blessings the rarest
Are pictures of pleasure and rest.
Though fate is our wishes denying,
Let each bear his part like a man,
Nor darken the world with our sighing—
’Tis better to laugh when we can.

Each heart has its burden of sorrow,
Each soul has its shadows profound;
*Tis sunshine we’re yearning to borrow
From those who may gather around.
Then let us wear faces of pleasure
The world will be happy to scan.
A scow] is to no one a treasure—
’Tis better to laugh when you can.
e

THE PEOPLE OF STAGE-LAND.

BY JEROME K. JEROME.

}

Vy Of i Koy
; VU ii / Hy

ry Gre ae

Uy Ni

Yj i
AZ,
Y

No. 12.—THE STAGE IRISHMAN.

The Stage Irishman says, “Shure,” and “Bedad,”
and, in moments of exultation, “Begorra.” That is
all the Irish he knows.

He is very poor, but scrupulously honest. His
great ambition is to pay his. rent, and he is devoted
to his landlord. :

He is always cheerful, and always good. We never
knew a bad Irishman on the stage. Sometimes a
Stage Irishman seems to be a bad man—such as the
“agent,” or the ‘‘informer’—but in these cases it in-
variably turns out, in the end, that this man was
all along a Scotchman, and thus what had been a
mystery becomes clear and explicable.

The Stage Irishman is always doing

THE MOST WONDERFUL THINGS.

We do not see him do these wonderful things. He
does them when nobody is by, and tells us all about
them afterward—that is how we know of them.

We remember, on one occasion, when we were
young and somewhat inexperienced, planking our
money down, and going into a theater solely and
purposely to see the Stage Irishman do the things he

yas depicted‘as doing on the posters outside.

They were really marvelous, the things he did on
that poster.

In the right-hand upper corner he appeared run-
ning across country on all-fours, with a red herring
sticking out from his coat-tails, while far behind
eame hounds and horsemen, hunting him. But their
chance of ever catching up with him was clearly
hopeless.

To the left, he was represented as running away
over one of the wildest and most rugged bits of land-
scape we have ever seen, with a very big man on his
back. Six policemen stood scattered about a mile
behind him. They had evidently been running after
him, but had at last given up the pursuit as useless.

In the center of the poster he was having a friendly
fight with seventeen other ladies and gentlemen.
Judging from the costumes, the affair appeared to be

A RATHER LIVELY WEDDING.

A few of the guests had already been killed, and
lay dead about the floor. ‘The survivors, however,
were enjoying themselves immensely, and of all that
gay group, he was the gayest.

At the moment chosen by the artist, he had just
succeeded in cracking the bridegroom’s skull.

“We must see this,’ said we to ourselves. ‘This is
good.” And we bought a gallery ticket.

But the Stage Irishman did not do any of the
things that we have mentioned, after all—at least,
we mean we did not see him do any of them. It
seems he did them “‘off,’’ and then came on and told
his mother all about it afterward.

He told it very well, but somehow or other we were
disappointed. We had so reckoned on that fight.

(By the way, we have noticed, even among the
characters of real life, a tendency to perform most
of their wonderful feats ‘‘off.’’)

It has been our privilege, since then, to gaze upon
many posters, on which have been delineated

STRANGE AND MOVING STAGE EVENTS.

We have seen the hero holding the villain high up
above his head, and throwing him about that eare-
lessly that we have felt afraid he would break some-
thing with him.

We have seen a heroine leaping from the roof of a
house on one side of the street, and being caught by
the comic man, standing on the roof of a house on
the other side of the street, and thinking nothing
of -it.

We have seen railway trains rushing into each
other at the rate of sixty miles an hour. We have
seen houses blown up by dynamite two hundred feet
into the air. We have seen the defeat of the Spanish
Armada, the destruction of Pompeii, and the return
of the army from the seat of war in one “set” each.

Such incidents as earthquakes, wrecks in mid-
ocean, revolutions, and battles, we take no note of;
they being commonplace and ordinary.

But we do not go inside to see these things now.
We have two looks at the poster instead; it is more
satisfying.

The Stage Irishman, to return to our friend, is very
fond of whisky. Whisky is forever in his thoughts—
and often in other places belonging to him, besides.
It is currently reported. that it.was the child of a
Stage Irishman who, after listening to an eloquent
sermon on the text, ‘‘Wist ye not I must be about my
Father's business,” reported at home that the
preacher had been telling them about a man who
always called for “‘Whisky, hot!’ whenever he went
about any business for his father.

The fashion in dress among Stage Irishmen is
rather picturesque than neat. Tailors must have a
hard time of it in Stage Ireland.

The Stage Irishman has also an original taste in
hats. He always wears a hat without a crown;
whether to keep his head cool, or with any political
significance, we cannot say.

[A most remarkable man, ‘““‘THE STAGE DETECTIVE,”
will be described next week.]

——_———__+@

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.

Wash surah night-dresses are trimmed with Valen-
ciennes lace.

Black lace vails have pointed scollops and crescent-
shaped figures.

Wash surrahs for blouses, dresses, ete., are now shown
in gingham effects.

Handsome Scotch ginghams are trimmed with Irish
point vandykes.

Suede gloves are preferred for all dressy occasions in
the eight-button mousequetaire style.

Sleeves are trimmed at the wrists, with rows of but-
tons up the front or back seam.

Sandal-wood glove and handkerchief boxes are again
used. :

White ribbon plaitings are worn in the necks and
sleeves of mourning gowns, while in cream color this is
worn by ladies out of mourning, and many of the pretty
fancy ribbons about an inch wide are used in the same
manner.

White vests and chemisettes will be worn with lace
jabots, lawn, and silk ties, while masculine ties are donned
with tennis shirts and linen chemisettes.

Silk muslin makes a charmingly youthful costume, with
@ baby waist, full skirt, shirred elbow sleeves, and a

z
guimpe shirred in a ruffle around thé neck, while a sash

of surah, brocade, or crape completes the gown.

Jerseys now have full sleeves and jacket effects, and
one of fine gray has a collar, cuffs, yoke, and girdle of fine
black passementerie, while others have gathers or nar-
row plaits from the shoulders, with a silk or braided vest
and yoke.

For table decoration, trails of foliage and fine flowers
are carried across diagonally from one corner to another,
and ribbons and liberty gauzes are used in the same
way, while forget-me-nots and pink roses, tied together
with ribbons, are used for tea-table flowers.

Vails have been much in demand for the spring, and
are still worn. Those with black patches have been
favorites with some, while finer dotted ones, with big
hats, are large enough to cover the whole face, being
gathered behind from under the chin. Black vails are
the most popular, being more generally becoming; but
it is said that gray, the color of fog, is the only safe shade,
while the black vail, which, for the time being, at least,
is becoming, helps conéeal all blemishes, and, by con-
trast, makes the complexion look fairer.

Miss Ollie A., Council Bluffs, lowa,—The skirts of wash
dresses differ in no respect from those made of woolen
and other fabrics, plaid zephyrs being made entirely on
the straight; on the cross, with the draped front on the
cross, and the plaited sides and back on the straight, or
with the front on the straight, and the sides and back on
the cross. When the bodice is trimmed with embroidery,
narrow panels on each side of the skirt to correspond,
forming a kind ef frame or revers to the draped front,
give the dress a good and finished effect. Figured sateens
are sometimes made with a straight front, plaited but
not draped, and with three broad plaits at the side, and a
band of embroidery laid on each.

Mrs. W. E. S.—There are some very pretty little dresses
shown of plaid materials, for girls of allages. The skirts
are plain, and either plaited or gathered ; the bodices full
and short waisted ; and some are draped on each side of a
little plastron of guipure embroidery, while others are
mounted ona yoke of embroidery, and a three or four-
inch wide band of embroidery forms the waist-band, the
scolloped edge being placed upward, and an embroidered
collar and deep cuits of embroidery on the full sleeves
complete these neat little frocks, which may be worn by
girls from four to twelve years of age.

Lady Darlington, Galena, Ill.—1st. The skirts of little
girls’ sailor suits are sewed to cotton underwaists, which
sometimes have a round-necked plastron of a plain color,
which shows between the collar points, in true sailor
style, when the blouse is worn. 2d. Scotch plaid surah
sashes are worn with white dresses, and on plain cash-
mere or India silk designs the tartan silk is also added as
cuffs, collars, and some@imes a yoke. 3d. Large and small
buckles are used on little girls’ gowns, and the curved
designs are very quaint when‘holding the fullmess from
the shoulders at the waist-line in front.

Hattie, New Britain, Conn.—At two years of age boys
put on gingham, muslin, and pique dresses, cut with
jacket fronts, and gathered or kilted skirts. They are
also made with plaited waists, kilt skirts, and belts of
flannel, pique, or striped gingham, with rolled or sailor
collars, the latter having the plastron in front between
the collar points. White pique and linen dresses fre-
quently have a kilt skirt, high collar, coat sleeves, round
waist, box-plaited, and round or square jacket fronts,
edged with embroidery, while a belt from the sides fastens
in the back with a pearl button.

Miss Lottie B.—Dresses for sea-side and summer travel
are made of thin plaid or snow-flake homespun, with a
blouse of surah silk and a tiny cape of the homespun, the

blouse and skirt being joined together, making a com-
fortable one-piece dress, that is very full, very light, and
exceedingly graceful. The homespun skirt is made quite
straight, over a silk petticoat, and fastens on the left hip,
‘falling open below to show a breadth of surah like that of
the blouse.

2S Sr armas in

Pleasant Paragraphs.
~ BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Reforming the World.

Caller—“‘I supposed I would find your parents at
home this time of day. Both out, are they ?”

Small Boy—‘Yes’m. Mother aint got back yet
from the wometi’s every afternoon temperance meet-
ing, and pap’s gone to Ginsling’s free lunch saloon
to get his supper.”

A Study Lamp.

Guest—‘‘What sort of a lamp is that?”

Host—“‘A study lamp.”

Guest—“Ah! Called that because it is for the
study, I presume.”

Host—“‘No. Called that because it takes a great
deal of study to run it.”

Miseries of Exclusiveness.

Miss Downton—“‘Where are you going this sum-
mer ?”’

Miss Upton—‘‘To Frogtown, New Jersey.”

“Mercy! That’s a horrid place; nothing but
swamps and musquitoes.”

“T know it; but all the pretty resorts are filled up
nowadays by the common herd, you know.”

Nothing to Brag Of.

First Little Girl (proudly)—‘‘We are goin’ to Europe
this summer.”

Second Little Girl (contemptuously)—“Pooh!
shust game from dere.”

Ve

Coals to Newcastle. :

Benevolent Individual—‘‘Beg pardon, sir, but I
am around collecting reading matter for the hos-
pitals.”

Busy Personage—“Oh, they’ve got plenty of read.
ing matter, loads of it. It isn’t a month since I sent
them a Sunday paper.”

California Marvels.

Easterner—“‘I see if stated that Tulare Lake, in
California, has increased miles in width and length
this year.”’

Californian — “ Shouldn’t wonder.
growing right along.”

Safe from Entry. .

First Burglar—“Th’ paper says th’ locks on th’ gov-
ernment vaults at Washington is so weak thet any
burglar cud pick ’em.”

Second Burglar—‘Huh!
theater-hat silver dollars ?”’

A Slight Mistake. ‘ 7

Westerner—‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your brother in
Grizzly Gulch City. He’s a road agent.”

Easterner—“Sir! My brother is a real estate agent,
sir.” im
Westerner—“‘Well, I knew it was something like
that.”

California is

Who wants them big

Indians No Good.

Citizen—“What do you think of the proposition to
enlist Indians in the regular army ?”’

Captain Westpoint—‘Indians? ’Pon honah! Why,
they cawn’t dawnce.”

All Right and Regular.

Neighbor—‘‘I’ve some awful bad news to tell ye,
Mrs. Tubbs. Y’r husband was blowed up in the
dynamite explosion this mornin’, and y’r family doc-
tor, who was talkin’ to him at the time, got blowed
up, too.” ‘

Mrs. Tubbs—“Dearie me! Well, I’m glad the doc-
tor was with him, ’cause now there won’t need to be

no inquest,” '
, A Lesson in Economy.

Clothing Dealer—“Mein frient, vy you nod buy

your clodings off me ?’

Dudish Youth—“I always have my costumes made
to order, sir.”

“You go mit une vashionable tailor, eh? Don’d
you know, mein freint, dat your embloyer, Mr. Great-
purse, and many other rich merchants, and bankers,
and brokers, alvays buy dere -clodings ready made,
eh ?”

“Yes, I’ve heard so. What of it?”

“Dotis how dey got rich.”

No Fiction Wanted.

Little Boy—“Uncle, won’t you tell us a story ?”

Genial Uncle—“Certainly, my boy. What kind of
a story ?’ .

“Oh, any kind only so it’s true.
and the Beanstalk.”

A Bleak Prospect.

Bill Collector (authoritatively)—“I wish to see Mr.
Neverpay immediately.”

Shrewd Servant—“‘You can’t see him now.
gone to bed, so we can wash his flannels.”

Solicitude for the Living. '

Family Doctor—“I should no longer conceal the
truth from you, sir. You have only afew days to
live.”

Mr. Levelhead (weakly)—“Then, doctor, I wish you

Tell us about Jack

He’s

 

would buy me a ticket to Europe and have me placed
on board a steamer.” i aeae

 

“But you could not live to reach Europe.”

“IT do not wish to. I want to be buried at sea, so
that my family will be saved the ruinous expense of
a funeral, and have something left to live on.”

Tired of Walking.

Railroad Superintendent (forbiddingly)—‘Well, sir,
what do you want ?”

Tramp—‘‘Pardon my ’ntrusion, but I s’pose you
observed that ’cordin’ to the Massachusetts Supreme
Court a man wot is injured while ridin’ on a pass
can’t collect damages.”

Superintendent (much interested)—“I noticed
that.”

Tramp—‘Yes, sir. Well, there ort ter be the same
law here; an’ ef you'll jist give me an annual pass,
I’ll ride back an’ forth until I git hurt, an’ then we’ll
make a test case of it.” ,

A Sordid Soul.

Jinks—“Of all mean, grasping men, I think Minks
is the worst. I don’t believe he ever gets his thoughts
off of dollars and cents.”

Blinks—*What has he been doing ?’

Jinks—“He’s been asking me for a paltry ten dol-
lars I borrowed of him some years ago.”

An Outside View.

First Domestic—‘Does your new missus move in
society ?”’

Second Domestic—“Well, if ye worked fer her
awhile y’d think so. She don’t know enough t’ last
’er over Sunday.”

Columbus’ Mistake.

Teacher—“Did Columbus know that he had dis-
covered a new continent ?”

Class—‘‘No, he thought it was India.”

Teacher—*‘Correct. Why did he think he had found
Tndia ?”’

Bright Boy—“T s’pose it was ’cause the inhabitants
was Indians.”

Nature and Temperance.

Temperance Man—'‘My friend, what I want you to
do is to throw your whisky bottle into the sea.”’

Old Toper—‘“I did that once, but the waves floated
it back to me, and I said to myself if the laws of
nature worked that way I wasn’t to blame for takin’
the bottle again, and——”’

Temperance Man—‘‘Ah, but the bottle you threw
away was empty. Throw itinto the sea when the
bottle is full of whisky, and you'll find the laws of
nature are all right.” ;

A Corrected Reading.

Mrs. Quiverful (sighing) —‘‘Seems to me poor folks
like us always have large families.”

Mr. Quiverful (who has just laid in a fresh supply
of shoes for Johnny, Dickie, Willie, Georgie, Jimmy,
and the rest)—‘‘You mean, my dear, people \ith large
families are always poor.’

One Good Turn, etc.

Dying Millionaire—“‘I have been much in litiga-
tion, always’ successful, too, and I feel that I owe
everything to the lawyers. I want them to have all
my property.”

Attorney—“Ah! You wish me to make a will, then,
bequeathing——”

Dying Millionaire—‘Cutting off all my relations,
and bequeathing the money to charitable institu-
tions.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A LIVING PROOF.—Young Mr. Freshly (conversing
with an elderly friend of the family)—‘*When I see
how we have things now, electricity, telegraph, tele-
phone, and think how people lived sixty years ago, I
can’t help thinking that our grandfathers must have
been fools.”

Mr. Oldboy (obviously nettled)—“‘When I see some
of their grandchildren, I can’t help thinking the
same.’’—Boston Times.

A New METHOD.—Fond Mother—“John, dear, I
think Ethel’s voice would be very much improved by
a little training.”

Father (not so fond)—‘‘So do I. I think if it was
trained from here to California by slow freight it
would be ever so much better for all of us.” (Exit
F. M. from room, muttering the word “‘brute” several
times).—N. Y. Herald. :

BUT THE TOOTH’S IN THE OTHER JAW.—Aunt Mary
—‘‘Poor Budge! Does your tooth ache yet? If’twere
mine, dear, I'd have it out at once.”

Budge—‘“If ’twere yours! Well, auntie, so would I.”

Harper’s Young People. —

It AFFECTED THEM DIFFERENTLY.—“‘I’m on a
strike, and I need bread,” said a carpenter to a
baker. ~

“That’s odd,” replied the baker. “When I’m ona
strike I never knead bread.—N. Y. Sun.

IN ORIGINAL PACKAGES.—Farmer—“Come out here
to the bars, Miss Beacon Street; I want to show you
my new Jersey calf.”

Miss Beacon Street (enchanted)—“Oh, what a
lovely little cow! Now, I suppose that is the kind
that gives the condensed milk, isn’t it ?”’

Somerville Journal.

TENDER HEART.—He—“I have three thousand a
year. You could certafnly live on that.”
She—*Yes; but I should hate to see you vag Ms
: ife.
A rope gets tight because that’s the way it is taut.
Yonkers Sialesman.

Mr. Crisscross—“Pass me the butter, please.” Miss
Featherbone—‘‘With all my heart.” Mr. Crisscross—
“Only the butter, please.”—Puck.

If, in the heat of a family quarrel, the angry wife
makes a move to pick up a flat-iron, by no means is
this to be taken as implying a willingness to smooth
things over.— Detroit Free Press.

The doHar you take in is a dwarf; the one you pay
out a giant.—Alchison Globe.

“Oh, no! there ain’t any favorites in this family,”
soliloquized Johnny. “Oh, no! If I bite my finger
nails, [ catch it over the knuckles; but the baby can
eat his whole foot and they think it very clever.”

Boston Gazette.

Few of us care how a man made his money so long
as he spends it liberally.—Milwaukee Journal.

A letter is wiser than some people. It never at-
tempts to give information until after it has been
posted.—Binghamion Republican. ;

LIFE’S PERPLEXITIES.

He doffed his tile and looked thereat,
And to himself he said:
Yes, that is certainly my hat;
But where did I get this head ?”
Chicago Evening Post.

————__>-0+_______

A COQUETTE’S FAITH,

BY AUGUSTUS COMSTOCK.

In the year 18—, many of the ranges of hills branch-
ing out from the lofty Cordilleras Mountains in
Chili, were infested by bands of desperadoes, who,
led by fierce, merciless chiefs, would pounce upon all
travelers supposed to have valuables in their pos-
session, robbing and very often murdering them.

The bodies of the victims were sometimes flung into
deep gorges, and at others left in the very roads to
strike terror to the unlucky wanderer who should
chance to pass that way.

Bernard Warren, a young captain of an American

schooner from the United States, was one day hunt- |

ing in the vicinity of the infested locality, when he
heard a loud cry for help. The words were uttered
in unmistakable English, and the young captain
even thought he could recognize the voice as that of
one of his sailors—ahandsome youth who had
shipped in his vessel a few days before she sailed.
The schooner now lying in the harbor of Valparaiso,
the captain had given liberty, that is to say, permis-
sion to go ashore, to one of the watches, that they
mInighé enjoy themselves.

As to the captain himself, his enjoyments were, he
believed, destined to be few in this world. Hunting
had always been for him a pleasant pastime, but
even that was now somewhat deprived of its zest by
the recollection of the sorrow which had come to him
before he sailed.

He had made, in his native city of New London,
the acquaintance of Selina Hathaway, who, unfor-
tunately, was something of a coquette. A beautiful
girl, with eyes like stars and a voice like music, she
had captivated the heart of Bernard, who had finally
avowed his passion.

Selina had laughed, when he concluded, and shak-
ing her head saucily, had remarked that she was not
yet ready to marry, and that when she should-be,
she did not think he would be the man of her choice.

Staggered by this blunt refusal, he rose and left
the house without saying a word. She had led him

on, only to laugh at him when he proposed to her,
and he would endeavor to forget a damsel of such
heartless nature.

A week later he sailed away, and in the perform-
ance of his sea duties, which he could do with all the
ardor of a true sailor, he strove to force Selina’s
image from his mind.

Vain the attempt. He wasamiserable man. He
grew pale and thin, and for some weeks lost his ap-
petite.

Finally, however, the latter returned, but not with
it the light-hearted manner which had hitherto
characterized him.

Thus he was on that day, when, hunting: in the
Chilian wilds, he heard the cry for help. His was a
nature upon which such an appeal could not fallin
vain.

Rushing in the direction of the noise, he there be-
held the handsome sailor youth mentioned, attacked
by two fierce-looking men with long beards, who had
thrown him down, and were now rifling his pockets
of the seanty allowahce of money, which had been
given to him to amuse himself ashore.

Captain Warren struck one of the ruffians upon the
head with the butt of his piece, leveling him sense-
less to earth. The other drew one of those long
knives, which were great favorites with the robbers
at that period, and rushed upon him, aiming a furious
blow at his heart. '

The captain quickly sprung aside; then his gun
again whizzed through the air, coming down, with
crushing force, upon the head of the second ruffian,
who measured his length by the side of his com-
panion. ;

The youth who had been attacked, and who lay
upon the ground half stunned by a blow from one of
the robbers, just before the captain appeared, now
staggered to his feet.

“Thank you, captain,” he said, pressing the latter’s
hand warmly. “If am glad—very glad you came
when you did, as the rascalS would otherwise have
robbed and murdered me.”

The speaker was rather short of stature, and
seemed slenderly and lightly formed. His hands
were white and small, his feet diminutive, while his
features, although browned as if by exposure, were
regular and gentle in their expression. But for a
heavy black beard, they would have been considered
decidedly effeminate. Z

“Tam glad I came when I did,” said the captain.
“But you should not have strayed so far from the
vessel. I hope no others of my sailors have come so
far away from the town.”

The young man colored and hung his head. Then
a smile wreathed his lip, disclosing teeth which
were dazzingly white and even. ;

“?m afraid I’m a sorry protector,” said he,in a
voice which was peculiarly coarse for one of such
genteel physique. “Here I came for the sole purpose
of being on hand to protect you in case you should
be attacked by the desperadoes, and instead here you
come to my rescue.” .

“You had better get back to the town as fast as
you can,” said Bernard.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the youth. ‘And you?”

“Never mind me,” said the captain, with the dare-
devil, indifferent air of a man caring little what be-
came of him.

A peculiar expression of pity passed over the face
of the youth. More, a tear gleamed in his eye, as he
turned away and walked off toward the town.

‘‘What is there about that young fellow which al-
ways affects me so strangely?” muttered the cap-
tain to himself, as he moved off, leaving the two des-
peradoes lying side by side, still senseless. —

Then he returned to the town and made the vigi-
lantes (police officers) acquainted with what had
taken place. ,

Before nightfall a party of these men arrested the
two robbers, who were brought before the authori-
ties in the town. Captain Warren and William Mar-
vel, the youth whom he had rescued, appeared
against the prisoners. The latter were sent to the
calabouse, sentenced to hard labor for a lifetime.

The name of Captain Warren became, from that
moment, a hateful one to the mountain robbers, who
resolved to get him, if possible, in their clutches, and
hang him upon some tree where his skeleton, high
up on a topmost branch, might swing asa warning
to others never to attempt to prosecute the band.

The captain, who neither feared for, nor in fact
cared for his life, continued his hunting excursions.

On some days it was nightfall before he thought of
returning.

One evening a terrific storm burst upon him, while
on his way to the town. The heavens were obscured
by black clouds, and the noise of the wind was like
the roaring of the sea. The tall trees shook asif
about to give way, their branches cracking with a
din like the rattling of volleys of musketry. Mean-
while the rain came down in slanting lines, driving
against the young man’s face with a force which
nearly stifled him.

The violence of the gale increased every moment,
the streams and rivulets in the traveler’s pathway
swelling to torrents.

On came the the latter, rushing along with a force
which were near throwing the sailor off his feet.
Finally. the waters increased to sucha degree that
Bernard, to save himself from being overwhelmed by
them, soughtrefuge in a deserted hut half-way up
the mountain side. ?

In the hut there was a pile of logs, behind which,
at this moment, crouched a slender form, drenched
and shivering with the wet.

It was William, the youth whom the captain had
saved on a former occasion, and who, on this day,
had also followed him, reaching, by a circuitous
route, the hut before Bernard, who, he thought
likely, owing to the directions of his steps, would
there seek refuge.

In about an hour the storm abated, so that Bernard
thought he would now be able to make his way back
to the town.

During all this time William had remained crouched
behind the pile of logs, evidently fearing the cap-
tain’s displeasure should he make himself known.

Bernard had not proceeded far when he discovered
that he could go no farther, the water filling the hol-
lows and other spaces in the ground, so as to prevent
his progress.

He returned to the hut. William, who was now
obliged to crouch in some shrubbery to hide himself
from the captain’s view, thus remained until tke
young man had gained the hut, when he started to
follow. He had not walked more than ten steps
when he noticed a party of men approaching.

The moon having now emerged from behind a
cloud, revealed enough of these personages for him
to perceive that they were mountaineers.

They had long beards and high boots; some of
them carried carbines slung to their backs, while
others were provided with long knives.

The youth, who understood Spanish quite well,
heard one of them say:

“T tell you he is here to-night, for I saw him at
sundown start on his return, and I know he could
not have gone far in the present condition of the
roads.” =

“You would know him, if you saw him, again,
I suppose ?”

“T am not so sure of that. He was down among the
trees, so that I could not see him very distinctly, but,
as well as I could make out, he was a small, slender
man.’ a

“Enough. If we only overtake him, we may
avenge our imprisoned comrades.”

“Ay, we will hang him to the tallest treethat grows
upon the hill.”

“His vessel will never leave this port with him for
her captain.” :

that their conversation referred to Captain Warren.

He hurried noiselessly along toward them, keeping
in the shadow of the shrubbery, that they might not
see him until he should come close upon them. eS

He had heard enough to show him that they had
mistaken himself for the captain, and he seemed
anxious to carry out the deception.

Finally he gained a point within a few feet of the
robbers, when he suddenly rose, half turning, as if
about beating a retreat. +

The outlaws, with fierce cries, pounced upon him.
They gathered round him, brandishing their knives,
their fierce eyes gleaming like fire in the moonlight.

“You are our prisoner. Your name at once 2”

* “Captain Warren,” answered the youth, pale but
rm.

He folded his arms as he spoke, and stood with an
unflinching air, although a close observer might have
noticed a slight tremor of the limbs.

“Curses upon you!” howled a robber, advancing
and pressing the point of his knife against the
youth’s heart.

“Away with him!” shouted another of the robbers.

He was thereupon hurried off to the bills.

“Now, then, if you have prayers to say, say them
at once!” shouted the leader of the band. “We in-
tend to hang you upon this tree’—pointing to a tree
beneath which the group had halted.

The lurid light of a torch was now throwing a wild
glare upon the scene. The savage mountaineers,
leaning upon rifle and club, looked like demons hold-
ing revel by the light of infernal fires.

William-was dragged to the foot of the tree the
moment he had said a short prayer.

“T have a request to make,’ said the youth, as he
took a small note-book from his pocket and tore offa
leaf, “which is that you will let me write a few
words, and that, after my death, you will send the
note to my vessel.”’

This idea seemed to rather please the rolfpers than
otherwise.

“We intended to send word to your rascally officers
of your execution,” said the leader of the band.

“Nay, that is not all. [have more than a mere
statement of my death to make.”

“You will let us read the note after you write it?”

“Yes, on condition that you will not read it until
after my death.” :

“Agreed; we have no objections to that,” shouted
several, simultaneously. 3

The youth wrote a few lines. Then he rose.

“Perhaps we had better read the note now,” said
one of the robbers.

“Yes, yes,” cried several of his companions.

They attempted to snatch the note from the
writer’s grasp.

 

 

 

Thus spoke the robbers, and William knew well.

 

“My last wish is defeated,” cried William. ‘Well,
let it be so.” ‘

And he flung the paper to the winds. =

The gale catching it, carried it far away.

<o robbers despaired of finding it—at least at
night.

“Hang him at once!” was now the cry.

They surrounded him, uttering fierce cries, and
making wild gestures.

One of them had, meanwhile, procured a rope,
which he now secured about William’s neck.

The other end of the rope was then thrown over
a high branch of the tree, to be seized by several of
the band.

“Haul!” shouted the leader.

The men hauled, and William swung from the tree.

At the same moment, a strange rumbling noise was
heard, a meteor-like flash was seen.

“An earthquake!” shouted the outlaws, in chorus.

The mountain rocked and swayed. The outlaws
rushed from the spot, to seek refugein the lower

| land, where there was not so much danger.

The shocks of the earthquake lasted a full hour.
Rocks were dislodged and went rolling along with
the din of thunder, crashing through the shrubbery
and into the gurgling waters far below, while many
trees were torn up from their roots, to be sent trem-
bling down.

In the morning Bernard, who, undisturbed by the
shocks, had remained all night in his hut, rose to de-
part for the town. Ruin greeted his sight on every
hand. Finally he caught sight of a paper fast toa
twig. He seized it and perused its contents, which
were as follows:

“DEAREST BERNARD :—He who followed you to sea
as William Marvel was none other than Selina Hath-
away. She meant not what she said on that night
when she refused you, for she really loved you as her
life. She meant to let you know who she was before
the end of the voyage, but an event has happened to
prevent her. She has died to save you! Long before
these lines reach 7m her spirit shall have fled. The
mountaineers will have hung her on one of their
trees. SELINA HATHAWAY.”

Bernard’s astonishment may be imagined. He
rushed wildly up the mountain in search of the re-
mains of his lost Selina. He found her, but not dead.
The earthquake had uprooted the tree to which she
was hung, in time to save her life. The false beard
was plucked from her face, the dark stain rubbed
from her skin.

Bernard recognized now the well-known features
of Selina.

The sequel may be

They age reached the schooner, and Bernard at
once sailed for home, never again to doubt the love
oa of his well-tried Selina, who soon became

is bride.

uessed.

——__ > 9+ —____

Items of Interest,

A Scotland Yard detective chanced to get into the
compartment of a railroad car with a minister. The de-
tective was in pursuit of a criminal who had gone by a
previous train. He soon began to study the photograph
of the fugitive. This attracted the attention of the min-
ister, who presently observed, “You have, perchance,
lost a. dear friend?’ “Dear? yes, very dear indeed,” an-
swered the detective. “Take comfort, brother: he has
but gone before,” continued the holy man, who wasjnot a
little shocked when he got forareply: ‘Yes, curse him,
and got three hours’ start of me, but I’ll follow him, if it’s
to Hades.” ;

A couple of singing mice are the pets of J. F. Chel-
ton, of Woods Cross Roads, Va. He is the captain of the —
schooner Anna Loyd, and the first mouse was captured
three months ago in the cabin of his vessel while off
Gloucester Point, Va. The little fellow was caged, and
he sang merrily at all hours, his notes being somewhat
like the subdued trill of acanary bird. A few days ago
another musical mouse was caught in the cabin by Cap-
tain Chelton, and is now the companion of the one pre-
viously captured. They keep up a lively concert at all
hours of the day and night.

Quite a surprise came to Sam Cobb, of Madison,
Fla. He found a wild turkey’s nest, and in it were sev-
eraleggs. He took them out, and as he was not to go
home for several hours, he wrapped them in his coat and
laid it on the bank of a creek where he was fishing. He
was surprised shortly afterward to hear the chirp of a
young turkey. He investigated and found that one of the
eggs had given forth a turkey; soon another followed,
and so on until he had quite a brood in his coat. They
were carried home, but all soon after died.

A baited hook and line disappeared from the boat
used the other night by a fisherman in Preston, Conn,
After an unsuccessful search the next"morning, he start-
ed for his work in Norwich. In crossing the lofty She-
tucket bridge he saw a fish line stretching across that
structure, which he traced into Mr. Burke’s store. In_
that shop was his family cat, evidently in great fright,
and the fish-line terminated inside of her. Since it was
impossible to get the big hook out of her, and she was
wild with pain, the cat was killed.

When you are ready to put away furs and woolens,
and want to guard against the depredations of moths,
pack them securely in paper flour sacks and tie the latter
up well. This is better than camphor, or tobacco, or
snuff scattered among them in chests or drawers. Before
putting your muffs away for the summer, twirl them by
the cords at the ends, so that every hair will be straight.
Put them in their boxes, and paste a strip of paper where
the lid fits on. :

A couple of hogs, belonging to George P. Craig, of
Gwinnett, Ga., are very fond of fresh milk—so fond of it
that they take it surreptitiously from a cow, as if they
were calves. Mr. Craig had noticed that his cows were
falling short of milk for several weeks, and upon exam-
ination, he found that two roguish hogs had been imbib-
ing the milk of the cows, both remaining in the same lot
together at night.

Ifa piece of dyed cloth is damped and rubbed on
elean white paper,the absence of any stain shows that
the dye is a “fast” color. Another test is to lay the cloth
between two sheets of paper and iron it. There should be
no marks in this case either. Again, if the cloth is cov-
ered with a perforated sheet of thick paper, and exposed
for some hours to direct sunlight, the color of the exposed
parts should not fade.

The Japanese do most of their washing, when
streains are convenient, by getting into a boat and letting
the garments drag after the boat by along string. It is
an economical habit of traveling Japs to get a large
amount of washing thus accomplished by a steamboat ex-
cursion, and has given rise to the story that once a year
they travel to wash.

A live frog was found, not long since, imbedded in
the center of a fourteen-inch stick of timber, at the Omaha
Mine, near Grass Valley, Cal. The timber was. sound,
with no opening whatever in it, and the frog only came
to view when a saw revealed its habitation. sd

A thermometer valued at $10,000, and perhaps the
most expensive one in the world, is in use at the Johns
Hopkins University, Baltimore. It is an absolutely per-
fect instrument, and the graduations on the glass are so
fine that it is necessary to use a microscope to read them.

Something unusual in the marriage and divorce
line recently occurred in Fresno, Cal. August Young, a
well-known merchant of that place, astounded his neigh-
bors by marrying for the third time the woman who had
twice secured a divorce from him.

As a warning to be careful in compounding or
handling poisons, a druggist in Ansonia, Conn., has his
dangerous medicines in a cabinet by themselves. When
he opens the door an electric current rings a bell, to re-
mind him that he must have his mind on his work.

The dolphin is said to be the fastest swimmer in the
seas. It has been observed to dart through the waters at
arate greater than twenty miles an hour, and it is often
seen swimming round and round a vessel that is sailing
at its highest speed.

The power of Russian gipsies to endure cold is
wonderful. They live in light canvas tents, while the
outside atmosphere is from 25 to 30 degrees below the
freezing point.

A wedding in high life is announced in Cincinnati,
where Mr. Frederick Shielfis and Mrs. Anna Parsons,
each over seven feet in height, were recently matrimo-
nially united. *

The trees which are not liable to be struck by
lightning are those whose trunks are covered with moss
or litchen. So says a German scientist who has closely
studied the subject. ‘

A new cannon just made by Krupp is forty-four
feet long, can be fired twice a minute, and throws a two-
thousand-pound shot twelve miles.

Through long practice, a colored dentist in Macon,
Ga., has become expert in drawing teeth with his fingers,
and in rapidity can excel any dentist who uses a forceps.

Vast quantities of red and yellow ochre have been
disclosed by a landslide five miles south of Drain, Oregon.

mS