Just Out, No. 4 Hand-Book Library, Containing the Charming Comedietta, “Loan of a Lover.”
Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year
Vol. 45.
Brut
1890. oy Sireer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.
Office 31 Rose St.
New York, June 14, 1890.
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No. 33.
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.
LOOK AHEAD.
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.
Youth of bright eye and smooth white brow,
So happy and exultant now,
Viewing the brilliant sky above,
Thy bosom full of faith and love—
Love on, hope on, but still reflect,
The stanchest ship is sometimes wrecked.
Clouds will obscure the brightest sky,
Fancies most prized, take wing and fly—
Weep not the past, for that is dead—
And for the future have no dread,
But look ahead!
Man of mature years, full of care,
With threads of silver in thy hair,
Fretting thyself o’er chances lost,
Thy life-bark sadly tempest-tost—
Deem not that you have lived in vain,
The chances lost may come again.
Up! up! and work! be not cast down—
The somber clouds that on thee frown
May, ere another day has fled,
Disperse, and sunshine banish dread—
So look ahead!
Decrepit pilgrim, nearly home,
Fear not the change that soon must come—
All living walk toward the grave—
God only takes the life He gave.
Let thy thoughts dwell on things above
And rest content, for “God is Love.”
Then youth, strong man, or pilgrim gray,
Remember, while ye toil to-day,
The earth at last must be thy bed,
Strive not for dross—’tis best instead
To look ahead.
——_—__» @ <4
This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.
Lady Roslyn Pensioner,
By Mrs. HARRIET LEWIS,
“The House of
“The
Heiress of Egremont,” etc.
Author of “A Life at Stake,”
Secrets,” “‘The False Heir,”
CHAPTER Il.
THE BRIDE AND THE STRANGER.
“They met, they gazed, twas but a glance, and yet
It uttered more than all her words could tell.”
All was joy at Roslyn Manor.
The grand old mansion had put ona gala aspect;
the windows were flung wide open to catch the soft
June breeze that fluttered in through curtains of
costly lace; the newly upholstered drawing-rooms
were decorated profusely with lovely flowers, full of
rare and delicate fragrance; the entrance door was
opened to its fullest extent, admitting the slanting
beams of the afternoon sun upon the tessellated floor
of the great hall; and, finally, all the servants of the
mansion were gathered in holiday array, the women
lining one side of the corridor, headed by the stout
and elderly housekeeper, and the men being ranged |
opposite to them, under the charge of the portly and |
self-important butler, who had grown gray in the
service of the lords of Roslyn.
Under the trees on the lawn were scattered groups
of tenantry, all in gala attire, who alternately gazed
admiringly upon the festive preparations, and anxi-
ously toward the road, showing plainly that an im-
portant arrival was expected.
The Earl of Roslyn was coming home.
It was no ordinary home-coming that the tenantry
—farmers, cotters, and villagers—had met to witness.
It was no ordinary occasion that had called forth all
this floral display, all these manifestations of joy.
The earl was bringing home a bride.
That very morning, at St. George’s, in London, his
lordship had been married to the Lady Adine Say-
ton, an orphan, an heiress, and a belle, and the bridal
yair were momentarily expected at the manor, they
bavine arranged to spend the honey-moon at the
earl’s ancestral home.
Rumors of the bride’s beauty had gained active cir-
culation in the little village of Roslyn, and eo
tions were rife as to the color of her hair and eyes,
the extent of her noble fortune, and the probability
of her being contented to remain six or eight months
of the year at the manor, as his lordship had always
done.
In the midst of these speculations, the bells of the
village church suddenly rang out a merry chime.
In an instant the busy hum of voices within the
dwelling and upon the lawn had ceased, and a breath-
less expectation prevailed.
The joy-bells continued to ring out their music upon
the sweet June air, the signal that the bridal party
had arrived at the Roslyn station, and would soon
make its appearance at the manor
But a few minutes had elapsed when the great
gates were opened wide, and a horseman dashed in-
to the avenue, and rode rapidly toward the dwelling.
He was the avant courier of the earl and countess.
His progress was so swift that his features were
almost undistinguishable to the lookers-on, but it
was easy to see that his attire was of the most gen-
tlemanly description, and that he was decidedly ele-
gant in appearance.
The stout miller from the village was .leaning
against a larch tree, and looking after the horseman,
when a hand was laid on his arm, and a voice in-
quired :
“Who -was that young gentleman, if I may ask?”
The miller stared a moment at the questioner, then
responded :
‘“Heis the Honorable Vayle Malvern, the earl’s
relative and heir to the titles and estates, if the earl
should have no son. I see you are a stranger here,
sir——”
But the stranger had stepped back on receiving the
answer to his question, and was already lost in the
crowd.
A few minutes more elapsed; then the family car-
riage, attended by outriders, was seen approaching,
and the visitors pressed closer to the drive to catch a
better view of the bride.
The carriage paused aninstant at the lodge, and
then turned into the avenue, moving but slowly, as
if to gratify the desires of the tenantry, and the oc-
eupants of the vehicle were shown to excellent ad-
vantage.
They were but two in number—the bride and bride-
groom,
The bride occupied one seat in the open barouche,
and her husband sat opposite to her,
They were both of striking appearance.
The bride was evidently tall and straight as an
arrow. She was apparently about three-and-twenty,
qvte
and her complexion had the freshness and delicacy
| of early youth. A faint bloom tinged her clear cheeks,
| and a wealth of color giowed in her red lips, and in |
her dark eyes nestling under golden lashes. Her hair
was of a rare hue—a pure pale gold—and was
smoothed away from her wide forehead, disappear-
ing under the brim of her dainty bridal bonnet. She
might have been a Saxon queen, for her haughty air |
| of self-possession and entrenched pride would have
well become one.
dark.
been of goodly stature—and he had
half-gloomy air. If his wife had the look of a true
Saxon, he resembled rather a Moor. He was a proud,
handsome man, of thirty years, with a kind heart, it
——
LADY ROSLYN STEPPED BACK WITH A SUPPRESSED SHRIEK, AND A LOOK OF UNCONTROLLABLE HORROR.
with the newly made countess, and pitying her ap-
parent fatigue.
The door had scarcely closed behind her, when the
bride flew to one of the windows and looked down
upon the groups of visitors with an eager, apprehen-
Slve gaze.
For some moments she looked in vain, but at length
she was rewarded by seeing a solitary figure making
its way from the scene—the figure of the stranger,
| the sight. of whom had so terrified her.
The bridegroom, on the contrary was bronzed in |
complexion, and his eyes and hair were intensely
He, too, looked tall—the Roslyns had always |
a reserved, |
| my path again.”
was said by his retainers; but he was known to be |}
quick in his temper and passionate in his feelings.
His lordship bowed to the miller aud his dame, the
blacksmith, the landlord of the Roslyn Arms, etc.,
ete., and the countess graciously inclined her head to
one and all, like a queen saluting her welcoming
vassals.
In this manner they passed up the avenue to the
grand portico of the dwelling.
Here the carriage stopped and the earl sprang out,
offering his hand fo assist his bride to alight.
She had placed one white-gloved hand in his, and
had half-arisen from her cushions, when a
ery escaped her lips—a cry of unmistakable terror.
Leaning against the marble steps, she had observed
the stranger who had so recently addressed the
| miller.
The sight of this stranger drove the flush from her
cheeks and lips, and brought a sudden look of horror
into her eyes.
“What is it, Adine?”’ inquired the earl, anxiously,
his gaze following her own.
“Tt’s nothing,’ she gasped; ‘“I—I am ill!”
She clutched her husband’s hand, and her startled
look remained fixed upon the man whose presence so
alarmed her.
The latter regarded her with a careless smile, and
then stepped back, losing himself in the crowd of
retainers.
“This must be something more than meré faint-
“Thank Heaven, he is going!” she said, with a sigh
of relief, asif a frightful burden had been lifted from
her heart. ‘‘He would not dare to molest me. How
frightened I was! Ido not believe he will ever cross
At this conclusion, she recovered her courage, and
seemed again her calm, haughty self.
She watched the retreating figure until
| passed out at the lodge gates, and then she turned
| her attention to the apartments that had been pre-
sudden |
| walls; the lace window drapery was looped up with |
|
|
|
|
|
ness,” declared the young husband, puzzled by his |
bride’s conduct, and not having detected its cause.
“Let me carry you——”
‘No, Eustace,’ interrupted the countess, strug-
gling to regain her self-possession. “It was but a
momentary spasm. I have been over-excited. I am
better now.”
With a strong effort, she brought back the color to
her lips and forced a smile, accepting his assistance.
Her step was unsteady as, leaning upon his arm,
she traversed the portico and entered the wide hall.
She was vaguely conscious of being introduced to
the assembled servants as their mistress, of being
greeted with cheers, and of having the keys of the
mansion presented to her in a pretty little basket by
the housekeeper; but she scarcely realized her sur-
roundings until she had been for some minutes in the
drawing-room.
“You really look ill, Adine,” said the earl, watching
her varying bloom, and noticing the strange, horri-
fied look in her eyes. ‘“‘Would you not like to retire
to your rooms?”
The countess signified assent.
The housekeeper was summoned to show the count-
ess to her apartments, and under her guidance she
was conducted to a suite of rooms upon the same
floor with the drawing-room.
“These are your rooms, my lady,” said the woman,
with pardonable pride. ‘This wing was built for the
late countess, my lord's mother, and it has been
newly furnished for your ladyship. It is all my lord’s
taste, and his rooms are just beyond. His dressing-
room adjoins your ladyship’s.’’
“Tt is very pretty,’ said the countess, wearily, and
in a manner that put an end to her attendant’s
loquacity. ‘I will see you again by and by, but I
would like to rest now,”
The housekeeper immediately withdrew, delighted
pared for her reception.
They were three in number.
The room into which
the boudoir, and was peculiarly appropriate for a
bride. The principal colors were white and gold,
which, together, had a remarkably beautiful effect. |
The carpet was white, with tangled vines creeping |
over it, studded with
wood
the
golden blossoms; the satin-
furniture was cushioned with gold brocade;
pictures, framed in gilt, hung against white
slender chains of gold; and the books even that filled
the exquisitely carved book-case were bound in white
morocco and lettered in gilt upon their backs.
Each article was but a part of the unique whole,
not a detail, however small, having been neglected.
“The earl has very good taste,”
countess, approvingly.
The bedroom opened from the boudoir, and was a
large, handsome chamber, luxuriously furnished.
There was a soft, roseate flush over everything in
this room, making it seem as if touched by the glow-
ing sunset.
The dressing-room adjoined it, and the latter apart-
ment was fitted up with long mirrors, paneled in the
walls, pier, and swinging glasses, marble-topped
tables, etc., upon which ‘were arranged dressing-
sases, scent-bottles, jewel-boxes, and all the appur-
tenances deemed necessary to perfect a modern
toilet.
The door of her bath-room stood ajar, and looked
like a retreat fit for an Undine, with a marble bath,
shaped like a swan, a mosaic floor, and a splendid
leopard’s skin rug.
Pursuing her investigations, the countess opened a
door at one side of her dressing-room, and discov-
ered that it communicated with her husband’s room.
She immediately closed it again.
The handsome armoires, the doors of which were
mirrors, were already filled with her clothing, which
had been sent on with her maid, and her ladyship |
rang for her to assist her at her toilet.
The summons was instantly obeyed, and a change
of costume commenced. It might have been noticed
that, for a bride, the countess exhibited singular in-
difference as to her dress. but the French maid made
up in zeal what her mistress lacked in interest, and
her ladyship was soon becomingly attired.
The bride had scarcely returned to
when the earl joined her there, and gave her his arm
to escort her back to the drawing-room, inquiring if
she were recovered from her indisposition.
She answered in the affirmative, and silence then
ensued.
As they entered the long and wide saloon, and the
earl beheld the reflection of his bride in along mir-
ror, he could not avoid bestowing upon it a look of
admiration. The countess was looking exceedingly
beautiful.
Her soft, golden hair was gathered into a knot at
the back of her classic head, and from this knot sev-
eral curls escaped, and lay against her milk-white
throat, or fell carelessly upon her neck. Her proud,
calm face looked as though sculptured from marble,
but the mouth was like a curved line of scarlet, and
it had |
she had been ushered was |
murmured the |
her boudoir |
ST
RY FOR LOVE”
} her eyes under their thick, gold-hued lashes were of |
a dark gray, of a peculiarly lovely hue.
| Her robe was a peach-colored moire, and flowed
| behind her in a magnificent train, which added to the
queenly effect of her tall and slender figure.
No wonder that the bridegroom looked admiringly
| upon this unequaled picture.
| But it was strange and wonderful that his admira-
| tion was apparently that of a lover of the beautiful, |
| and not that of the adoring husband, the worshiping |
i
| lover.
| He escorted her to an arm-chair, and then seated
| himself at alittle distance from her, regarding her
earnestly.
“You are at home now, Adine,”
| you will be happy here.”
“T dare say I shall be, Eustace,’ she answered,
rather indifferently.
} are very handsome.
think.”
The earl acknowledged the compliment by a bow,
and became thoughtful.
The bride suffered her careless glance to stray
| about,the room, and seemed pleased with it, but she
| did not express her pleasure in words.
“Where is Mr. Malvern?’ she asked, after a pause.
“In his room, I think; or, possibly, about. the
| grounds. You will find in Vayle a very good friend,
| Adine; one who will delight to attend upon you at
any time when I may be engaged, and who will be
delighted to promote your happiness.”
‘‘He will remain here, then?”
“Yes; he is, unfortunately for him, somewhat de-
{pendent upon me, and he likes to reside at the
| manor.”
The countess looked grave at the prospect of Mr.
Malvern’s stay at Roslyn, but her gravity gave place
| to an expresssion of pleasure, and she said:
“T am not sorry he will stay, Eustace. It would be
| fearfully dull with only you and me here.”
“Tam glad you are pleased,” responded the earl,
not at all hurt at the frank declaration of his bride.
“T should like, Adine, to have a complete understand-
ing with you 4
“Not now, Eustace,” she said, nervously, fearing
some allusion to her recent agitation. ‘‘Wait until
evening. I want to get acquainted with my future
home.”
“Excuse me, Adine. If you are sufficiently well, I
shall take pleasure in showing you through the house
now.”
The countess declared herself quite well, and ac-
cepted his offer.
“My favorite retreat is in my study, opening from
the library,” he said, courteously, giving her his arm.
“T never allow visitors there, but you will be, of
course, an exception. I shall always be happy to
welcome you there.”
While speaking, he conducted her across the cor-
ridor to the library, a magnificent vaulted room, with
embayed windows, and walls covered with books,
surmounted by busts and pictures. It had a ‘‘dim
sathedral” aspect, and was a fit temple in which to
commune with the greatest minds of all ages.
Opening the door at the end of this room, the earl
| ushered his bride into his study—a sunny little re-
| treat, fitted up with every luxury that could be de-
| sired by a refined and educated gentleman. The
statuettes and paintings would not have been out of
| place in a lady’s boudoir; and the }ooks, maps,
atlases, and charts that filled the cases and littered
ithe tables, were indicative of strongly masculine
| tastes.
“Your ‘favorite retreat’ is well chosen, Eustace,”
| said the young bride, going to the oriel window and
| gazing out into the park. ‘‘I dare say I shall fre-
quently visit you here.”
Her husband bowed. and proceeded to show her
his cabinet of curiosities, his favorite engravings and
| books, and then conducted her to the other rooms
upon the floor and afterward up several flights of
stairs to the top of the house.
Here a small chamber of glass had been erected,
| for the purposes of an observatory, and they entered
he said. “TI hope
You have excellent taste, I
“T like Roslyn, and my rooms : : :
kG: SOS) , : | to lose her and his prospect of succession at one and
it, seating themselves upon alow couch, and surveyed
the estate of Roslyn.
It all lay spread out before them—gardens and
park, wood and plantation, farms and cottages, and
the village of Roslyn, the larger part of which was
owned by the earl.
The charms of water were not wanting to the scene,
for a beautiful artificial lake lay like a great pearl in
the bosom of the park, and a light and tiny barge,
eo with a gay awning, was drawn up uponits
shore.
‘How beautiful!” said the countess, looking upon
this charming scene, bathed in the glory of the dying
sunset.
*T think it beautiful,” responded the earl, looking,
with a kindling eye, upon his ancestral acres. ‘Nine
Earls of Roslyn have lived here, Adine, and I am the
tenth. They all have been brave, honorable, and
happy. I wonderif my life will be as tranquil as
theirs.”’
His voice died to a sad undertone, showing plainly
that, with all his wealth and grandeur, with even his
lovely new-made bride, he was not happy.
The Lady Adine sighed, but made no response.
For some moments the bridal pair gazed in silence
upon the scene, and then they quitted the observ-
atory and made their way down stairs.
There remained the conservatory to exhibit, and
his lordship conducted his bride there, and seemed
pleased with her delight at the floral world to which
he introduced her.
It was arranged to represent a tropical scene, and
| there were stately palms growing as handsomely as
in their native land; there
vas Spanish moss hang-
ing from thieck-branched slender tropical trees ; there
were the parasites of Brazil festooning themselves
wantonly from tree to tree, and dropping in the air
| flowers that looked like living coals, and beside these
| there were the usual hot-house favorites in magnif-
icent abundance.
In this wilderness of beauty and fragrance the
young couple lingered until dinner was announced.
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE COMPACT.
The dinner was over, and the bridal pair had re-
turned to the drawing-room. Both looked somewhat
grave, and the countess had a shrinking fear of a teée-
a-tele with her young husband. To avert this as long
as possible, she seated herself at the grand piano,
and ran over the keys, evoking strange, sweet trills
and waves of harmony, which seemed to soothe the
slightly perturbed spirits of the earl. She was a fine
musician, and in listening to the music she produced,
and in watching the graceful motions of her slender
hands, and her strangely lovely countenance, her
bridegroom could not but congratulate himself that
he had secured the prize for which so many high-born
lovers had sued in vain.
He was thinking thus when his relative, Vayle
Malvern, entered the room.
At sight of him the bride quitted the piano, satisfied
that the dreadful interview was for the present
averted, and she exerted herself to introduce a pleas-
ant topic of conversation.
In this she was seconded by Malvern.
Vayle Malvern was younger than the earl, and did
not at all resemble the Roslyns. His complexion
was florid, his hair and whiskers of a sandy hue, and
his eyes of a pale blue. He was not only un-
prepossessing in appearance, but he was vacillating
in temper, revengeful in disposition, and capable of
devoting himself body and soul to a fixed and cher-
ished purpose.
He was the possessor of a Small income, which was
made to do the duty of a large one, as he had always
a home with the earl, who regarded him with consid-
erable affection.
For years he had accustomed himself to look for-
ward to the time when he should be lord of Roslyn,
and the earl’s marriage had been a shock to him—a
shock from which he had not entirely recovered. His
hopes of succeeding his relative, who was but a
young man, were founded upon a disappointment in
a love affair that had occurred to his lordship three
or four years previous to the opening of our story.
This disappointment had made his lordship cynieal,
and at one time he had expressed aresolve never to
marry—a resolve upon which Vayle Malvern had
founded many magnificent dreams.
There was another reason why Malvern
pleased with Lord Roslyn’s marriage.
He had been one of the moths that had fluttered
about the lovely Lady Adine Sayton. He had
loved her as he had never before loved a human being,
and he had told her so, asking her to become his wife.
It was true that he was not wealthy, but she had a
magnificent fortune, quite ample for both, and he
was well-born, and was the heir to the earldom of
Roslyn. But his suit had met with prompt rejection
from the beautiful belle, and he had been obliged to
smother the passion that filled his heart.
To lose her, then, was bitter enough, but to see her
married to the earl, whom he had hoped to succeed,
vas not
the same time, was a blow
searcely recover.
His self-interest was stronger than his love, and
when he stepped upto the altar to offer his con-
gratulations to the bride and bridegroom, his pas-
sion had changed into a blind, unreasoning hatred
of the being who had refused his hand, and had come
between him and the honors of which he had so long
dreamed.
Yet so well did he play his part that the earl did
not even know that he had once been numbered
among the Lady Adine’s suitors. The maiden had
too much delicacy to express the fact even to her
betrothed, and Malvern had relied upon her reti-
cence.
The countess felt no embarrassment in his pres-
ence, even upon her bridal evening. She had dis-
missed from her mind his pretensions to her hand,
and now looked upon him only as her husband's rela-
tive.
The conversation was not permitted to flag during
the evening, tea and supper happening at intervals
when a diversion was needed; but after the latter
repast Malvern excused himself, and the young
couple were left to themselves.
The opportunity for the understanding had at last
arrived.
The bride seated herself a little in the shade, and
played with her fan, while the bridegroom walked to
and fro, struggling with an agitation he could not
conceal.
“Adine,” he said, after a brief silence which he
spent in self-communion, ‘I fear that I have wronged
you. If I have done so, it was entirely unintentional.
Let us understand each other. Ido not wish you to
begin your wedded life under dreams and illusions
that must inevitably fade and leave you miserable.
It is best to speak frankly at the outset, is it not?”
“Certainly,” and the bride looked half surprised.
“Well, then, to approach the point at once, we did
not marry for love!”
‘No; we did not marry for love !”
The earl looked relieved, glanced at the cold, calm
face of the countess, and resumed :
“When I asked you to become my wife, Adine, I
never spoke one word of love. I simply made a
straightforward proposition, and you replied as
simply. I never made any inquiry into the state of
your affections. It was enough for me that you had
promised to become my wife. But it has occurred to
me since that I have wronged you in not loving you,
as you have perhaps expected.”
“T am not blind, Eustace,” responded the bride. “I
did not expect your love.”’
“But do you love me, Adine ?”
It was a strange question fora bridegroom but a
few hours wedded to the lady of his choice.
“No, I do not love you, Eustace,” she answered, in-
differently.
The earl looked pleased and yet dissatisfied. It was
not altogether gratifying to learn that he had no
place in the heart of this radiant, queenly woman,
even if he did not love her in return.
“Tt is well,” he said, gravely. ‘Since you do not
love me, I shall not be forced to affect sentiments I
do not feel. I have heard a rumor since our engage-
from which he could
OF ALL NEWS DEALERS
°
— _ - ’ " 7 —
«
=> ¢--
Ir aman be of a patient and contented spirit,
moderate in his desires, temperate in his appetites
diligent and faithful in his labors, affectionate an
generous in his disposition, calm and self-possessed
interested in good objects for their own sake, an
glad to aid them by his own efforts, he possesses
more of the materials of happiness than many a one
with double his external advantages. It is life in its
best sense which makes us happy, and happiness, in
its turn, nourishes life.
THEy who will abandon a friend for one error
know but little of the human character, and prove
cant hearts are as cold as their judgments are
weak. :
A PRPS NESS PPPS
NEW YORK, JUNE 14, 1890,
ew
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The Difference Between Single and Married Meu,
BY KATE THORN.
It seems a very little thing to stand up for ten
minutes before a clergymen, and say over after him
“T will” a few times, and after that to be kissed and
congratulated by a score of people you have hardly
seen before that time, and who will ever after re-
main in your memory collectively as her relations.
Marriage, we are told, is a civil contract, like a
great many other kinds of contracts; but it will
work more change in a man than three conversions,
two vaccinations, arun of la grippe, a railway acci-
dent, and two bankruptcies.
The married man can never again become the
single man. His wife may die, or get divorced, or
elope with another man, but her husband can never
go back to the virgin state of single blessedness, and
he knows it, though he tries his best to compass it.
A married man always carries his condition with
him, like a trade-mark. Anybody of average dis-
cernment can detect him at a glance.
He does not pinch his toes with tight boots. He
does not scent himself with violets. He never parts
his hair in the middle. He keeps his seat in the
horse-car when the pretty girl, laden with bundles,
comes in. He knows that his wife wouldn’t approve
of his rising. He does not get up flirtations with the
good-looking saleswoman where he buys his gloves;
he remembers that little birds are flying all around
telling tales, and he has a horror of curtain-lectures ;
somehow, married men never seem to arrive at that
state of beatitude where they do appreciate the kind
of literary performance known as curtain-lectures.
The married man has come to that stage when he
is convinced that the way his necktie hangs may not
be any more important than his soul’s salvation. He
knows for a certainty that true happiness does not
depend on the amount of starch in his shirt-bosom,
but he will have to have been at least three times
wedded before he will be able to be reconciled to a
collar-band two sizes small, or one size large. The
man who can smile at fate when it swoops down
upon him in the shape of an ill-fitting collar-band, is
nearly ready for canonization.
The married man goes to sleep in church. He is
placid when somebody’s baby cries at the play. He
carries bundles with meekness. He knows the prices
of sugar and round steak. He knows that bustles are
oing out of fashion. He can distinguish between
alse “crimps” and those which grow on the head.
He knows that women put their hair in papers.
Powder is no longer a mystery to him. He can de-
tect it on the faces of his female friends, and helooks
out that it does not get on his coat, because his wife
can detect it too. ,
He is not distracted if she smiles on other men, as
he once was. He can read the paper a whole even-
ing, and never thinks of squeezing her hand. He is
sleepy by nine o’clock. Before they were married he
could sit up with her till day-dawn, and never dream
of such a thing as sleep. He no longer loves her cat
and dog. He frequently says that he wishes cats had
been left out of the scheme of creation. He has been
known to kick the unoffending animal. He has little
sympathy for wifely headaches. Once he was on the
verge of lunacy over any of her little ailments; now
he is a great deal more concerned as to what he is
likely to have for dinner. He doesn’t spend any
money on flowers. He lays it out in cigars instead.
He is no longer acting with a purpose in view—he
has married her, and he is himself once more. Justa
man, and not an ideal, romantic, sonnet-writing
lover.
Ahd what about the single man ?
Just imagine him everything that the married man
is not, and a great deal more, and you will not come
far short of the mark.
ODD OR EVEN?
BY HARKLEY HARKER.
“Odd or even?” shouted my youngest little daugh.
er to me yesterday.
She stood holding something in her small palm, in
the old-fashioned way that I once knew all about,
but had not thought of for a long time.
“So, then,” I answered, ‘“‘you’ve come to that game
in turn, have you? You little creatures have to learn
all the games in order, as you catch the measles, and
hooping-cough, and mumps. Even, my child. Every-
thing in this world is even.”
Sure enough—it was four small marbles. But she
wanted to know how I knew. I repeated, ‘‘Every-
thing is even in this world,’ which she could not un-
derstand. She asserted that she might have had one
marble hidden in her clutch, which surely would
have been odd that time. ‘
Still, I stick to my assertion. There is a west for
the east, an up for a down, aright hand for a left, a
good for a bad, a pleasure for a pain; sweet is linked
with sour in your mind—that is, if you think sweet,
you can also think the other thing, sour. If you are
sick abed you do not have to work. If you lose one
thing you gain some other thing. If you are poor,
you do not have to pay fat taxes. If you are igno-
rant, you do not have to teach a simpleton. If you
are wise, you do not burn your fingers. Things are
in pairs. Everything is a part of some other thing,
and is uneasy or incomplete till it gets itself joined
to that other thing. One lie belongs to another lie,
and will never rest till it getsit. One fraud has a
mate; it will search and seek till it findsit. Chil-
dren say, ‘If you kill one snake, look for another.
Snakes all go in pairs.’”’ He who cheats his neighbor
will get cheated ; the mate will come the other way
to find its mate, just as after the wind has been blow-
ing north it must blow south, to even up things. A
hot spell is followed by rain. A rainy spell is a part
of the clear weather on the other side of the moun-
tain. Opposites balance. Thatis nature.
We say, “That house cost me $:0,000.” Exactly.
You had one thing, the price; you wanted its mate,
the house. You pay one half for the other half. You
now have the house half; your seller has the money
half. No one man can have the whole. Part is mine,
and part is yours. To have the whole, you and I
must beone. Say wife and I, my friend and I—yes,
my neighbor and I. It is impossible to permanently
cheat. Things refuse to be put wrong and_ kept
wrong long. Set a pail of water down suddenly.
Wavelets slop over; but the water tends to grow
level, calm. So does the sea. So does human for-
tune. You are an employee; your old schoolmate is
our employer. It seems things are odd, and your lot
s hard.
But stop to think. If you do not sit in the office
you do not have to pay the help. Your arms ache at
night; your employer’s head aches. You are ordered
about by the overseer; your employer is ordered
about by the bank. You make the money; he spends
it, which is harder; for if you make little, he is
short; if you make much, he is tempted. But, little
or much, you have your daily bread. Things are
about even. You have your place to keep, in the
shop. He has his place to keep, in the market.
Llike to watch thislaw. My wife bought Toma
cheap pair of boots. The cheap boots wore out
quickly. I doa cheap job for small pay. The cheap
work costs the other man the difference, and me, too,
®
“THE NEW YORK
WEEKLY.
tain thing well; I hurry itin a half-hour that I may
go out to play lawn-tennis; very well, I have to put
in that other half-hour, sooner or later, patching up
my hurried job. Things refuse to be neglected. If I
am too busy to feed my horse, the horse shows it. If
I eat too much at dinner because I liked the pudding,
I want no supper, and am dull the next day. If I go
without my lunch, to make a dollar, I must pay the
cole to the doctor for pills to ease indigestion at
night. ,
“The devil is an ass,” said a great philosopher, to
whom I am indebted for many a hint. One never
makes anything by acrime. Crime has a mate; its
name is punishment. Daniel Webster said the mur-
derer must confess, that there was no escape but
suicide, and suicide was confession. A guilty man
is never at ease till he has been punished. When he
has been punished he gives asigh of relief. ‘*‘There,
now I’m even again with the world.”” The gambler’s
money comes easy, goes easy. Every stolen penny
runs off to find its mate. Lottery tickets are in
pairs; buy one and lose, you buy again to win; buy
one and win, you buy another to lose. Strike your
neighbor in anger; he strikes back to beeven. Say
a hot word in anger; if your friend does not reply,
but goes off grieved, being a good man, then you
reply to yourself when you are alone, and say, ‘TI
called him a fool. Iam the fool.” And you never
feel right till you have said this to yourself.
Night and day make one. Do a mean thing in the
dark, it comes to the light. Doa good thing in the
light, it fades in darkness—that is, it is forgotten.
The Holy Book says, ‘‘There is nothing hid but shall
be made known.” I borrow a dollar, asking my
friend to “keep it confidential.” I hear of it next
month. If 1do not hear of it at the club, my friend
comes to tell me, and I must pay it back. o man
ever got along without returning favors. I get a
railroad pass, apparently a clear saving of five dol-
lars. Next month the superintendent’s son wants to
borrow my buggy and breaks a wheel; it costs five
dollars, if not more. Favors are expensive. Gifts?
There are none—except the love of a mother and the
blessing of God.
NED, OF COM DHUV.
BY KATE LUBY.
At the termination of the Gap of Dunloe stands the
beautiful Black Valley, or Com Dhuv Glen, than
which, in the whole range of Killarney scenery, no
finer views are presented.
Here, in a modest little cabin, Ned Roche lived
with his aged and widowed mother, Their whole
wealth consisted of one cow and several goats; yet,
although Ned was but fifteen years old, he did not
suffer his mother to want for anything. He was an
early riser, and found liberal customers for his milk
in the tourists starting from Lord Brandon’s cottage
to visit the Upper Lake. A true lover of nature, he
was kind and friendly to the animals of his native
mountains, and the leaves whispering in the wind
made a melody for him almost equal to that of the
sweet songsters on the trees. Poor Ned thought
sometimes thatthe birds sang their songs for him,
that the dew-drops glittered like diamonds on the
grass, and that the flowers bent their heads to salute
him, scattering sweet, odors around his path. Ned
would have been happy but for one thing; he had
been at school while his father lived, but at his
death existence became such a struggle that his poor
mother required all his time.
“A little learning” became a “dangerous thing” to
the boy, and he sighed for deeper draughts, as does
the rose, inclosed in asunless bower, pining for re-
freshing showers.
“You wouldn’t be afther seein’ a purty dooney
dawney little bit av a goat, with a white head on her,
an’ a dirty tail?’ asked a simple-looking boy, called
the “Omadhaun,” of Ned, as he was minding his own
goats.
“The never 0’ wan o’ me did, now,” replied Ned,
sorrowfully. .
“Oh! Murther, it’s kilt ’'ll be if I can’t find the
vagabond!” cried the poor boy, as he ran on in quest
of the missing goat.
Arriving at the purple-clad mountain, Ned fancied
he heard the faint lamentations of a goat, issuing
from one of the crevices in the rocks. These rocks,
which form the broken side of the purple mountain,
rise from the valley to the height of eleven hundred
feet, and are extremely dangerous of ascent.
Touched with compassion for the poor animal, Ned
clambered up, with great risk to his life, and soon
extricated the little lost goat, carrying her home to
the “Omadhaun,”’ who was nowhere to be found.
Some passengers on Bianconi’s traveling-car, de-
clared that they had seen him running like a hare on
the road to Cork, where he would doubtless ae
that night—to escape being “kilt” by his enrage
mother.
The poor woman tore her hair, and uttered a thou-
sand lamentations in Irish. Like the mother of Cori-
olanus, she had saved the goat, but lost her son!
Some of the neighbors, pitying her, started after
the truant boy, and arrived there that night, just as
the old bells of Cork were ringing for evening service
in the churches.
The “Omadhaun,” hungry and foot-sore, crawled
along, in quest of nothing, until he arrived at Christ
Church, in South Main street. The congregation
were pouring in, the solemn tones of the organ
floated on the evening air; and, spying a beautiful
young lady, who held in her hand a richly bound
prayer-book, ornamented with a cross and gold clasp,
about to enter the church, the poor ‘‘Omadhaun,”
either attracted by her beauty or actuated by a de-
sire to expiate his sin in losing his mother’s pet goat,
followed her.
The young lady entered a pew richly carpeted with
velvet cushions and other evidences of luxury.
Kneeling outside the pew (for the poor fellow
thought the inside too good for the “likes o’ him’’),
the “Omadhaun”’ drew from his pocket a small
rosary, and devoutly began to pray, in tones un-
usually loud.
There was a suppressed titter among the congre-
gation, and the pew-opener, a kind-hearted man,
soonapproached the cause of this ill-timed mirth,
and whispered in his ear:
“Come outside, my lad ; I want to say something to
ou.’
“Oh, wirra! wirra! ’tis about me mother’s goat,
sure ’
“No, itis not,’ replied the man, unable to repress a
smnnile, as he led the terrified boy to the church gate.
“You have come to the wrong place, my boy,” said
the pew-opener; ‘“‘this is Christ Church—the Protes-
tant Christ Church.”
“Mother o’ Moses!” shouted the boy. “Do you
mane to tell me that our Saviour was a Protestant?’
The pew-opener turned into the vestry to have a
good laugh, and the ‘Omadhaun,” thinking his ser-
vices might be required there, followed him. The
Rev. Ludlow Tonson, the celebrated controversial-
ist, was inthe vestry—he was to preach that even-
ing—and being highly amused on hearing of what
had just taken place, he said, in a kind voice:
“Go home, my good boy; your friends would not
like you to come here, perhaps.”
“Oh, yer honor, I’m afeerd to go back home to the
Gap o’ Dunloe agin; my mother’d kill me for losin’
the goat!”
The “Omadhaun” had an honest face, and the Rey.
Ludlow Tonson had a kind, unsuspicious nature. He
believed the boy’s story, and putting his hand in his
pocket, he took out half a sovereign, and handing it
to the poor fellow, said: ;
“Take this, and buy your mother a goat instead of
that which you lost. If you wait outside, I will take
you to my house after service is over, give you your
supper, andsend you home in the morning in the
stage-coach.”
Tears alone expressed the gratitude of the poor
boy, who, sitting outside on the church steps, was
not left long to rest or meditate, for soon two men,
accompanied by a policeman, accosted him thus:
“Why, thin, ye disciple o’ the airth, would nothing
sarve yer turn but to come among the Sassenachs.
Ye turncoat, is it here you came to say yer prayers,
an’ yer poor ould mother going cracked on yer ac~-
count! Come home this minit, ye heretic!”
“T have money now to buy me mother a goat,” said
the ‘‘Omadhaun,” in triumph.
“Sweet bad luck to that same goat!’ cried the ex-
asperated men. ‘Sure, Ned Roche clum up a big
mountain afther her, and brought her home agin.”
“Then I must take this er o’ goold back to the
man in black in there,” said the ‘“‘Omadhaun,” rising.
“Twas the divil gev it!” shouted the men, in
horror.
“Not atall,” replied Ludlow Tonson, who had heard
the whole conversation, through an open window.
“Keep the money, my good lad, and in a few days I
am going on business to Killarney. Perhaps I may
see youagain. Good-night.”
Early the following morning, the “Omadhaun” was
back in Kerry, minding his mother’s beasts. The
half-sovereign, and promises of being more careful in
future, had reconciled mother and son. He was go-
ing on smoothly enough, until a boy coaxed him to
take a ride on a young foal, belonging to an ass that
was sent for pasture to his mother’s large field. No
sooner was he fairly mounted than the foal started at
lightning speed, carrying the almost fainting boy
several rounds, followed by the mother ass, whose
distended nostrils and open mouth proclaimed the
indignation of her soul at the rapacity of the “Oma-
dhaun” who thus dared to run away with her treas-
ured foal!
But a necromancer appeared in the person of Ned
Roche. The ass and her foal stood still at his com-
mand, and the “Omadhaun,” quitting the “wool” to
which he had clung, dismounted.
Vowing to eschew in future such dangerous pas-
times, the “Omadhaun” next went to look after the
cow and a young colt which always traveled together
ti ’
in loss of reputation. It takes an hour to do a cer-
wherever the pasture was most inviting, when a
swarm of gnats alighted on the cow’s tail, goading
her to madness. She reared and pranced, and finally
made tracks for some pore unknown, accompanied,
of course, by her faithful satellite, the colt. Away
they flew, over hedges and ditches, until the poor
“Omadhaun” realized that the cow, with the colt,
were on their way to Christ Church, Cork.
In a few hours his tears were dried, for Ned,
the humanitarian of the locality, the warrior, the
asyluin, the friend, appeared with the two panting
runaways.
“The blessing o’ all the saints in heaven attind ye,
night an’ day, late an’ airly, Ned Roche!” shouted
the grateful ‘‘Omadhaun.”
Without waiting for thanks, Ned was preparing to
do an errand for his mother. He had to go to Carran-
Tual, which presents some of the most sublime
scenery in Ireland. The numerous rills that rush
down the rugged sides of the mountains, form seve-
ral small lakes, whose dark sullen waters increase
the wild character of the scene.
Ned was thinking mournfully of his sad fate in not
being able to go to achool and get “book-learning,”
when he was startled by a sudden apparition.
A large red deer, evidently pursued by hunters,
had taken a leap of desperation from a tremendous
high ledge of rocks, and lay panting at his feet.
“Poor thing!” cried he, ‘‘you are bruised and bleed-
ing, but your life is safe with me.”
Dragging it to a sheltered place, he laid it on the
soft grass, washing its blood-stained face with water
from the brook, and binding its wounded limbs with
his handkerchief.
“The dogs will not venture such a leap after you,”
he thought, as he jumped up, just in time to see the
hounds looking over the cliff, baying and whining in
madness at their disappointment.
It was half way up the glen, and the footpath over
the rock where Ned stood was being traversed by a
gentleman on horseback. The hunters were rushing
up after the dogs, andthe noise made by the dogs
and them so terrified the horse that he shied, took
fright, and, making a frightful leap over the crags,
plunged, with his rider, into one of the gloomy lakes
beneath.
The gentleman was unseated, stunned, and had
sunk twice, when the brave Ned, offering his soul to
Heaven, flung himself into the mimic waves and
watched until the body had risen again, seized the
drowning man by the coat, and succeeded in safely
dragging him toland. The horse, unhurt, had swam
to some friendly shelter.
But the many previous exertions of the day proved
too much for poor Ned. He and the gentleman
were borne by the hunters, who had witnessed the
extraordinary courage and humanity of the boy, to
f Ree erNS cottage, and kindly nursed back to
ife.
“Thank Heaven, mother, that I see you again! I
had such a beautiful dream,” said he to the old wo-
man, “I thought I was in the O’Donoghue Castle
on the lake; thatI was surrounded with grandeur
entirely; but what Lliked best was the sight o’ fine
books, shinin’ like goold, an’, mother, dear, me able
to read ’em, in all the languages an’ strange tongues
o’ the world; to tell the names av all the beautiful
stars in the heavens. I knew aljl the healing powers
of the plants and herbs, and could make salves and
drinks to cure all the sick men an’ beasts av this
earth. ; I knew all these beautiful things, mother,
agra !’ :
“Then why worn't ye happy, alanna ?”’ she asked.
“°Twas the way I was so lonesome without you,
mother, an’ as I was trying to get wan sight o° you,
out stepped a most beautiful lady, who smiled at me,
and said:
***My son, you have basked in the sunshine of sci-
ence and wisdom. Use them to serve your fellow-
beings—for what is knowledge without humanity ?
Your heart is good, and you shall have both learning
and happiness. Moreover, you shall see your mother
again.
“The beautiful lady was as good as her word. I
awoke to find you clasping me to your heart. Glory
be to God ?”’ ‘
The gentleman whom he had rescued from a watery
grave was listening in silent admiration.
Approaching Ned, he took his hand and pressed it
affectionately.
“You have saved my life,” said he, ‘‘and your future
welfare shall be my study. You shall have all the
learning you desire, and never leave your mother,
except for a short time, to graduate in the university
of your choice. Your mother is provided for. I can
never do sufficient for you; but I will do my best. I
am the Marquis of W ,’ said he, bowing, and
smiling at poor Ned’s astonishment.
This happy finale was enlivened by the entrance of
the “Omadhaun,” who was leading Ludlow Tonson to
the convalescent-room of his friend and cousin, the
marquis.
Ludlow Tonson did not send the ‘“Omadhaun” to
college, but he never allowed him or his family to see
a@ poor day. ;
THE PEOPLE OF STAGE-LAND,
BY JEROME K. JEROME.
No. 9.-THE STAGE COMIC LOVERS,
The Comic Lovers, as we see them on the stage, are
funny. Their mission in life is to serve as a sort of
“relief’to the misery caused the audience by the
other characters in the play; and all that is wanted
now is something that will be a relief to the Comic
Lovers.
They have nothing to do with the play, but they
come on immediately after anything very sad has
happened, and make love. This is why we watch
sad scenes on the stage with such patience. We are
not eager for them to be got over. Maybe they are
very uninteresting scenes, as wellas sad ones, and
they make us yawn; but we have no desire to see
them hurried through. The longer they take the
better pleased we are; we know that when they are
finished the Comic Lovers will come on.
The Comic Lovers are always very rude to one an-
other. Everybody is more or less rude and insulting
to everybody else, on the stage; they call it repartee
there!
WE ONCE TRIED THE EFFECT
of a little stage repartee upon some people in real
life, and we wish we hadn’t afterward. It was too
subtle for them. They summoned us before a
magistrate for ‘using language calculated to cause
a breach of the peace.” We were fined ten dollars
and costs.
They are more lenient to ‘‘wit and humor” on the
stage, and know how to encourage the art of vituper-
ation. But the Comic Lovers carry the practice
almost to excess. They are more than rude, they are
abusive.
THEY INSULT EACH OTHER
from morning to night. What their married life will
be like we shudder to think.
In the various slanging matches and bullyragging
competitions, which form their courtship, it is always
the maiden that is most successful. Against her
merry flow of invective, and her girlish wealth of
offensive personalities, the insolence and abuse of
her boyish adorer cannot stand for one moment. To
give an idea of
HOW THE COMIC LOVERS WOO,
we, perhaps, cannot do better than subjoin the fol-
lowing brief example:
Scene—Main thoroughfare in a populous city.
Time—Noon. Nota soul to be seen anywhere.
Enter Comic Loveress R., walking in the middle
of the road. .
Enter Comic Lover L., also walking in the middle
of the road.
They neither see the other one, until they bump
against each other in the center.
“ He—‘‘Why, Jane! Who’d a’ thought o’ meeting you
ere!”
She—“You evidently didn’t—stoopid!’”’
He—“Hulloa! got out o° bed the wrong side again.
I say, Jane, if you go on like that you'll never get a
man to marry you.”
She—‘‘So I thought, when I engaged myself to
you.” 7
He—“Oh, come, Jane, don’t be hard.”
She—‘‘Well, one of usmust be hard. You’re soft
enough.”
He—‘‘Yes, I shouldn’t want to marry you if I
weren’t. Ha! ha! ha!”
She—‘‘Oh, you gibbering idiot (said archly).
He—“So giad I am. We shall make a capital
match” (attempts to kiss her).
She (slipping away)—‘‘Yes, and you'll find that ’m
a match that can strike (gives him a violent blow on
the side of the head).
He (holding his jaw—in a literal sense, we mean)—
“T can't help feeling smitten by her.”
She—‘‘Yes, I’m a bit of a spanker, ain’t I ?”’
He—“Spanker! JZ call you a regular stunner.
You’ve nearly made me silly.”’
She (laughing playfully)—“‘No, nature did that for
you, Joe, long ago.”
He—‘Ah, well, you’ve made me smart enough now.
You glass-eyed old cow, you!”
She—‘'Cow! am I? Ah, I suppose that’s what
makes me so fond of a calf! You German sausage
on legs! . You-—”
He—‘‘Go along. Your mother brought you up on
sour milk.”
She—‘Yah!
they ?”’
And so on, with such like badinage do they hang
about in the middle of that road, showering derision
and contumely upon each other for fully ten minutes,
They weaned you on thistles, didn’t
when, with one culminating burst of mutual abuse,
: ,
in great harmony. They all three rambled leisurely,
once more deserted.
It_ is very curious, by the way, how deserted all
public places become, whenever a stage char-
acter is about. It would seem as though ordinary
citizens sought to avoid them. We have known a
i of stage villains to have Union square, New
York, and Regent street, London, or the Sauare of St.
Mark, Venice, e1 tirely to themselves, for nearly a
quarter of an hou’ on a summer's afternoon, while
they plotted a mo: t diabolical outrage.
Should the scene of the play be in London, the hero
always chooses Trafalgar square, when he wants to
get away from the busy crowd and commun¢, in soli-
tude, with his own bitter thoughts; and the good old
lawyer leaves his office, and goes there to discuss any
VERY DELICATE BUSINESS
omer apa he particularly does not wish to be dis-
urbed.
And they all make speeches there to an extent suf-
ficient to have turned the hair of the Superintendent
of Police white with horror. But it is all right, be-
cause there is nobody near to hear them. As far as
the eye can reach, in that usually densely thronged
thoroughfare, not a living thing is to be seen.
Wounded (stage) spirits fly from the haunts of men,
and, Tea the hard, cold world far, far behind
them, go and die in peace in places which in real life
are thronged public promenades. And other wan-
erers,
FINDING THEIR SKELETONS AFTERWARD,
bury them there, and put up rude crosses over the
graves to mark the spot.
The Comic Lovers are often very young; and, when
people on the stage are young, they are young. He
is supposed to be about sixteen, and she is fifteen.
But they both talk as if they were not more than
seven.
In real life, boys of sixteen know a thing or two,
we have generally found. The average boy of six-
teen, nowadays, usually smokes cigarettes, and
knows something about base-ball and horse-races;
as for love! he has quite got over it by thatage. On
the stage. however, the new-born babe cannot com-
pare in innocence with the boy lover of sixteen.
So, too, with the maiden. ost girls of fifteen, off
the stage, 80 our experience goes, know as much as
there is any actual necessity for them to know, but
when we see a young lady of fifteen on the stage, we
wonder where her cradle is.
The Comic Lovers do not have the facilities for
love-making that the hero and heroine do. The hero
and heroine have big rooms to make love in, with a
fire and plenty of easy chairs, so that they can sit
about in pintponane attitudes, and do it comforta-
bly. Orit they want to do it out-of-doors, they have
aruined abbey, with a big stone seat in the center,
and moonlight.
The Comic Lovers, on the other hand, have to do
it, standing up all the time,in busy streets, or in
cheerless-looking, and curiously narrow rooms, in
which there is no furniture whatever, and no fire.
And there is always a tremendous row, going on in
the house, when the Comic Lovers are making love.
Somebody always seems to be putting up pictures in
the next room, and putting them up boisterously,
ote; so that the Comic Lovers have to shout at each
other.
Those innocent mortals, “THE STAGE PEASANTS,”
will be described next week. ]
Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
Thare iz menny who won’t know enny thing but
what they kan prove. This akounts for the little
they know.
Most people hev found out, sumhow, that they
“kan’t serve God and mamon too,” and so they serve
mamon.
Excentricitys, most ov them, are mere vanity.
Banish the excentrik man into a wilderness, and he
soon bekums az natral az a tudstool.
A pure heart iz like a looking glass—it keeps no
secrets, and dispenses no flattery.
A cheerful old man, or old woman, iz like the sun-
ny side ov a wood-shed, in the last ov winter.
Avarice iz like a grave-yard—it takes all that it
kan git, and gives nothing back.
Paint a humming bird sucking honey from a flower,
and yu hav got a very good piktur ov love trieing to
liv upon buty.
The best investment T kno ov iz charity; yu git
yure principal back immediately, and draw a divi-
dend every time yu think ov it.
Everything on this earth iz bought and sold except
air and water; and they would be, if a kind Creator
had not made the supply too grate for the demand.
A good book iz like a good law.
Politeness looks well to me in every man, except an
undertaker. \
“Familiarity breeds kontempt.” This only applies
tew men, not tew het bukwheat slapkakes, well but-
tered and sugared.
aaah lie A lin cca?
FAMOUS CLOCKS,
Among iemarkable public clocks, there are two
which stand foremost—those of Lyons and Stras-
burg. They are well worth attention, partly on ac-
count of their curious workmanship, and partly be-
cause of their richness of ornament and originality
of design. In the former, two horsemen, fully armed,
encounter in deadly combat, as it were, and beat the
hour upon each other’s armor. Then a door opens,
and an image of the Virgin, bearing in her arms the
child Jesus, steps out. She in turn is followed by the
magi, with retinue marching allin good order, pre-
senting their gifts, heralded by trumpets, which con-
tinue to breathe forth from their brazen throats while
the procession is in movement.
The scene which the Strasburg clock presents is
as follows: '
At each hour, asthe clock goes round, there is a
cock which claps its wings; again, in this, a door
opens, and an angel appears, who salutes the Virgin ;
then the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove descends
and alights upon the shoulder of the Virgin.
About sixty-five years ago the East India Company
presented the then Emperor of China with two time-
pieces, manufactured by English artists. They were
of the finest workmanship, and of similar design; it
is therefore only needful to describe one of them. It
was in the form of a chariot, which was of solid gold.
A lady is seated, in a languishing attitude, leaning
her right hand on that side of the chariot. In the
center of the same side is set the clock itself, with its
face outward, and which is no larger than an inch in
diameter. It strikes and repeats, and, upon being
wound up, goes for eight days. 0+___——__
We are desirous of obtaining one volume of Nos. 12, 13,
14, 15, 16, 22, 23, 24, and 25, of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, for
the purpose of completing our files. If any of our readers
have complete files of any or all of these volumes, in good
condition, and are willing to part with them, we would
be pleased to have them communicate with us upon the
subject. For,the first offered of the above volumes we will
pay $4.00 each; if complete and in good condition.
STREET & SMITH.
XN
London existed before the end of the eighth century, and ~
laxative, and is useful in cases of indigestion or consti-
a
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if
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4
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arms on *
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BY CLIFTON BINGHAM,
The jester sang in the banquet hall,
His wit obeyed no bridle :
He railed at all, both great and small,
The rich, the poor, the idle.
And mirth at every merry joke
Rang out from floor to rafter ;
It mattered not whate’er he spoke,
They answered all with laughter!
Ha-ho, ho-ho!
It merrily, merrily swells;
They’ve never a care who motley wear,
And don the cap and bells!
He preached a sermon true and wise,
They only thought he jested;
They laughed, and with their streaming eyes
The witty quip attested.
Perchance his heart had félt despair,
But how were they to know it?
They only saw the moiley there,
They never read below it.
The years passed by, the Fool lay dead,
His laughter stilled forever ;
“He was the king of all,” they said,
“We shall find his equal never.”
But hid away, they found one day
A jest that silent made them—
A glove—a flower—a tress of hair—
Upon his heart they laid them!
Ha-ha, ho-ho!
It merrily, merrily swells ;
They’ve never a care who motley wear,
And don the cap and bells!
Nhs Slory Wil Not be Polished in Bol Pom,
VIOLET LISLE.
By BERTHA WM. 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 XVIII.
GUY AND HIS MOTHER.
Violet shrank close to Martin, and put him between
her and Guy, whispering:
“He must not see me—I am not strong enough—I
should yield.”
Martin did not understand at all; but in his simple
loyalty to Violet it was not necessary that he should.
He saw that she wished to be shielded-from Lord
Darlington’s eyes, and without a question he stood
quite still while she almost cowered behind him. If
it had seemed to him his duty, in defense of Violet,
to have laid violent hands on stalwart Guy, he would
unhesitatingly have done it.
But all Violet wished for was to escape the love,
the reproach, the agony that for her now always
dwelt in the dark eyes of the man she more than ever
worshiped ; and when the roaring train had come to
astop, she caught Martin by the arm and almost
dragged him toward the cars.
He caught her meaning at once and turned and
hurried with her, rushing so blindly that neither
of them saw the burly figure of a passenger who had
alighted at the station and was leisurely crossing the
platform, and they raninto him. Martin apologized
hastily ; but the man stopped short in a growl of ac-
ceptance to turn and watch them with open-mouthed
wonder. A second later he started after them with
an angry oath; but they had already leaped into a
compartment and slammed the door behind them,
and the train was moving.
tissue paper as she waited in an anguished silence
for him to go on,
*You threatened me, mother, with the loss of your
wealth if I should marry Violet. If I had had Violet
I should have been rich enough. I have lost Violet,
and I will not have one penny of that money which
was to have been the bribe to make me give her up.
It is through you that I have lost her, and I would
starve rather than use a farthing of your money.”
“Oh, Guy, Guy, you will kill me!” wailed the
mother.
“I do not mean to be even harsh,” he said; “but
I will be just to my own manhood. Good-by,
mother !”’
“No, no! Don’t leave me Guy, my boy! Marry
her. I will go to her and ask her pardon. But don’t
go from me in this mood, Guy. I have been wrong.
I did it for the best; but I will admit that I was
wrong. I will go to her now, Guy. Wait here for
me.
It was a terrible shock to Guy, black as his own
mood was, to see his stately, self-contained, strong-
willed mother bend so before him. He put out a
gentle hand to detain her, and said, in a low, sad
voice :
“It is too late, mother.” .
“It cannot be too late, Guy, dear. I will go to her
father, and I will mollify even his pride.” ‘
“He turned her from his door and sent her out into
the world with his curse.”
Lady Darlington shuddered.
eagerly:
“She must be somewhere near here then, and we
will search for her and bring her here. You see I
will not stop at anything to please you, Guy.”
“Ts itnot true, mother, that she accepted the money
she gave that receipt for ?”
aan itis true; but Iam sure she loves you, too,
uy.’
Guy laughed a hard, mirthless laugh of scorn.
“Loves me! Oh, Heaven! But still it is too late.
She has gone to London—gone—with—a—former—
lover.”
The words fell from his lips like drops of blood
wrung in agony from his heart. His mother looked
at him piteously, and then threw her arms about his
neck and sobbed:
“Oh, Guy, Iam your mother; do not hate me!”
‘No, mother.”
“And you will not leave me?”
She fondled him beseechingly; but he looked down
at her sadly enough, but with no abatement of his
determination.
“Tmust go, mother. All this reminds me of her,
and is hateful to me.”
“Oh, Guy, Guy! you mean never to come back!”
she cried.
The gloomy light in his eyes told her that she had
guessed the truth, and she clung convulsively to him,
seeming only to have just realized how great her
mother’s love was.
“The future is a closed book, mother,” was all he
Then she cried,
said.
“You will let me go with you, Guy ?” she pleaded.
“No, mother.”
“Have you turned to stone, Guy? Have you no
love left for me?” she wailed.
“You are my mother,” he answered.
get that. I do not mean to be unkind.”
“You will always write to me?” she asked.
“Always.”
“And, Guy, dear, will you not draw on my bank
account ?”
“No, mother.
all my wants.”
“Then you will not forgive me, Guy ?”
“T do forgive you, mother; but I cannot take your
money. I said to myself thatif I could not have
your money with Violet I would never touch a penny
of it. I have lost Violet forever, and I will never
break my promise to myself.”
“Oh, then,” cried Lady Darlington, breaking from
him, ‘you will never forgive me, in spite of what
“T never for-
Ihave enough of my own to supply
“Ecod!” exclaimed the man, ina sort of maze;
“the parson running away with Miss Violet: The
sniveling cur! After what he said this afternoon! I
wish ’'d caught him. [’d ’a shown him that John
Broad had a good memory and a heavy hand to boot.
The hypocritical hound! Eh, man! Can’t ye see
where you’re going ?”
He turned angrily to confront Guy, who had run
out of the station to catch the moving train.
“Your pardon,” said Guy; “I was trying to catch
the train ; but it does not matter.” ‘
He spoke absently, gloomily, and more to himself
than to the young farmer. A flash of intelligence
illumined the not over-quick wit of the latter. He
looked eagerly at Guy, and said:
“Lord Darlington, [ think?”
“Yes,” said Guy, turning away.
“If I might make so bold as to guess"your errand,”
said John Broad, rather hesitatingly.
Guy turned and looked at him with a puzzled
frown.
“T do not understand,” he said, slowly.
“Had Miss Lisle nothing to do with it?’ queried
the young farmer.
“What do you know of her?’ demanded Guy,
eagerly catching him by the arm.
“She was on that train,’ answered the other.
Guy made a hasty movement as if he would run
after the cars, already almost out of hearing; then
restrained himself with a groan.
“You are sure ?”’ he said.
With something of a sneer, John Broad answered:
“Sure as I stand here. She was with one of her
old lovers—Martin Jenkins, the curate.”
The malignity of the man and his littleness discoy-
ered themselves in that speech. He took a hasty
step back after he had spoken; for on the words,
Guy had started toward him with a fierce gesture.
Then a sudden thought subdued his wrath, and with-
out a word he turned away. The young farmer saw
the advantage he had gained, and with no defined
purpose other than to wound in pure malice, as if
now every suggestion of the girl he had been pun-
ished for maligning turned his thoughts to gall, he
said:
“No one could ever understand what she saw in
the sniveling hypocrite.” ms ;
Guy turned with an angry unwillingness, as if act-
ing against his better judgment.
“How do you know this ?” he demanded.
“Why,” was the quick answer, “it was only this
afternoon that Jenkins was boasting of it in the vil-
lage; but it won’t last long, my lord, for he has no
more money than she has; and, after all that’s been
said, he will lose his place here.”
Guy turned sick. Could it be his Violet that was
being so talked of? Great Heaven! was it possible
that the paper Lord Coldenham had showed him was
as true as it had seemed? Had he been dreaming all
these weeks? He could not brook the thoughts that
surged up in his fevered brain at the accumulating
evidence oi the falseness of the womau he had loved
with such an idolatrous worship. His first, angry
impulse was to spring on the man whose words were
a defamation of her, and to choke the lie in his
throat; but the fearful dread that it might not bea
lie made him turn and rush away to where his car-
riage stood.
“To the castle,” he said. *
Fifteen minutes later he stood with his mother in
her parlor, and her heart sank to look on the stern,
drawn face of herson. She realized to the full, then,
that she had lost the boy who had been hers scarcely
twenty-four hours ago.
‘You have had your will in this {matter, mother,”
were his first words, uttered in a hard, passionless
voice. ‘‘I shall not marry Violet Lisle.”
| acted for the best, Guy,’ she answered, pite-
ously.
“T cannot judge of your motives,” he said, in the
same tone. ‘I know that my life is ruined.”
4 “Tt would have been ruined if you had married her,
uy.”
“That is as it may be,” he said. ‘I cannot believe
it in my heart, although my head is convinced by the
testimony. ButIdid not come to discuss this with
you. It belongs to the past now, and there let it re-
main. Violet is lost to me forever, and I can only
pray Heaven that between me and you we have not
ruined her fair young life as my own has been
ruined.” :
The tonein which he spoke was more terrible to
the listening mother than even the words he ut-
tered, and it was with a suppressed sob that she
cried out:
“Oh, my boy, my Guy! do not take it so hard.
There are other women ——”
“Yes, there are other women; but there is but one
love; and I say to you now, mother, that whatever
Violet may be I love her still and only her, and so I
Sn it always shall be. I have come to say good-by
you.’
“Where are you going, Guy?” she gasped.
“IT donot know. Iam going out of England. I
will write to you from Paris, where I shall go first.
I have one last word to say.”
He paused with lowering brows and set jaws, and
the poor mother, who had boasted more than once
that her vis: | was like wax in her hands, saw with an
indescribable agony that he had become to her as the
hardest flint; and then she realized that she was
THE MAN STOPPED SHORT IN A GROWL OF ACCEPT-
ANCE TO TURN AND WATCH THEM.
you say; and my curse be on the girl who has come
between you and me!”
“Hush, mother! Are you mad ?” said Guy, sternly.
“What else should a mother be who has lost her
orn * she murmured, “Will nothing change you,
uy ?”’
“Nothing, mother.”
“When do you leave ?”
“By the first train, whenever that may be. Robert
will send my luggage after me.”
“T will see you hefore you go,” she said, with forced
calmness,
Guy bowed, and left her. She sank despairingly
upon acouch, and tried to understand the change
that had come over Guy. And then, as weak human
nature will do, she laid the burden of the fault on
Violet, and she conceived for that suffering innocent
a bitter, passionate hatred.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BLOW OF AN ENEMY.
The compartment into. which Violet and Martin
had hurried was, fortunately for them, empty, and
there was no one to remark the agitation of the poor
girl, as she leaned forward and gazed out of the win-
dow at where Guy had disappeared into the station
waiting-room. She saw him run out of the waiting-
room just after the cars had started, and then she
lost sight of him, and she sank back in her seat and
covered her face with her hands.
The distress of poor Martin was quite beyond de-
scription as he saw how greatly Violet suffered, when
it was out of his power to say a word or do a thing
to aid her. He could only do the thing his gentle
nature prompted, and that was to leave her undis-
turbed to her sorrow. He made her as comfortable
as he could without being too obtrusive with his at-
tentions, and then leaned back and watched her piti-
fully from his corner.
It seemed to him a long time before she spoke; but
he would not for anything have disturbed her. She
had been sitting in the same attitude all the while,
her hands covering her face, and no movement be-
traying the feelings that racked her breast. All at
once she let her hands drop from before her face, and
looked at him out of her blue eyes, in which agony
seemed to sit enthroned.
“You are very good to me, Mr. Jenkins,” she said.
“Oh, Miss Violet,” he exclaimed, in a pained tone,
“please don’t say that! If you could only know how
glad I am to be able to serve you!”
“T am sure of that,” she answered, with such simple
trustfulness that Martin felt his whole being suffused
with happiness.
There was a short pause, and she went on, as if
forcing herself to speak:
‘i “You are so kind, that I ought to tell you why T am
ere.
“No,” he said, with quick eagerness, “please do
not. I could guess, if it were necessary; but itis
not. I know, without being told, all that it is needful
that I should know—that you haye all the right on
your side.”
Her eyes dimmed with tears, to hear him speak so
earnestly.
“Thank you for saying that, Mr. Jenkins,’ she said;
‘and I will not tell you all my story; ‘‘only I must
tell you that Lord Darlington is not to blame for any-
oe has happened—it is right that I should say
at.’
Martin Jenkins could not say anything to show his
disbelief in her statement; but down in his heart he
was thinking scornful, wrathful things of the man
who had had such a treasure in his grasp and had
not kept it. He could not conceive of what had hap-
pened; he was only certain that Violet was an inno-
cent sufferer; and he thought, with the agony of a
loving soul, how he would have sacrificed everything
to have possessed the pure love of Violet Lisle.
“T have been thinking,’ Violet went on after a
pause, “since [ have sat here. I could not think be-
fore. I cannot think now of what has passed since
last night except as if it had happened to another.”
How his heart ached to note how all the joyous music
had gone out of her voice! ‘But you are so good to
Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,
ing——”
“Oh, Miss Violet,” he broke in, with troubled eager-
ness, “if you would only let me speak, without
offense !”
“Tam not too proud to accept advice, Mr. Jen-
kins,” she said, sadly enough.
“It wasn’t only advice, Miss Violet,’ said he, his
voice trembling with the fear of how she would take
what he was going to say. “I want to tell you about
myself—not that that would matter except under
these circumstances; but if it will only show a way
to your own future. Do you remember, [ told you
that I had been left some money ?”
wy. s.’
“Well, the first thing I thought of was my mother,
and how it would make her life easy. She was
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“J WOULD STARVE RATHER THAN USE A FARTHING
OF YOUR MONEY !”
always such a good mother tome! And so I have
taken a little cottage in Norwood and furnished it,
and I am going now to take her to it.”
_ “It was like you to think of her first,’’ said Violet,
in a low tone.
A deep flush overspread Martin’s face, and it seemed
as if the words burst out before he could stop them.
“That was not the truth. It was you I thought of
first. Oh, forgive me! I did not mean to say that.
Believe me, Miss Violet, that is all past. Not that I
would not give my very life to restore you to happi-
ness; but the folly that [ uttered that day is past. I
will never say anything to reeall my presumption.”
“Tt was not presumption, Mr. Jenkins. A manhood
so noble and true as yours would add luster to any
name, I thought so then, and I know it more truly
now.’ :
“Thank you,’ he murmured; then after a pause,
“My mother is a plain little woman, but as true and
good as any that ever was created. Miss Violet,” he
said, timidly, “‘would you not make your home with
her? Don’t say no, until you have thought. It would
be such kindness to her. She will be so lonely in the
cottage all by herself.”
The tears came into Violet’s eyes, and in a moment
she was sobbing unrestrainedly. Martin wrung his
hands in his distress, blaming himself for not saying
it more delicately.
“T am so stupid and rough,” he said, piteously.
‘*Please don’t, Miss Violet.”
“How good and noble you are!” she said. ‘In-
deed, I would do as you ask me if I could, and I
would be so grateful—I am grateful; but I must
work in some way—I don’t know how. If you only
knew what I have suffered! Oh, I must have some
occupation, I must. I am truly grateful to you, and
Iam happier, indeed I am, for meeting you; but I
must do something.”
“What can you do, Miss Violet?” he said, remon-
stratingly. ‘You are not fit to do battle with the
world—to go out init alone. Oh, Miss Violet, I could
not have you. I will not have you. Don’t misunder-
stand me. I don’t mean to say what you shall or
shall not do; but [am aman, and can judge better
than you.”
Violet half-smiled through her tears; for it was
patent enough even to her that Martin had very lit-
tle more worldly knowledge than herself. And she
would have liked to yield to his insistence; for the
picture of a retreat in the peaceful little cottage was
very enticing; but even as it came up before her
she knew that her thoughts there would drive her
mad. She must have work.
“T wish,” she said, with a low sigh, “that I could
yield to you; but Icannot. I would be glad, though,
if you would let me go to your mother until I can
find something that I can do. London is so large,
there is so much doing there, that I shall surely find
something before long.”
There was nothing for Martin to do but to acquiesce
in this, and he did so the more readily that it seemed
to him thatit was nearly the same thing as saying
she would remain with his mother; for, ignorant
though he might be of the ways of the world, he was
well enough aware of the difficulties that lay before
Violet. What he did not-know was the determina-
tion that lay in Violet’s intention to seek forgetful-
ness in occupation.
A calmness, not of despair, but of resignation
tinged with it, took possession of Violet after this
conversation with Martin, and by degrees she found
herself able to go over the events of the past twenty-
four hours without sinking into the stupor of misery,
which had seemed inevitable always before. It was
all no less terrible, unreal, and agonizing, but it was
ee and she did not yet hope for anything
etter.
She yielded herself to Martin’s direction and guid-
ance with a passive trustfulness that touched the
noble fellow keenly. He had begun by asking her if
this or that course would be satisfactory or pleasing
to her, and she had answered with the nearest ap-
proach to a smile that he had yet seen on her face:
‘You know best. I will do whatever you. say.”
So he took her to a hotel at first, and left her there
while he went to where his mother was expecting
him. In the ene he went for her and took her
to his mother, who had been told all that Martin
knew, and who waited,as a woman will, in some
anxiety to see the other woman who has been so ex-
tolled by aman. Women do notoften take a man’s
judgment of other women; and even a sweet, humble-
An
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yh" |
» WA
RUAN
“IF YOU COULD ONLY KNOW HOW GLAD I AM TO
BE ABLE TO SERVE YoU!”
minded little woman like Mrs. Jenkins could not ac-
cept her son’s notion of another woman without some
reservations,
But Vivlet carried too much of her sweetness and
purity in her beautiful face to leave the good old
lady a moment in doubt, and there was no hesitation
in the motherly embrace with which she received
her; though there was some awe afterward, when
she had had time to realize that, whatever Violet’s
sorrows and misfortunes, she belonged by every right
to that upper stratum of society to which the dear
old lady had ever been accustomed to look with a
sort of reverence.
Nothing of this was in Violet’s mind, however, but
only infinite peace and relief at being in the haven of
the sweet old lady’s protection. Martin was in a
state of subdued but extreme delight from the mo-
ment of the meeting, hardly knowing which to ad-
mire most; his mother’s unfeigned delight in Violet,
about as he desired it, and he felt at rest about Violet.
He could return to Penarth and take up again bis
work with thedelicious consciousness that through
him she was in safety if not in happiness. Poor
Martin! he, fortunately, could not know what the
future held in store for him,
They all went together to the little cottage, which
had been prepared through an agent, but which was
nevertheless surprisingly pretty and cozy in all its
appointments. Both Martin and his mother dilated
on the pleasant times the two women would have
there; but Violet only smiled sympathetically and
said nothing. She knew that the unrest that had
come into her life could not be put down at will, and
the longing to get away from everything pertaining
to the past grew stronger at every moment. Even
this peacefulness weighed upon her, in spite of the
efforts of her gratitude to make her at least accept it.
But she would not pain her kind friends by giving
them an inkling of her feelings, and she stifled the
expression of everything but thankfulness. Martin’s
goodness and his mother’s had enabled her to lift
herself from the slough into which her misery had
dragged her, and she felt that now she could go out
into the world, not only witha better courage, but
with a greater hope of success.
Martin would have gone away without partaking
of the midday meal with them, so great was his
anxiety to avoid doing anything that would seem
like taking advantage of his opportunity to be with
Violet; but she not only saw the look of deep disap-
pointment on his mother’s face, but understood quite
well what his motive was, and would not permit him
to do anything of the sort.
“IT will not remain here a minute if you let my pres-
ence interfere with your doing exactly as you would
have done if I had not been here,” she said, very de-
cidedly, and Martin was only too glad to stay to make
any further objection.
After the meal, Violet looked so tired that Mrs.
Jenkins insisted that she should retire to the little
room that had been given to her, and this Violet did,
not only because she was tired, but quite as much be-
cause she was eager to take the first steps toward
28% pig that occupation which she felt she must
ave.
She had procured a copy of the Times through un-
suspicious Martin, and had been longing ever since
to have a chance to read its advertisements. To her
tancy it was full of opportunities, and she was eager
to make achoice. Something in the way of gover-
ness or companion was what she had in mind, and it
was with trembling fingers that she spread out the
sheets of the paper and sought for the column which
held her fate.
She sat on a low chair by her window and read over
the little paragraphs one by one; at first hopefully,
and at last with a sort of dismay to note what the re-
quirements were for any one of the occupations she
had naturally looked forward to filling. She reached
the end of the list, feeling that she was totally unfit
for anything, and her hands fell listlessly into her
lap as she realized that willingness to do was but the
beginning of the battle.
Was there nothing, then? she wondered, and me-
chanically she studied all the advertisements. Some
of them she could not understand at all, since they
asked for acquirements she had never heard of;
some of them she rejected as unsuited to her even if
she had been suited for them. Out of them all only
one was such as she believed she could fill the re-
quirements of, and there was something in that that
made her suspicious. It was an advertisement for
chorus girls. No special training was required;
nothing but a good voice. Violet had that; but she
folded the paper with a sigh and wondered why the
only possibility offered in the columus of advertising
was one that she could not make any use of.
After that she lay down and fell into a restful
slumber, and did not awake until it was growing
dusk. She started up remembering that Martin
would be leaving soon, and she was unwilling that
he should go without another grateful word from
“OH, THAT MISS VIOLET’S NAME SHOULD BE USED
so! IT WOULD KILL HER TO KNOW THIS!”
her. There came a postman’s knock while she was
making her simple toilet; but she thought nothing
of it except to wonder who of the little family could
be receiving a letter so soon after arrival in the new
home. It certainly was not for her and she forgot it.
Sleep had brought her not only rest but a return of
hope, and she told herself that what might not be in
this day’s paper might be in the morrow’s. She
opened her door and had gone as far as the head of
the little staircase, when she was stopped by hear-
ing the voice of the old lady speaking in tearful ac-
cents.
fee Martin, my boy, it is wicked, wicked!’ she
said.
“Hush, mother!’ she heard Martin say, “I would
not have Miss Violet know this for aught in the
world. I do not care for myself. I could forgive
them for the injury they do me; another can do my
work there as well as I; but that Miss Violet’s name
psoas be used so—oh, it would kill her to know
this.
“But you can explain it,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “You
can tell them she is here, with me—that you came
with her only as her escort.”
“Not without betraying more of her secret than
she would have known. No, mother, my reputation
is nothing. [amaman and can outlive it; but, oh!
if I could see how to clear her good name without
letting her know.”
Violet did not wait to hear more, but glided back
into herroom and sank white and gasping on her
little chair. She understood it all. It was known
that she had come to London with Martin Jenkins.
The relentless gossips had gathered the scattered
bits of fact about her, and had branded her with
shame; and it was the ruin of her generous protector
that he had been seen with her.
Well! he at least should be made innocent in their
eyes, and then she would sink out of the world,
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
_ Oo
UMBRELLA LANGUAGE,
There is a language of umbrellas as of flowers. For
instance, place your umbrella in a rack and it will
indicate that it will change owners.
To open it quickly in the street means that some-
body’s eye is going to be put out; to shutit, thata
hat or two is going to be knocked off.
An umbrella carried over a woman, the man get-
ting nothing but the drippings of the rain, signifies
courtship. When a man has the umbrella and the
woman the drippings, it indicates marriage.
To punch your umbrella into a person and then
open it means, ‘I dislike you.”
To swing your umbrella over your head signifies,
“T am making a nuisance of myself.”
To trail your umbrella along the footpath means
that the man behind you is thirsting for your blood.
To carry it at right angles under your arm sig-
nifies that an eye is to be lost by the man who fol-
lows you,
To open an umbrella quickly, it is said, will frighten
amad bull,
To put a cotton umbrella by the side of a silk one
signifies, ‘‘Exchange no robbery.”
To purchase an umbrella means, ‘‘I am not smart,
but honest.”
To lend an umbrella indicates, ‘I am a fool.”
To return an umbrella means—well, never mind
what it means; nobody ever does that.
To carry your umbrella in a case signifies it is a
shabby one.
To carry an umbrella just high enough to tear out
men’s eyes and knock off men’s hats signifies, ‘‘I am
a woman.”
To press an umbrella on your friend, saying, “Oh,
do take it; I would much rather you would than
not,’* signifies lying.
To give a friend half of your umbrella means that
both of you will get wet.
To carry it from home in the morning means, “It
will clear off.”
Children Gry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,
oe es re! ¥, 7 ad “
vo.—w.3, woot THRE NEW YORK WEEKLY. => j
= — = op ee 8 — rs a cen ———— — > = = — a ae a eee tet eet ete te = pea ag arene ==
CAP AND BELLS weakness itself in comparison with his iron determi- | me, that I have been able to think of the future. Be-,| or Violet’s tender care for her, the latter being dis- NAMING THE BABY.
y | nation, The delicate handkerchief of costliest lace, | fore you came to help me I could only see death; but | played in innumerable ways. ;
which she held in her nervous hands, was torn like | now it seems as if I could find some way of liv- Martin was sure now that everything would come
BY MARION DOUGLASS.
You have birds in a cage and you’ve beautiful flowers,
But you haven’t at your house what we have at ours;
*Tis the prettiest thing that you ever did see,
Just as dear and as precious as precious can be;
*Tis my own baby sister, just seven days old,
Too little for any but grown folks to hold.
Oh, I know you would love her; she’s fresh as a rose,
She’s the dearest and loveliest little pink toes,
Which to me seem only made to be kissed ;
And she keeps her wee hand doubled up in a fist.
She is quite without hair, but she’s beautiful eyes—
And she always looks pretty, except when she cries,
And what name we shall give her there’s no one can tell,
For my father says ‘‘Sarah,” and mother likes “Belle ;”
And my great Uncle John, he’s an old-fashioned man,
Wants her named for his wife that is dead, ‘‘“Mary Ann.”
But the name I have chosen the darling to call,
Is the name that is prettier far than them all,
And to give it to baby, my heart is quite set:
It is Violet Martha Rose Stella Marzette.
This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.
UNDE nN THN
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 XII,
PREPARING FOR DEATH.
There was a table between Carnagie and Sir John.
But Sir John was beside him in an instant. He had
not fainted.
“Of all the evils I feared would befall me,” he
said at last, as he slowly rose with his friend’s as-
sistance and staggered into a chair, ‘‘this was the
last one, and I never suspected it till about two min-
utes ago.”
Sir John opened his lips, but Carnagie stopped
him.
‘Mon’t talk about it. I know it all now. They
baited the hook for poor Victor first, and when he
wouldn’t bite they put him out of the way, and gota
new hook for me, which I swallowed, bait and all.
Gilbert Fanshawe is Baron Arle, and I have broken
bread, and drank wine, and fraternized generally
with my father’s murderer. How the devil inside of
of him must have jeered at me! And then she and
my boy—my boy and hers. Sir John, take your re-
volver and shoot me. I can’t bearit; I can’t live
throughit. God in heaven! howI loved that wo-
man, and how [ hate her now!”
His head fell forward upon the table in a wild out-
burst of groans and cries such as are seldom wrung
from man’s agony.
“You haven’t made your will yet,” Sir John whis-
pered, hoping to divert him, as it did. {
“That is true,” Lord Oswyn cried, lifting his head
and showing a pair of fearfully blood-shot eyes.
“Send for the lawyers quickly. Send word what is
wanted at once. I must sign my will before I leave
this room, or I never shall sign it. The Wolves of
Arle are on my track!” f s
To pacify him, Sir John did write and send a
trusty messenger to Lord Oswyn’s lawyers, Messrs
Deadwin and Sharpley. :
While the man was gone, Sir John had some dinner
sent in from a_ neighboring coffee-house, but Lord
Oswyn would take nothing except a glass of wine.
“Carnagie,” said Sir John, sternly, ‘‘beware what
judgment you pass on your wife now. She is not to
blame for being an Arle.” 2 5
“Never call her my wife again,” Carnagie said, bit-
terly. ‘‘I will never look on her false siren face
again, if Ican helpit. She has deceived me from
first to last. Her very marriage with me was the
result of a deep-laid conspiracy among those three.
Heaven knows how I worshiped her, but she has
never in all this time loved me for a single moment.
I can now understand much that has puzzled me.
Do you remember that long and singular illness with
which I was seized the very morning after you told
me that Macaire was Dewitt Arle? Arle sent her a
note that very night, warning her of =y discovery,
and hinting to her what she had better do, I think
she tried to kill me, but had not quite courage
enough.”
“She loves you, Carnagie. I could swear to that.”
“Judith Arle knows I have come to London to
make a new will. She knows I have destroyed the
old one. Should I die without a will, everything
goes to my son, and she doubtless imagines that
what is his will be doubly hers. The policy of the
Arles, therefore, will be to prevent my making a will,
Isn’t it about time for the lawyers to come 2?”
“They will be here soon. Be patient. I don’t see
how you can be so hard on her, though—the mother
ef _your child, too—the mother of your son and
eir.
Lord Oswyn groaned.
“If I could forgive her for being an Arle herself, I
could not forgive her for giving meason with the
Arle blood in his veins. Besides, look here. I told
you how we parted this morning. Look at this
As a telegram she sent at the very hour of my
starting.”
Sir John read it aloud:
“Madame Felina, No. 14 Goldwin Road, Islington.
Now, 9:20 express. B. C.”
Sir John elevated his eyebrows.
“What does it mean 2?”
“Tt is probably intended for Dewitt Arle.
by the 9:20 express.”
“T don't believe it. Madame Felinais some dress-
maker whom Lady Oswyn owes, and whom she
ae to present her bill to you while you are in
Own.’
“You are very ingenious, Vandeleur. As soon as
this will business is disposed of, we will give Madame
Felina a call.”
“Very well, we will. If we find any traces of De-
witt Arle there, I will cease to remonstrate with you
concerning your course toward Lady Oswyn, though
even in that case it would be very hard to convince
me that she does not love you entirely, and is not as
worthy of being a Countess of Carnagie as though
she were not an Arle by birth.”
“Wait,” said ,Virgil Carnagie, coldly. ‘You shall
Paes satisfied as I am before you die—perhaps before
do.”
The lawyets came soon, and though they objected,
naturally, to doing such business as thisin such a
hurry, they did manage it.
The will was made.
The boy was to be called Hector.
“JT should like to say Victor,’ Lord Oswyn said,
“but [imagine itis a rather unlucky name. So is
Virgil. Well, try Hector.”
The child was to stay with his mother until he was
eight years old,
“It would be cruel to take him away ‘sooner; and
she can hardly hurt him seriously in that time,” he
remarked.
A handsome sum was allowed Lady Oswyn for her
and the boy tillthen. When young Hector should be
eight years old, he was, from that period, to make
his home with Sir John Vandeleur, seeing his mother
only at stated intervals, and from the time he went
to live with Sir John, Lady Oswyn was to retire to
Castle Arle and make her abode there, only visiting
Carnagie House at stated periods to see her son.
The actual disposition of the Carnagie property
was toremain a secret till Hector Carnagie came of
age, or, in case of his death before that time, that
part of the will was separate from the rest—a sealed
inclosure, not to be opened until the boy’s death or
majority.
“You'll alter that will before you’re six months
older,” asserted Sir John.
“T shall be surprised if Iam alive in six months,”
Lord Oswyn answered.
The two lawyers were gray, respectable old fellows,
who had been in charge of the Carnagie properties
through the best part of two generations, and had
received the trust from their fathers. They were
rather touched by the superstitions current among
the honored and noble family they served. It was
natural, perhaps. They had known some strange
things among the Carnagies in their time.
“What's up now?” said Sharpley to Deadwin, sol-
emnly, as they gathered up their bundles and papers,
and departed.
“The late Lord Oswyn expressed himself in very
much the same manner,” said Deadwin, “and I don’t
think he had the slightest idea of fighting Baron
Arle then. Itis certainly very curious.”
“Lady Oswyn is at the bottom of it all. I saw her
when they were in London, a few months ago. She
looked as wicked as she was beautiful, to my mind.
How could she help it, being an Arle. Queer that she
I came
{
wr”
managed to marry him without his finding her out
tillnow. I never thought it would happen in my
day to see an Arle married to a Carnagie.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS ORACLE.
It was dark by the time the will was finished, and
Lord Oswyn proposed they should go at once, if Sir
John was willing, and call on Madame Felina.
They all set out at once, and found No, 14 Goldwin
Road easily enough.
Madame Felina proved to be the occupant of the
dingy and dilapidated house thus designated.
Sir John Vandeleur looked rather surprised at the
gloom and squalor of the place.
What could a delicate creature like Lady Oswyn
have in common with such a place ?””
“Never mind our names,’’ Lord Oswyn answered
to the servant who admitted them. “Tell madam
that two gentlemen desire to see her.”
Meanwhile Sir John was examining a card he had
found on the floor.
“Madame Felina is a fortune-teller,” he said.
“Good!” answered Virgil; ‘we will have our for-
tunes told.”
In a moment madam entered the room.
She looked young to be called madam. She was
slight and tall, with a thin dark face, and the most
brilliant eyes imaginable. She moved with a quick,
gliding step, which brought her into the center of
the room almost before the two men were aware of
her presence. She wore along black dress, and was
without ornament, save a large blood-red stone set
in a heavy and richly carved rim of gold. This stone
was at least two inches across in the largest part,
oval in shape, and of a kind that neither SirJohn nor
Virgil Carnagie remembered ever to have seen. As
madam moved, little flames seemed to flicker over
the surface. The gem was suspended from madam’s
slender neck by a thick silken cord, which was also
knotted about her waist like a girdle.
The room in which they were was gloomy and dark,
barren of Inxury and ornament; but this woman,
though not at all handsome, seemed to beautify it
the moment she entered.
“Did you wish your fortunes told, gentlemen?” she
asked in French.
“Can you tell them?’ Sir John returned, in the
same language.
Lord Oswyn did nothing but waich Madame Felina,
and wonder what Judith Arle’s telegram to her
meant.
“Yes, that is my business,” madam answered.
“Oan you tell me what I came here for?’ Sir John
asked.
Madam loosened from her waist the blood-red
stone of which I have spoken.
“Will you hold this in your hand a moment?”
Sir John took it in his right hand, the cord remain-
ing about madam’s neck.
“Now look in the palm of your hand.”
Sir John looked and saw, glowing scarlet across his
hand, the words:
“About a telegram.”
At the same moment there was a knock at the door,
and the servant presently brought in a sealed en-
velope with the stamp of the telegraph company
upon it.
Lord Oswyn leaned toward his friend.
“It’s the telegram. I told the clerk not to send it
till this evening.”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Sir John. .
“Madam,” he said, abruptly, ‘will you wait a mo-
ment before you open that telegram ?”’
Madam laid it upon the table.
“Can you tell me in the same manner you just
answered my question, whether that telegram con-
cerns me?”
Madam put the sealed envelope in Sir John’s left
hand, the bloodstone remaining in his right.
In a moment he looked at his right hand as before,
and saw the words:
“Tt does not concern you.”
The letters faded away slowly as he looked at them,
wondering, and there remained only that queer stone
darting its tiny shoots of flame to and fro.
Sir John thought a moment, then he transferred
both stone and telegram to Lord Oswyn’s hands.
“May 1?’ he nodded to madam, who nodded in
return. ]
“Does this telegram concern me?’ Lord Oswyn
asked. ‘
He had been as amazed as Sir John at the scarlet
writing in his hand.
Gently unclosing his fingers, at a signal from
madam, he looked at the palm of his own hand.
There it was, in the same red letters:
“é Yes.”’
Virgil shut his hand again, with a deep frown.
“How ?”
“Ttis a signal to your enemies,” responded the mys-
terious oracle.
“What enemies ?’”’
“The Wolves of Arle !”’
Madam started forward as he uttered the last ques-
tion.
“Pardon me,” she said, courteously, “I have not
yet seen what is in this telegram myself.”
She laid her slim, soft fingers on Lord Oswyn’s
hands.
He yielded her both stone and letter at once. But
he had already read the answer to his last question,
and so had Sir John.
Madame Felina stood apart, seemingly indifferent
to all that passed. But in reality she noted every-
thing, for the instant Virgil uttered the word ‘‘ene-
mies” she gave him a startled, strange look, and
elaimed the unopened telegram. Even Sir John
looked a little excited over these odd answers which
his friend had received to his questions.
Nevertheless, he said in a voice of some contempt:
“Tt seems strange, because we do not understand
it. But, after all, it is only jugglery. I have seen
quite as wonderful things done by a common mounte-
bank.”
Lord Oswyn touched his arm and looked signifi-
eantly at Madame Felina, who was reading her tele-
ram.
. “She looks as if it were the first time she had seen
it, by Jove,” whispered Sir John.
“Tf it’s the telegram Judith Arle sent her, she
could not possibly have got it before,’ Virgil re-
turned, positively.
Then he addressed Madame Felina.
“Pardon me, madam, if I seem impertinent. I do
not mean to be so. But do you object to showing me
the contents of your telegram.”
She did not hesitate an instant.
“Usually I should,” she answered, “but as I
shall have nothing to do with it now, and as the
circumstances are peculiar, Iam willing you should
see it, my lord.”
“Do you know me?” Carnagie asked, in surprise.
“At first I did not. Now I have resorted to the
same means for information as I furnished you.”
She showed them both their names written in sear-
let letters in the palm of her slender hand.
The telegram was the same as Lord Oswyn had
already repeated to Sir John.
“What do you mean by saying that you shall have
nothing to do with it now, and what are the peculiar
eircumstances you refer to ?”’ Sir John asked.
Madam answered with apparent sincerity:
“JT advertise for people to send me questions in this
manner, and I return the answer by mail.”
“But this is not a question, It sounds more like a
signal.”
“Perhaps 80. My customers word their messages
in any form they choose. 1 return them the answer
to the thought that_was really in their minds at the
moment they sent the message.”’
“But this names the very train Lord Oswyn came
on, and is from a person he believes to be his
enemy.”
“It is from his wife. She is his enemy,” said
madam, gravely. “She belongs to a family whose
members are his hereditary foes. The countess will
learn nothing from me. I decline to have anything
to do with a matter which may innocently involve
me in trouble.”
“What does the Countess Oswyn wish to know ?”
“She wishes me to tell her what is to be the future
fate of the person who came to London on the 9:20
express from Derbyshire.”
“Could you tell her?” Lord Oswyn asked, with sup-
pressed eagerness.
Madame Felina looked at him a moment steadily,
and over her brilliant gaze seemed to float a cloud
like emotion and pity.
“T could,”’ she answered, in a low tone, “‘but I shall
not.”
“You will tell me?’
Madam shook her graceful head.
“Then give me your queer red stone here in my
hand again. J¢twilltellme,” Virgil said, impatiently.
“It is merely juggling,’ Sir John whispered in his
ear, and tried to persuade him to go away now.
Madam smiled as she lifted the stone, in its quaint
golden rim, and held it a moment to her perfect lips.
“Tt will tell you nothing unless I choose.” she said,
and Lord Oswyn and Sir John both saw with wonder
that it had suddenly grown dull and black, like a fire
that had burned itself out.
®ach took it in his hand a moment, but it was dumb
now, and presently the two men went away to-
gether. : s j : ‘
“Such a juggling mess,” Sir John said, with a side-
long look in his companion’s face.
“You don’t think so,” Lord Oswyn answered,
quietly. “You know she startled you.”
“That proves nothing.”’
“This is not juggling, Vandeleur, or if it is, itis
very terrible juggling forme. T’ve had a weight on
my heart ever since I married Judith Arle, but T
never knew till you told me who she was, and in
spite of it I have been happy—oh, so happy! There
never was aman happier in his wife, or who loved
her better than I loved her. Now I must atone for it
all. You may laugh, Vandeleur, or pretend to cheer
me out of my gloom, but it won’t do, old boy; ’'ma
doomed man. The Wolves of Arle hunt us Car-
nagies as naturally as the panther tracks its prey.
You will see, and that woman knows. I shall go
back to her without you to-morrow, if [live so long.
he shall tell me.”
Bat you live so long,’ Sir John said, rather ner-
vously, for in spite of him Virgil Carnagie’s style of
talk infected him somewhat. ‘Don’t go near that
witch again.”
Lord Oswyn made no answer.
CHAPTER XIV.
ANOTHER VISIT TO MADAME FELINA.
Virgil Carnagie was staying with Sir John Vande-
leur at his town house.
The two friends spent the following day together,
mostly, and Lord Oswyn made no allusion to the sub-
jects so much under discussion the day before, until
about the middle of the afternoon, when he said,
with a sort of mockery in his voice:
“Well, ’m alive yet, you see. I beg your pardon,
Vandeleur. Ireally imagined I might not be.” ;
“Don’t begin that now; there’s a good fellow,” Sir
John said, entreatingly. ‘‘I’ll wager you anything
you like that you live longer than I do.”
“And I’d take the wager, only I know it would be
downright cheating, ’m so much better posted than
youlare on this particular subject. But Ill tell you
what I will do. V’lllay you a hundred pounds to ten
that when you and [ part this time we’ll never meet
again in this world.”
“Youre going on the Continent to look for Baron
Arle,” Sir John eried, in a voice of conviction. ‘Don’t
do it, Virgil.”
Lord Oswyn smiled gloomily,
“I’m a marked man, Vandeleur, I know it. The
Arles have doomed me. I shall have to fight Dewitt
Arle or his father whether I choose it ornot. Dewitt
Arle, I am satisfied, meams to insult me to the point
of challenging him, and then he will have the choice
of weapons and of terms. I shall be killed. We al-
ways are, youknow. I call myself a good hand with
the pistol. Swords, of course, would be out of the
question. I don’t think even he would think oF Re
posing them, But, all the same,T shall be killed. I
would rather be, than fight unfairly, even with an
enemy. What I wantis a chance at Baron Arle first.
I don’t think I could face my murdered father in the
next world if I had not at least made the effort to
avenge him in this.”
The two gentlemen separated, to meet again at
dinner, at eight o’clock. Lord Oswyn was going to
see his lawyers again for a moment. Sir John had
some business in an opposite direction.
Eight o'clock came. Sir John Vandeleur was there,
but Lord Oswyn was not. Sir John waited dinner
vaguely uneasy, till nine o’clock. Then he ordered
his carriage again, and without having touched
his dinner, wentout, driving to various places
where it was possible Virgil Carnagie might have lin
gered, but could hear nothing of him
Messrs. Deadwin & Sharpley had left their office
about four P. M. Lord Oswyn had been there and
gone again before that.
Sir John returned home ateleven. Virgil had not
been there. Sir John would not own to himself what
he was suffering at what seemed such a trifling mys-
tery.
“Of course he’s stopped somewhere else,” he mut-
tered, ‘‘or he may have suddenly gone to Carnagie,
without having time to tell me. Maybe he has
started for the Continent. Just like him.”’
But he knew it was not like him, and when morn-
ing came, noon even, and still no news of his missing
friend, Sir John sank into a pitiful state of remorse
and self-reproach. ;
“T laughed at all his wild talk. Heaven forgive me
forit. And he said we’dmever meet again after this
parting. but I thought all the while he meant when
on the Continent.”
Suddenly Sir John gave a violent start.
“T’ll go and see Madame Felina. I don’t believe a
word in her juggling, but I’ll see what she says, and
I never believed what she said about that odd tele-
xram.”’
. He drove at once to Madame Felina’s door in Gold-
win Road,
It was the busiest hour of the day with madam. He
had to wait a full hour before he could see her. Then
he was shown into the same room, dim and gloomy
in itself, but radiant when madam was there as now.
As before she was robed entirely in black, and the
strange red stone, in its golden rim, hung at her side,
with the same electric flames darting continually
over its surface.
“Madam, has Lord Oswyn been here since we left
you together?’ Sir John asked.
“He has.”
“When ?””
“He was here yesterday about five o’clock.”
“How long did he remain ?”’
“About half an hour.”
“Where is he now ?”’
“Why do you ask me?”
“Because he is misguided, and I fear that some-
thing terrible has happened to him.”
“T can tell you nothing of him,’”? madam answered,
with an utterly impassive expression on her plain
but striking face.
“He came here to question you further of matters
ou rethued to satisfy him upon whenI was with
im ?”’
“He did.”
“And you?”
“T never go from my word. I refused to tell him
at first, and I still refused to do so yesterday.”
“You will tell me?”
‘No.””
“You will tell me at least where he is ?”
“*T cannot.”
“You mean that you will not?”
‘My will has nothing to do with it. Do you imag-
ine, monsieur, that because [ have the power to re-
veal the unseen and invisible, that I can control fate,
or am myself independent of its mysterious and im-
-mutable decrees ?”
Sir John made an impatient movement.
“Do you know where Virgil Carnagie is at this mo-
ment?”
“What if I do?”
“Tf you say you do know, and will not tell me,
either you are trifling with me or you do know and
can be compelled to speak. I warn you, madam, of
my course.”
“Monsieur can try,” madam returned, as unmoved
as before.
Sir John reflected a moment. While he was taking
the necessary legal measures to compel this strange
woman to speak, she might gather her possessions
and vanish. Doubtless her preparations were ail
made for such a flight. That she knew, and was
somehow infamously concerned in the mystery of
Lord Oswyn’s disappearance, he did not doubt. It
would be best, perhaps, to lull her suspicions of him,
by affecting to question her and believe in her.
“Will you not at least tell me, madam, whether my
friend has left London ?”’ he asked.
“He has.”’
“Ts he in England ?””
“T cannot tell you that.”
“Ts he living ?”’
“He is.”
In spite of his incredulity, Sir John was affected by
the air of perfect sincerity and truth with which
Madame Felina answered, as well as by the pale im-
passiveness of her singular countenance, the cold-
ness of her lustrous eyes.
“Did he leave London of his own free will?”
“Mostly—yes.”
“Was any one with him ?’
“Yes, but I cannot tell you who. Question meno
more, monsieur; I cannot answer you. Go home and
wait patiently. Ina little while you will get a letter
from Lord Oswyn.”
Sir John Vandeleur went home, as madam advised
him. +
As [have said, in spite of his incredulity he was
impressed by what she had told him. Arrived at his
house, he found a telegram awaiting him.
It was from Lady Oswyn, and ran thus:
“T have not heard from my husband since he left
Carnagie, three days ago, and consequently do not
know his London address. Will you kindly inform
him that our sonis very ill. I want him to come to
us at once. I am beside myself with terror and
anxiety.” P
Sir John stared as in a dream at the telegram.
What could he say in reply to the unsuspectins
wife? To tell her the truth, the little he knew, would
be only to add anxiety for her husband to anxiety
for her child—terror for the Lord of Carnagie to ter-
ror for its young heir.
He wished to wait and see if that letter which
Madaine Felina had promised him would come. At
the same timeit seemed cruel to leave this mother
and wife in suspense.
He reflected a moment, and wrote a message to be
sent to the countess at once.
“Lord Oswyn has left London.on important busi-
ness. I do not know just where he is, but am ex-
pecting to hear every moment. The instant I do so
{ will inform you, and at the same time convey your
message to him.”
That very evening, two hours after Sir John had
sent this dispatch, a letter did indeed arrive from
Lord Oswyn, but Sir John thought it was the
strangest epistle he had ever received from his
friend.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
eo or
A MOVING SKULL.
John Ryder, an English tragedian, was billed for
Hamlet at a provincial theater ; and the performance
had begun when it was discovered that for the grave-
digging scene there was no skull. In desperation
Ryder sent off to a dentist’s near by, in whose win-
dow he had observed a skull while walking in the
town in the daytime. His messenger was successful,
and returned with the article. i
Ryder received it from the grave-digger in the
well-known scene at Ophelia’s grave, and began, ‘‘I
knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest; but
just as he reached the footlights he unfortunately
touched a spring in the skull, which thereupon began
to open and close its jaws in a most appalling man-
ner. All Ryder’s efforts to stop the mechanism were
unavailing, and, to the amusement of the audience,
after endeavoring in vain to go on with his speech,
he dashed the skull down in a rage, and left the
stage.
IF ONLY MEN WOULD LOVE SELF LESS.
BY JONATHAN THORWALD.,
If only men would love self less,
And love each other more,
The lips that evrse would often bless,
The hand that strikes would oft caress,
And healed were every sore.
If those we love, loved us in turn,
What could we ask for more?
But when a friend for whom we yearn
Proves false, or doth our friendship spurn,
The soul grows sad and sore.
If men were but content to seem
Themselves, and seem no more;
If men saw less their brother’s beam;
If men had less of self-esteem,
Why should a soul be sore?
If men were generous, noble, true,
Sorrow would slay no more;
If men would do the right they knew,
Tears would dry like the morning dew,
And healed were every sore.
this Story Wi Mot be Pais in Bok orm,
RAI AS WAS SOU
One Woman’s Hate.
By CHARLES T. MANNERS,
Author ot ‘‘The Lord of Lyle,” ‘“‘The Flaw in the
Diamond,” “‘A Woman’s Faith,” “‘A Red
Letter Day,’’ etc.
(“REAPING AS WAS SOWN” was commenced in No. 20.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXIV.
“ALAS! THE FAIRY SPELL IS RUDELY BROKEN!”
LMOST the first coherent
words St. John articulated
was an inquiry concerning the
time oceupied by his sickness,
and the next instant he asked,
eagerly :
“Did any one have sense
enough to carry such word to
the rendezvous in Ingester
Park?’
: No. Noone but Nick could
have understood how to convey such a message, and
Nick had been too anxious and distressed over the
invalid to think of any such thing.
The vexation and perturbation of mind with which
St. John received this intelligence nearly threw him
into a fever.
“She has waited and waited there, and no one
came, and no one gaye her any explanation. What
must she think of me! Whatif Ihave lost all fur-
ther acquaintance with my princess! I, who do not
know either name or residence of my woodland
fairy !” he muttered, impatiently.
Nick hastened to assure him that he had no doubt
he could deliver a letter or a verbal message, for he
had frequently seen the lady in a certain locality.
So it came about that as soon as St. John was able
to sit up, Nick brought him a delicately written note,
offering both condolence and congratulation, and
signed “The Maiden of the Glen.”
It was a very simple missive, formally worded, but
St. John hung over it entranced, and answered it in
somewhat warmer terms, which may have alarmed
“the Maiden of the Glen,” for her replies grew briefer
and colder. :
St. John fumed and fretted over his weakness, and
zealously obeyed all his physician’s orders, with the
one hope of gaining strength enough to ride to the
park. It was a joyful hour for him when he was able
to send a letter requesting a meeting for the next
day. 5 2
And his exhilaration, when the time actually
arrived, was almost painful to witness—to Nick, at
least, who stole out of the room, where Zoe still was
lying languid and_ helpless, with great dreary eyes
fixed vacantly,and white lips that no art of his could
coax into a smile, to answer his master’s orders for
his company in the carriage.
“How is Zoe this morning?” asked St. John, as his
chair was wheeled through the corridor past her
door.
“Not much better,” answered Nick. ‘Perhaps the
master will go in and see her a moment.”
“No—oh, no,”’. was St. John’s hasty reply, with a
faint shrug of the shoulders. ‘That fatal draught
or something else has weaned me from any desire
for Zoe's presence. Her great black eyes haunted
my sleep and delirium too long to make it comfort-
able to see them again so soon. Tell the coachman
not to waste time with laggard horses, Nick.”
Zoe, within the little chamber, started at sound of
the well-known voice, and turned her head to listen.
A filmy, frozen-looking tear gathered slowly in her.
eyes, and then the lids closed over them, and she
turned her face closer to the wall.
St. John hastened on to the longed-for interview.
His fairy princess, as he delighted to call her, was
sitting under the dear old tree when his attendants
bore his chair through the shrubbery.
Though she smiled upon him pleasantly, and spoke
earnest words of friendly rejoicing over his recovery,
St. John was instantly aware of a new gravity in her
look and manner. ;
He waved his attendants away with an impatient
hand, and then turned to her eagerly.
“My princess, my princess! do I actually behold
you again? Ah, if I could show you how I was tor-
tured in my illness by the longing to come, and the
vain search after your flying shadow! You werein
my thoughts all the time; I was forever losing you—
being separated by great chasms, and foaming
rivers, and horrible gulfs—trying to reach you, and
finding the attempt vain and bopeless. Ah! it
taught me one wise provision for the future. Prom-.
ise me that you will give me some claim upon your
presence, if I am so ill again.” s
She returned a faint smile, and said, gently:
“You were very ill. indeed. I can see how pale
and thin you have grown. I fancied it must be
sickness that kept you away, when my third visit
here still found no trace of you.”
“Were you troubled or anxious? Tell me, did you
care because you missed my voice here?” asked he,
quickly.
She looked into his eyes with her own, clear and
unabashed, as she answered:
“Of course I was sorry. Once I was keenly disap-
pointed, for I came here in great trouble, vaguely
hoping that the fairy prince would find a powerful
spell to grant my wish.”’ :
“And found no sign of him; that was cruel.
too late now ?”’
She sighed softly, and the grave shadow he had
noticed dropped again upon her face.
“T fear it is.”
“Tell me about it, and let me know the real need.
If it can be accomplished by means of gold, I can
promise fearlessly.”
‘No,ah, no! He has money enough of his own,”
returned she, quickly, locking her hands together
with a tragic gesture; “it is the black cloud of a
false accusation that I would tear away—would rend
in twain, and prove him what he is—the noblest,
truest——”
And here the beautiful eyes dropped, and another
soft sigh ended the unfinished speech.
St. John turned upon her sharply.
“He—then you were not coming with your wants
and wishes——”
“Yes, inyown, though in behalf of another.”
“Your father? No; I remember you said you were
an orphan. A brother, perhaps?’ he questioned,
promptly.
“Not a brother, but a kind friend, the most gen-
erous and devoted,” she replied, still with downecast
eyes, and fingers tremulously locked.
“And you have found him during my ahbsence—this
great friend?’ muttered St. John, angrily. “Male-
dictions upon this sickness of mine !”’
Evelyn scarcely understood the speech, and re-
mained silent, lost in her own troubled thoughts.
St. John watched her closely, with a feverish
foreboding of evil. Presently he leaned forward and
laid his thin, slender hand upon hers. :
“IT am waiting to hear what I can do,” he said,
gently. ‘I think ‘The Maiden of the Glen’ forgets
that her fairy prince is present.”
“How [ wish the childish fancy could be made
truth!’ sighed the girl. “What canIsay? I havea
noble friend in great trouble, but I know very well
that his lawyers are doing everything possible. T
have had a silly longing for some sudden deliverance
to be put into my hands. If you were only a fairy
prince, I should ask for the spell——”
“And I am not. You realize it plainly,” he rejoined,
Is it
with a tinge of bitterness in his tone; ‘‘the spell is
; rae ee
lost—broken. We were like two children playing
out a beautiful myth, and, in our innocence or folly,
believing it to be truth. Now the delusion is stripped
away; we awake, no longer children, to a cold
reality, and see how silly we have been in believing
such beautiful but mythical illusions. Ah, my prin-
cess, you are ‘The Maiden of the Glen’ now, and I—
am an unfortunate mortal. And is this all the end
we can have to our beautiful dreain ?’
‘We can still be friends—true and faithful friends,”
returned the girl, vaguely suspecting the pain and
grief that thrilled the clear, sweet voice of the youth.
Aloe perhaps that is better, and more worthy of us
oth.
“Yes,” declared St. John; “I can picture a reality
even more delightful than our pretty idy). I shall
take back my promise to refrain from asking your
name. I want to knowit, and all about you. I must
never run so cruel arisk again. What if I had lost
trace of you? Besides, the summer is waning away,
and these woods will soon be bleak and dreary.”
“If they were not,” answered Evelyn, “I have
learned the impropriety of my visits here. While [
met a fairy prince, it was not so yery wrong; but
now that I know it is a mortal, [ must be more pru-
dent. That is one thing I came tu say—that I must
come here no more.”
“Who showed you the impropriety?” asked St.
John, fiercely—“that wonderful friend for whom you
give your fairy wishes ?”’
“No; I have found it out for may nenls though it may
be that some talk of his helped me,” returned she,
artlessly, ‘See, here is your ring. I have brought
it back to you. I thank you for the many cheery
thoughts it has given me.”
“Tt has lost its valine for you since you have found
the new friend, I suppose.”
“New? Oh, no,he isnot a new friend. He was
the kindest comforter before I saw England at all—
before [knew you. He says my father commended
me to his care.”
“What! are you talking about an elderly gentle-
mman?”’ questioned St. John, his face brightening.
“Oh, my Dunas I have proved myself a silly mor-
tal, indeed. I have been raging, I do believe, raging
with jealousy.”
“That would be absurd, indeed, whether the gentle-
man were young or old,” said she, calmly.
St. John looked into the cool, downcast face with
passionate eyes. ;
“Ah,” said he, “we must, indeed, indulge in no
more illusions. Dear one, you see me as I am, a weak
and helpless creature bound to this chair, aud yet—I
would not be boastful, but I must be just to my own
cause—and yet I fancy what the body has lost, the
spiritual and intellectual part of me has gained. I
know very little of other men, I have been secluded
so from all the world; butif what I read and hear
gives me true idea of them, there are full many igno-
ble, treacherous, selfish. These despicable qualities
I can swear to you shall never be seenin me. More-
over, what I lack in power and strength, fortune has
beneficently contributed. I can judge faintly of the
kingly power of gold. I think it is, indeed, the fairy
talisman of the world which makes wildernesses
blossom, and dreary paths grow smooth and fair. I
thank Heaven for the wealth which empties its gen-
erous store into my hands, most of all because it
gives me power to make others happy. Dearest, the
fairy prince has vanished, never to return, but a
mortal lover remains. You are my light, my hope,
my one treasure—oh, [ can find no words to tell you
how I love you. Will you come to me, and give me
the right to command all the resources that wealth
controls to pour their beneficent gifts at your feet?
And better and worthier than that, will you accept
~ Host and noblest affection of a true and honest
eart?” F
The words were spoken with growing vehemence,
the clear, silvery voice ringing ont the unmistakable
thrill of true metal, His beautiful face glowed with
the fervor of his emotion, as he bent toward her hold-
ing forth both his hands.
But Evelyn's wide eyes were full of troubled sur-
prise and bewilderment. She half shrank aside to
escape his touch, and the color was fluctuating pain-
fully upon her cheek. Twice she opened her lips,
and the words she would fain have spoken died out
in a gasping sigh. .
“IT have spoken too hastily,’ exclaimed St. John.
“IT have frightened you. Pray forgive me. I only
meant to avoid all future misunderstanding—to give
you to understand the position fairly. Wait a little
before you answer me; take as much time as you
wish—only be sure you realize that my whole life’s
happiness is bound up in you.”
Poor little Evelyn could scarcely lift her drooping
eyelids. She sat there silent and confused, hot and
uncomfortable, secretly longing to spring up and fly
away.
But it was not all of St. John’s doing that this sud-
den panic had fallen upon her, though his words had
been the means. What overwhelmed her most, what
sent the hot tide to her cheek, was the sudden, swift
revelation of the true state of her own heart, which
until now she had never thought of questioning.
“Well?” said St. John’s sweet voice, with gentle
persuasiveness.
“Oh, I wish you had not spoken!” she cried, wist-
fully. “I know nothing about love. I have never
dared to dream of it.” ‘
*‘Let me teach you the grand passion of life—sweet
love. [ean ask no more delightful task!” he cried,
eagerly.
She shook her head, slowly.
“T do not wish to be taught.
the fairy prince again.”
“You do not like me for your lover?’ said St. John,
chidingly. .
“IT cannot think of such a thing,” declared she,
energetically.
“You picture, perhaps, some strong and manly fig-
ure, some grand and noble knight, whose strong arm
shall give you safe defense? You scorn the idea of a
lover crippled and tied to a rolling chair?’ he said,
gloomily.
“T will not think of any lover at all,’”’ she returned,
fiercely. :
But the hot blush on her cheek, the tremulous
light of her eyes, belied the assertion. :
“You are cruel—you are wicked,” cried St. John,
passionately, “if. you do not show me the whole
truth. I have aright to a fair and honest answer.
Has any one else spoken for you ?’
“No one—no one at all,” was the hurried reply;
‘‘and I wish from my heart you had kept silent. Itis
so uncomfortable—so——”’
“Is this all maidenly shyness? Oh, my princess, I
had not thought it could be quite so distressing for
you to know I loved you. Would it be if you gave
any love in return ?”
“I do not know—I cannot tell——” began Evelyn,
and then paused, conscience-stricken, and growing
more composed, she went on, resolutely: ‘‘Nay, per-
haps I should tell you what I think—that it would be
impossible for me to love you in that way, though I
have had very fond and grateful sentiments toward
you.”
4 “T have spoken too abruptly,” murmured St. John;
“she believes that startled confusion must prove to
be aversion and dislike. Oh, my darling, my darling,
I will be very patient and forbearing if I can only
win you at last.”
“But I must not allow you to believe that it will
ever be possible. As you said just now, it would be
wicked—cruel. No, I am quite sure it can never be,”
persisted she.
“Tf you have no love in your heart for any other,
how can you be sure of anything that may come to
reign there? You do not dislike me?”
“No, oh,no! Irespect, I admire, I—am very fond
of you,” she began, hastily, hurrying on to ignore
the first of his speech. ‘Indeed, indeed Iam; but
still T know that no warmer feeling will ever come.”
“Take a little more time to think of it. Just one
more meeting here you may surely grantme. And
I will give you two—three days—nay, even a week
if you insist, before I ask you to come with an
answer.”
“But you must not goon deluding yourself with
vain hopes,” she insisted.
St. John caught her hands, and looked fiercely into
her troubled face. :
“There is another,” he said, angrily; ‘you know
there is another, and you are waiting for him to
speak.”
“No,” she answered, gravely; “no one else will
ever speak. But, for all that, shall I give the throne
to any other who lacks the royal prerogative?’ she
added, thoughtfully.
: St. John sighed, and yet would not relinquish
10pe.
“What shall I do to find the royal signet that will
meet your acceptance? Ah, my princess, I own
your right to choose from the noblest and best. And
I only base my claim upon the depth and truth of a
heart that will yield up its very life to give you hap-
piness. Promise me that. you will think leniently of
me, and that you will come once more.”
“Only once, then,” answered Evelyn, “and because
I must not linger another moment here to-day.
Good-by, then, for another week.”
She adroitly slipped before him, so as to escape
his outstretched hand, and, calling her dog, turned
into the path leading away to the left, once looking
back to sinile archly at his rueful, disappointed face.
“It does not seem at all like the old, enchanting
experience,” murmured 8t. John. ‘Alas! the fairy
, spell is rudely broken.”
And he watched her till the last glimpse of her
dress was hidden from him.
“A bad omen!’ he muttered then. “I should not
have followed to the last glimpse. Be still, foolish,
superstitious heart! I shall see her again; that was
not my last look.”
But the omen was a true prophecy!
Oh, I wish you were
CHAPTER XXV.
““OUR FATE LIES IN OUR OWN HANDS.”
Madame Birkenhead returned from a two days’
journey, and found her son absent upon his first ride
since the illness. She wentat once to his rooms, and
finding them deserted, came back to her own boudoir
and summoned her confidential agent.
Simon Dunn made a prompt appearance, and found
his mistress full of poorly suppressed excitement
and exultation, though it seemed to him the brilliant
-
NEW YORK WEEKLY. $9 mona
é
eyes had still hollower circles beneath their full orbs,
and that there was a nervous tremor of her lips and
hands that had ominous significance.
But she seemed in the highest spirits.
“Well, Simon, I hope you have made up those ac-
counts I spoke of, and taken a full account of stock.”
and ready for your inspection.”
‘Not a very insignificant sum in total, eh, Dunn? It
really seems as if Dame Fortune were amusing her-
self with gilding my wheels. Iam quite startled by
the result of my speculations niced Talk of doub-
ling one’s capital—mine has quadrupled. I certainly
must consider myself a very lueky person, aside from
the deserved return for my thrift and wise planning,
I hardly dare tell you the figures to which wy esti-
mate rises.”
“T can imagine something from my own calcula-
tions. You are able to buy a title for your son.”
She laughed triumphantly.
“Yes, and give him a prince’s revenue besides.
Dunn, Iam going to sell out all the establishments,
every one!”
“That is something sudden,” he said, seeing that
some reply was expected.
“I always meant it—when I had gained a certain
sum. It seemed fabulous once, but itis mine now. I
would like you to make negotiations at once with the
most eligible parties. Probably the several managers
will be glad to buy out my interests. They see for
themselves what profits flow in.”
Dunn was really confounded, and he stood silent
and thoughtful,
_“You need not be concerned about your own situa-
tion, my good fellow,” remarked madam, carelessly ;
“it is true that I mean to break up this establishment
to go abroad and remain several years, Neverthe-
less, I must keep a confidential manager, and, all
things considered, you stand the best chance to ob-
tain the situation.”
“You mean to go abroad ?”’ he repeated.
“Ay. Life begins for me at last,’’ she answered,
smiling away beyond him with haughty insolence of
look and tone. ‘The hour of my triumph has come—
of my triumph—and of mine enemy’s discomfiture
and ruin.”
“The doctor has been here since you left,” spoke
up Simon, abruptly.. '
She laughed again, scornfully.
“You must goto him to-morrow with a suitable
fee, and tell him that I have no further need of his
services.” Ba
“How ?’ questioned Simon; “have you been for-
tunate enough to find a cure?’
“Tell the wise physician that I have no longer any
fears of insanity; tell him I have become satisfac-
torily convinced that what I see is a veritable ghost,
and to people of good courage ghosts are harmless
creatures. Dunn, Major Dick Ingester’s ghost shall
not frighten me, no, not even when it speaks to me,
as it did night before last, with his own well-known
voice.’ .
“Speaks to you! Good heavens, madam! And you
could listen undismayed.”
“My spirit did not cringe; the flesh—well, the flesh
is weak. That is no new saying. I believe I fainted
as I tried to rise from my bed. What matter? It was
the suddenness of the shock. I had steeled myself
against the sight, but was taken unawares by the
voice. It will not happen a second time, for I shall
be expecting both.”
“You can believe ina ghost, and see it, and hear
it, and bear it coolly !’’ ejaculated Dunn, in a voice
of utter amazement. ‘‘Madam, you are indeed a
wonderfnl woman!’
“Have you just discovered that?’ asked madam,
half indignantly. ‘Have I not myself told you that
[ bear a dauntless spirit around with me? Ah,” she
added, throwing herself unconsciously into a Queen
Katherine attitude, and stretching out one sym-
metrical arm in haughty gesture, ‘“‘ah, Dunn, had I
been a man, I might have left a name behind me to
conquer the world’s admiration; but, as it is, I have
triumphed over a woman’s disabilities and thwart-
ing obstacles. I have defied persecution, and ob-
loquy, and pride, and accomplished the task I set
myself. I have built a ladder securely, upon which
I set my foot now, and mount to the dazzling posi-
tion, the honors, once contemptuously refused me.
You don’t understand my meaning? No, it is not
likely you should; but it will be enough for me to
tell that more than twenty years ago I received a
cruel insult, a deadly wound, and was flung down,
like a worthless worm, to grovel inthe dust. But
worms even will turn—another common sayin
everybody hears. I took my oath of vengeance, anc
my plan of patient effort, while I lay writhing in
agony. More than twenty years ago——” She went
on, pacing slowly across the room, her magnificent
eyes glowing, her cheek burning, her regal head
thrown back haughtily. “And to-day sees the ac-
complishment of my vow. My enemies, every one,
are crushed, or smarting under humiliation and dis-
grace, and I—my hand is on the magic talisman that
gives me entrance to the proudest circle of this proud
English society. We areto receive eallers of im-
portance to-morrow, and I want you to see that all
below stairs are in their best liveries.”
Simon Dunn could only bow an acknowledgment
of his.understanding of her instructions. He took
his leave, leaving her standing there with triumph-
ant, shining eyes, and proudly erect head, and with
his own eyes downcast, and his heart full of chagrin,
not unmixed with asort of admiration and respect
for the indomitable spirit he had left, he crept away
nog private quarters, questioning fiercely of him-
self:
“Is she right? Is she really to accomplish all the
splendid aspirations of that ambitious, fearless will
of hers? Is itindeed the wicked that shail flourish
like a green bay tree?”
The moment St. John reached the house his mother
came to him. Scarcely could Simon Dunn have
recognized that tender, loving countenance for the
hard, fierce, triuiwphant lineaments he had last looked
upon.
“My darling! my beautiful !” cried madam, in low,
caressing tones, ape herself beside her son, and
clasping his hands fondly. ‘“Youare still pale and
thin. We must give you a change, and lift you out
of this recluse’s life. What would you say to a tour
on the Continent, St. John, ‘a long, leisurely tour that
could not fatigue or injure you ?”
His eye brightened.
“Ah, under pleasant companionship I can believe
it to be an Elysian experience.”
He was thinking of his fairy princess, and what it
would be to glide with her in a Venetian gondola, or
to pees entranced upon some lovely Alpine lake
while her sweet voice chanted its praises and pointed
out ever recurring beauties.
His mother smiled fondly. :
“Such companionship we will find. It is time that
you emerged into the world, St. John, and tasted -
some of its delights.”
“What, with my crippled limbs 2” he said.
“Tush! it is a cruel deprivation, I own; but still
you need not feelit. Purchased limbs of the stur-
diest strength shall cheerfully bear you where you
will. And, after all, you will be almost as well off as
a kingis. He must not use his own hands or feet
in his daily service, but must submit to the attend-
ance of his suite. You need not be more hampered
through this one misfortune than a sovereign is for
royalty’s sake. And by the way, my darling, I shall
bring some visitors to-morrow to this pretty home of
yours. They are valuable friends of mind. and I want
them favorably impressed with my son. You will
try to entertain them worthily.”
St. John’s face showed signs of pleased interest.
“T shall be glad to know more of your friends,
mother. Do you suspect how very little I really
know of your life outside this room of mine—of my
own ancestry and the like? It is only of late that [
have given any thought to it.” :
“Don’t brood over so poor a subject now, dear,” re-
turned madam, with a little frown flitting across her
forehead. ‘Deal with the future, instead of the
meaningless past. And that, I promise you, shall
yield you rich returns. You are growing into man-
hood now. Hitherto [ have spared you all care and
worry, but now I shall share my hopes and plans
with you. Would you not like to become a ruling
spirit in this proud English society; St. John? Your
intellect warrants your taking a lofty position, and
when wealth and rank also yield you their magic
pass, what may we not hope?”
“But this wretched infirmity,” he said, sadly.
“Tt is nothing. I will show you it is nothing to hin-
der your proud advance. St. John, would it startle
you if I began to think of your marriage ?”
A soft glow broke over his beautiful face, a sweet
smile curved his lips, and his eyes gleamed brightly
back to her questioning glance.
“Ah, then, my innocent recluse has had his
dreams?” she said, gayly. ‘That is well.”
“Shall I tell her the story?’ asked St. John of him-
self, and then answered promptly, ‘“‘Nay, not till the
week is up, and my princess gives me a definite an-
swer.”
Therefore he kept silence and listened tranquilly
while she went on picturing the grand and noble life
‘that should open before him.
He was in gracious humor the next day, deter-
mined to do her guests honor, when Nick, richly
dressed in his fanciful page’s suit, ushered into the
saloon a tall, elderly gentleman and a pretty young
lady, whom his mother introduced with a careless
indifference of tone and look, however secretly her
heart may have swelled with pride and exultation.
“The Marquis Donnithorne and Lady Alice Tre-
maine, my son. St. John, dear, I have promised
them a half-hour in your famous erystal chamber.”
The visitors showed signs of keen interest,
through their high-bred composure of manner, as
they took the offered seats beside St. John’s table
and cast furtive glances from the romantic, costly
apartment to the singularly beautiful face of its
young master.
St. John greeted them with the true courtesy of a
pure and innocent heart that has no confusion or
wisgivings, and there was an artless pleasure mani-
fested that was something captivating as well as
novel for his noble visitors. Madame Birkenhead
quietly but successfully led the conversation so as to
draw him out and exhibit something of the poetic
fervor of his imagination and the kindling inspira-
tion of his genius. They looked over his sketches
and paintings. He played alittle for them on flute,
“Yes, madam. The whole business is footed up, .
=
.
te Na
- Inoment’s hesitation.”
THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 62=5=
guitar, and violin. He even had a playful skirmish
of words with the smiling Lady Alice, concerning the
favorite flowers, and wheeling his chair lightly
across the polished floor, he opened the cage and
summoned his feathered favorites for her entertain-
ment.
While the youthful pair were merrily engaged in
this Arcadian employment, Madame Birkenhead
rested quietly among the satin cushions of her
lounge, and played idly with the great ruby that
dangled from her watch-chain—a costly charm, that
would have made a small fortune for an humble yeo-
man or needy tradesman. But from under her long
lashes she kept close scrutiny of the noble marquis’
somewhat worn, blase face.
“This is really quite like a scene of enchantment,”
said the gentleman. “I never dreamed the neighbor-
hood held such a romantic scene. Your son might be
a fairy prince, and it seem nothing strange.”
“JT mean he shall be,’ returned madam, quietly,
iowering her voice so that it should not reach St.
John ; “I mean that he shall have the power to bring
beauty and gladness. and all the enchanting gifts
wealth can purchase, to those he loves.” :
“T never saw so beautiful a face out of a painter’s
canvas. He really seems remarkably gifted. I can
see that my daughter is charmed eeeny Upon my
word, madam, you had not hinted half. I can see
that your son’s wife will be a very happy woman,
aside from the golden advantage of his fortune.”
“Lady Alice is sweet-tempered. and gentle, and in-
nocent. If she were not, though a royal princess, she
could not win my St. John,” returned madam, calmly.
“TI think everything promises to fulfill our wishes.
They seem mutually interested. And, by the way, I
must correct a mistake I made when you honored me
with your company the other day—a mistake in the
figures of the dowry to be settled on my son’s wife.”
The marquis caught a sudden breath.
“A mistake? Ah?’ And ashadow dropped upon
his face.
“Yes, a mistake,’ proceeded madam, coolly, and
speaking every word slowly. “The amount is just
twice what I said.”
“Twice!” ejaculated the noble marquis, his pale
eyes glistening. ‘Why, it is a princely fortune!”
“Well, itis not a despicable one, certainly. You
know what we proposed. If he takes a new name,
and purchases a title, suitable for the Lady Alice’s
rank, somewhere in Germany, this money will be an
admirable persuasive medium with our exclusive
English peerage.” ; : ,
A cold seorn was in her voice through all its
haughty exultation.
The marquis bent down to touch the shapely hand
still filliping at the giowing ruby.
“And for my wife no name is needed. She will be
the Marchioness Donnithorne. In truth, it will bea
air no husband or father could blush to exhibit in
is ancestral home. I beg your pardon that I hada
Madame Birkenhead gave him a tranquil glance.
Well enough she knew the wild, spendthrift, unwor-
thy life this man had led. Well enough she knew
what poverty of purse, and galling pride of beggared
_ rank had driven him, ere he could even think of such
an alliance, though it would fill his empty coffers, and
restore the luxuries his enervated wants demanded.
What matter? She would come into the haughty
circle which had frowned upon and ignored her, a
marchioness. And the Lady Alice was pure, and
young, and gentle. It was only of St. John’s happi-
ness she must take care.
“TI think 1t is plain sailing now,” she returned, in a
musing voice. ‘We will go abroad at once, my son
and I, And you will follow with your daughter. I
shall purchase a name and title for St. John, and
when we areall married, and after two years’ ab-
sence make our new appearance in England, no one,
T am sure, will suspect the old name and identity.
Such is my wish, and will naturally be yours. The
only thing remaining to be settled is for these chil-
dren to take a fancy to each other. St. John has been
so entirely secluded from female society that there
ean hardly be a doubt on his side. And for your
daughter—if I have any skill in reading counte-
nances—she is already half in love.”
“Fate indeed seems to favor us,’ remarked his
lordship, sapiently. ;
“Fate !’ repeated madam, arrogantly; “it is a con-
su ation my own plans have evoked. Our fate lies
in our own hands, if I am not mistaken !”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
————_+>_ o+____——-
This Story Will Not oc Published in Book-Form,
LADY CHRISTABEL
OR o
THE AMERICAN WIFE.
By ANNIE ASHMORE,
Author of ‘“‘The Test of Love,” ‘Faithful For-
ever,” “Jennie Vail’s Mission,” etc.
r“LADY CHRISTABEL” was commenced in No. 23. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XXYV.
TWO IMPORTANT LETTERS.
The engaging parties took care to strike while the
iron was hot. That very same afternoon Paul Dela-
mere was smuggled by Miss Beverley into‘Lady Chris-
tabel’s presence, and there left to his fate.
Tiady Christabel had received no preparation for
this visit, Miss Beverley shrewdly reasoning that she
could never refuse when taken by surprise what she
would assuredly refuse upon deliberation. So well
had the poet arranged matters that Paul Delamere
stood for some minutes at the door quite unnoticed,
and had time to take in all the pale loveliness, the
touching feebleness, the gentle melancholy of the
sweet girl whom first he had admired for her airy
and bewitching beauty.
Clad in some filmy and exquisite fabric, of the
magical color known as ‘ashes of roses,” with her
soft brown hair rollingin rich billows upon the white
silken pillows upon which her head reclined, and by
_its very luxuriousness making more frail the small,
delicate face, with its startlingly vermilion lips,
and large gray eyes; with one languid hand hanging
over the cushioned arm of her invalid chair, and
holding in the loose fingers a large and fragrant
calla, whose gorgeous size seemed sufficient to break
the slender wrist of the hand which upheld it; with
her mournful eyes fixed upon the curdled white
elouds sailing past her window--there sat Lady
Christabel, whom love of him had brought to this!
“Ts it possible!” exclaimed the intruder, in deep
ee “that you are so changed as this ?”’
The maiden turned hastily, uttered a startled cry,
half rose, and sank back, while a burning flush over-
spread her face.
“Mr. Delamere!” she gasped, and almost on the
instant became as pale as death.
He advanced with profound respect, took her
trembling hand, and kissed it. :
“At last we meet, Lady Christabel—both different
beings,” said he, gloomily.
“Different beings !” x
Ah, yes, that was true! She lifted her timid eyes,
and gazed with awe upon the ravages which grief
had made upon that never-forgotten face.
“How changed—how changed you are!” faltered
she. ‘‘Have you, too, been ill, Mr. Delamere ?”’
“T have had a sick heart, Lady Christabel ?”’
“And did no one comfort you, Mr. Delamere 2?”
“No oue—as yet.’”’
“And yet you—and yet you loved some, one.” She
paused, panting, and clasped her tiny hands velhe-
ae “Why did not she comfort you, Mr. Dela-
mere ?”
How had she guessed that? he wondered. How,
but by the faultless instincts of a woman who loves!
“She whom I loved is—is ——”
He stopped with a groan.
: yer fatal, fatal words, which proclaimed him deso-
ate!
“She is false?” whispered Lady Christabel, with a
flash in her large eyes. ‘False to you, Paul Dela-
mere? How could she? Oh, let me—let me say how
I pity you!” A
Bright tears rolled down her waxen face; in the
plenitude of her sympathy for him, and her indigna-
tion at the falseness of the woman whom she knew
to be her rival, she forgot her own Napanee
got to revenge herself upon him by icy coldness.
“She is not false, sweet comforter,” groaned Paul
Delamere; ‘‘she is dead.”
Oh, the unutterable anguish of his tones—the des-
pair upon his countenance !
“Can I believe it!’ he muttered, forgetting all but
that far-off grave. ‘Dead! dead !”
dy Christabel sank back ina passion of tears.
His grief was nothing to her; he loved another wo-
man, and that woman was dead; he had caused her
bitter humiliation and weary sorrow; he was not
even thinking of her now; and yet, from the noble,
all-forgiving, and generous heart, rose that wailing
sob of sympathy.
_ “Dead? Oh, dear friend! What can I do—what
can I do to comfort you? And I called her false!
Poor darling! Dear Mr. Delainere, I cannot comfort
_you—but the Lord may! Ask Him—He pities your
misery with a Heavenly pity !”’
Paul Delamere was touched. For the first time
since his affliction did he hear the words of sym-
athy; for the first time since his affliction did a
aithful hand point him to a Comforter beyond the
ciouds; and that hand belonged to Lady Christabel!
He buried his face in his hands; he took shame to
himself for the part he had played against this
Sweet womanly woman; without the slightest
faithlessness to the memory of his dead wife, he
could have kissed the hem of Lady Christabel’s gar-
ments, in his admiration and contrition.
When he was calmer, he did this in another way.
“You have not forgotten that unhappy walk by
the river, dear friend ?”’ he asked, gently.
fae turned away her head, but answered:
seh oO. ,
“T commenced to tell you my history then, Lady
Christabel, and perhaps had I done so, it would have
saved you much illness and unhappiness. May I
finish that history to-day ?’
“Will it not pain you too much ?”
“Tt will be an act of justice, Lady Christabel.”
So he told her that story which had set his aunt to
mourning over the demolition of those barriers which
should be impregnable; but the patrician lady who
listened to him now never once glanced at that side
of the disastrous tale.
She mourned with true and burning tears over the
dead mother and the dead child, mourned as through
Constance, the ‘‘Yankee Republican,” had been a sis-
ter to her, the peeress. ;
And then -she dearly pressed his hands with her
own lilied pals, and bade him, streaming-eyed, and
glistering-faced, like a young prophetess of old, fit
himself to join that beloved Constance, who was so
_| pure, so constant, and so good, that surely she was
in heaven now; and she told him of a Balm which
she had found oh, so sweet in days of trouble (whose
bitterness she did not mention); and that was how
seen Christabel Osborne paid off Paul Delamere’s in-
sult. f :
He left her for that time, without having spoken
one word of the business for which his relatives so
hungrily waited. How could he abuse so pure a
creature’s generosity? What! insult her by his
empty professions of love ?
Indeed I believe he would never have brought him-
self to risk wounding her, if first Miss Beverley had
not purred round him, complimenting him upon the
success of his interview, and declaring that the
young lady would be perfectly happy as his life-long
consoler; and then Lord Winter had not aroused his
sympathy with the blood-curdling news that his
wretched creditors had threatened positively to
strike a docket against him, if he would notinstantly
come to their terms.
So Paul, with a burning brow, wrote the following
note to the young lady whom he revered too much to
distress with a personal interview :
“LADY CHRISTABEL OSBORNE:
Dear Lady :—The remembrance of your noble
sympathy during the incidents connected with our
last meeting, almost renders it impossible for me fur-
ther to presume upon such generosity. I entered
your presence upon that occasion to offer you, what
I found before the interview closed, was too un-
worthy a thing to insult you with. I offer it now,
with littlé hope of its acceptance, but an earnest
prayer that my presumption may not forfeit for me
your most valued friendship. That which I offer you,
I shall not name; refuse it with scorn, and you will
only treat me justly. Yours, with deep respect,
“PAUL DELAMERE.”
To this novel love-letter the suitor received by the
next morning the following answer: .
im
“PAUL :—You do not know a woman’s nature yet.
Refuse what you offer with scorn! No. I suffer in
your suffering so deeply. I long so to comfort you,
as lknow God will teach me how. I love you so
dearly—that I accept what you offer, and henceforth
shall be, Your devoted CHRISTABEL.”’
*All’s well that ends well!’” chuckled Lord Win-
ter, when the result of this correspondence was
announced to him. “I'll lay a cool hundred that as
soon as this comes out in the Court Cireular, the
blood-hounds will slink off my track, and wait for the
pickings.”
“I shall give you the most gorgeous wedding that
Lady Vane ever saw, my dear,” said Miss Beverley
to the bride-elect, in her end of the house; ‘tand you
shall be married immediately, since my dear Paul is
so impatient.”
Yes, the goal was about won.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CLAUDE LATIMER HEARS A REMARKABLE STORY.
We return to Claude Latimer, two days subsequent
to his wife’s discovery, in the newspaper, of her sis-
ter’s death. ; ‘
Having left Judith behind, ill of the shock she had
received, he now stood upon the platform of the
Spottsford Station, looking about for some one to
direct him to the grave-yard in which the stranger
and her child had been buried. —
It was his determination to take possession of the
poor remains, and have them re-interred by the side
of his own dear sister ne father, away in the beau-
tiful New Hampshire village where most of his treas-
ures were gathered.
His heart was almost bursting with sorrow, his an-
gelic countenance paler than ever before, for the
blow had been severe. ,.
Her winning kindnesses, her sincerity, her truth-
fulness, her rare gifts of mind and body, her brave
loyalty to that fatal marriage which had destroyed
her—all recurred to the mourning friend, fraught
with poignant anguish.
He chided himself forremembering his ancient love,
and for suffering at its cruel end, but being a man
not yet translated, these memories thronged upon
him in spite of him.
Seeing the village hotel not far from the station,
Mr. Latimer walked up to it, and made his inquiries
of the host.
“Mrs. Paul? Don’t know as I’ve heard, sir. There
was a funeral up to the church-yard, yesterday, but |
I never thought to ask who it was.”
Yesterday! Yes, that was the time that poor Con-
stance would most likely be buried—buried without
a friend to follow her to the grave, or to weep over
her dust.
“The lady I speak of was astranger here. She died,
I think, in child-bed.”’
“What! the lady that was taken ill in the church-
porch? Poor thing! Well, sir, go up to Mr. Lithgow’s
cottage, close by the church; she was taken there,
and they’ll tell you all aboutit. Dead! Dear me, I
didn’t hear!” - }
Claude wended his sorrowful way to the parish
clerk’s cottage as directed, and came anon to the
church, and looked at the porch, locked up to-day,
and then entered the church-yard to find that new-
made grave.
He soon came to a fresh mound upon the steep
side of a hill, where the north wind in winter and the
fierce fall rains would beat, with never a kindly
tree to shelter the poor dead dust below; and so
lonely and repulsive was this “‘stranger’s corner”
that the man’s heart altogether sank, and he buried
his face in his hands.
So this long and narrow mound was her grave!
Here lay Constance—here lay Cugainmn-deoa |
No sods upon the rough-made resting-place; no
stone to mark the spot; no railing to ward off the
careless foot of the visitor, or the heavy tramp of
the cows, here faring luxuriantly on the riotous grass
every where.
Claude could not look upon that grave; he turned
away and leaned upon a tombstone near, and wept.
He tried to stay himself with the hope that she
was gone to heaven, and that the once beautiful
shell-could rest as sweetly here as though inelosed
in a tomb of rarest marble, in a casket of rosewood
and velvet
Gone to heaven! Was he sure of that?
Well he knew that natural amiability is not re-
ligion, and that a blameless life whitens not the soul;
that Christ admired is not Christ served, and that
there is but one fountain which we all must wash at,
from the deep-dyed murderer to the laughing child,
if we would enter heaven!
And he lifted his longing eyes to the pearly firma-
ment, as if he fain would pierce the vail; and he
asked his Father to teach him resignation, whatever
the decree.
And he probed, as so many have done and will ‘do
_to the end of time, that mystic secret of the All-Wise,
asking wistfully : :
“How can I be happy, even in heaven, if I miss
my loved ones from my side? Will He make it up
tous somehow? Can I be a perfect, purified spirit,
and forget them for any recompense ?”
Vain, fond questions, never to be answered until
we stand before the Mighty Throne.
He gazed again at the new-made grave, and turned
uncomforted from the burying-ground,
He stood for some time by the chureh-porch. look-
ing across the road at thé pretty cottage of old Lith-
gow.
Grape-vines clambered over a trestle in front, mak-
ing a pleasant, shady piazza, and the purple grapes
hung down inside, like a fruit-picture.
Some pink hawthorn and late syringas tapped
their scented sprays against the pure white shingles
of the southern side of the house, and behind, gnarly
ranks of apple trees stood knee-deep in purple clover
of the third growth, with their golden-fruited
branches bending low beneath their burden.
A window was open on the south side, and a fold
of pure white muslin floated out and brushed the
red and cream-colored honeysuckle blossoms which
framed the sash.
A little white spaniel sat on the door step, with its
gay little head jauntily crested, and its long ears
uttering in the breeze.
The cottage and the orchard behind it made a
cheerful picture; could it be possible that the cold
mystery of Death had so lately been enacted here?
Claude went to the door at last and knocked. The
pert dog frisked about him in ‘oyful expectation of
getting into the house.
The door opened; aJarge woman, with her gown
turned up and her hair frowzy, presented herself,
and eyed him, as he thought, suspiciously.
“Good-evening, madam. This is the house of Mr.
Lithgow, the parish clerk, I think ?”’
“Yes, sir.” :
“Thave been in the burying-ground, visiting the
grave of the lady who died, as I believe, in this
house. She was a—a dear friend, and I thought I
would trouble you for all the particulars of her
decease.”
ly. indeed, at the:priestly young figure before her,
and seemed half inclined to shut the door between
them; but, after some hesitation, she retreated,
leaving him on the door step, and directly afterward
he heard a whisperec zolloquy in female voices.
Claude heaved a heart-wrung sigh. To think of
her dying here among strangers who cared nothing
for her, when he would have liked to cheer her
through the dark valley!
As thus he thought, the colloquy ceased, and a tall,
fair girl in black appeared in the door-way.
To his surprise, she stepped out beside him and
softly closed the door behind her.
“Your name, sir, if you please ?’”’ asked she, rather
anxiously.
“My name is Claude. Latimer.
sister-in-law.”
“Tmust apologize for such a question; but we—
the lady—I mean we—have been imposed upon once
already. Would you mind giving me some proof that
you are Mr. Latimer 2?”
Astonished, Claude turned his quiet gray eyes upon
her, and then, with afaint smile about the corners
of his mouth as he noted the young lady’s evident
embarrassment, he drew several letters from his
pocket-book and handed them to her.
ene just glanced at the addresses, and returned
thein.
Still she stood by his side, with her eyes fixed upon
the ground, and an expression of anxious indecision
on her sweet countenance.
Claude felt nore and more surprised. He patiently
waited for her to speak.
“Mr. Latimer,” she said at last, with a quickened
breath, “I don’t know how to tell you—I don’t, in-
deed.”
Her voice broke, her lips quivered; she seized his
hand and pressed it vehemently. As he looked upon
her agitated face he saw with an immense astonish-
ment, not sorrow, but joy.
He returned the pressure of her convulsive hand;
he waited speechless, expectant.
“‘Prepare—prepare to hear something that you
don’t—don’t expect,” faltered the young lady, while
tears and quivering smiles chased each other over
her soft face. ‘‘We had to keep it very quiet lest the
wicked man would returnto harass her, and—and—
and—you must know now that the newspaper an-
nouncement was false.” :
She finished by a little scream of triumph. She
then seized Claude Latimer by the arm and led him
into the kitchen. There she stopped, looked into his
blanched and astounded face, and wrung his hand
once more.
“You'll be very quiet, won’t you, if I let you see
her?” whispered she, softly. ‘“‘You know, though
she’s out of danger, she is very, very weak.”
“T fear thatl am not quite calm enough to ven-
ture,” returned Claude, who was, indeed, so over-
come that he could searcely speak. “I will take a
turn or two on the road, with your permission,
madam.”
And so he did, with feet that seemed treading on
air, while his heart swelled and swelled with won-
der and great joy.
Presently he made his appearance, a seraphic
smile upon him, whereat Mrs. Watson, without
preface, dissolved into tears, and at the same time a
shrill ery issued from the half-closed door of the ad-
joining bedroom.
Claude flushed anew at this second surprise, and
Mrs. Watson sobbed something very impressive
about,
“B’ess its ’ittle heartie, was it wokens up ?’
“The child is alive, then ?””
“Lord, sir, the dearest little fellow you ever saw,
though I laid it down for dead not three days ago.”
The young lady appeared at the door and beckoned
him smilingly, and tremblingly Claude obeyed.
He saw in the cool, white chamber a cot flaunting
gay with white muslin and pink ribbons, with a wee
circle of crumpled fiesh under its hood; and a
shrouded bed, whereon lay a sweet white woman
like a lily between the sheets. None other than poor
Constance.
The missionary bent over her with a smothered
sob of joy—next moment he was on his knees by
the bedside, with his head buried reverently in his
hands.
Not cold in her stranger’s grave, with her homeless
spirit wandering drearily, and unsped by love’s
prayers to the God who madeit! Still on earth, to
cherish, to guard, to’ fit for the glad hereafter! Oh,
Father in heaven be ever bles t
‘Let me share in your thanksgiving!’ whispered
the gentle girlin his ear, and she knelt down by his
side and mingled her grateful tears with his.
So Claude, in hislow and quivering voice, broken
by strong emotion, thanked God for the living mother
and the living child, and invoked His everlasting
blessing upon the chosen instruments of His mercy,
who had preserved her when far from those who
loved her,
Mrs. Watson, hearing the voice of prayer, stole in,
fell on her knees beside the cot, and clasping the in-
fant to her breast, cast in her offering of gratitude
with theirs. f
It was a sweet picture; a holy picture. Reader, in
all my series of pen-paintings, I cannot give you a
sweeter one than that.
Three human souls recognizing their Benefactor
with gushing love; three hearts lifted up to Him in
thanksgiving! ;
“For Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest sinuer on his knees—”
Mrs. Paul was my
says the quaint old hymn; and you may be sure that
the blessing of God begirt that little company, at the
biddings of His dear servant, Claude Latimer.
The white curtain floated over the blossoms, and
stirred the honeyed perfumes; and a humming-bird
flickered with wings of gauze and body of gems in
the heart of a honey-bee flower within sight; the
holy aceents fell upon the ear of the dreamer, and
she lifted her head from her pillow,
Her thoughts went back to her early days, when
scents like these and sounds like these were familiar.
She laid her feeble hand, so frail and light, upon
Claude’s head, and a faint smile of peace floated, as
it were, over her vague countenance.
“Dear papa! You have been so long away!” she
whispered.
Claude seated himself beside her, and caressed her
hand between both his palms, while he gazed ten
derly upon her. ,
“She is delirious!” he murmured.
“Yes—but the fever is almost gone.
doctors attending ber, and ry
“Hush!” breathed Constance, holding up a slender
tinger; “no whispering, dears! Shut your eyes now,
and fold your hands, and say after me, ‘Our
Father!’ ”
“She is teaching school again,’ whispered the
young lady. “She raves so often about a school in
‘dear Silvermead.’ ”
We have two
“ ‘Then fare ye weel my ain love,
And fare ye weel a while;
And I will come again, love,
An’ ’t?wer ten thousand mile?! ”
“Poor darling! Listen! she’s singing! How often
she tries to sing that! But perhaps you had better
not tax her any longer just now, sir; she is excited
by your presence. Come away.”
Claude followed her immediately from the chamber,
first bending down to gaze, with mingled feelings,
upon the tiny stranger amid its ruffles and laces.
As they emerged into the kitchen. a gig drew up
before the door, and presently a gentleman entered.
“Oh, Doctor Sturimes,” cried the young lady, you
are just the person we want! Here is Mrs. Paul’s
brother-in-law, Mr. Latimer, and we have had him in
to see her, and she is wandering alitile. Go in and
assure us we have done no mischief, and then be so
very good as to explain to Mr. Latimer how Mrs.
-aul was announced dead in the papers.”’
Dr. Sturmes shook hands with Claude, and hurried
into the sick-room, from which he soon returned with
a hopeful report.
The substance of his communication to Claude, as
given while they sat side by side in his gig, in which
he was conveying lis new acquaintance to dine with
him, was, that he had been summoned in haste by
Dame Watson to attend the lady who had been car-
ried in from the church-porch, where she had been
anxiously examining, with old Lithgow, the parish
register. That he had found her in a very weak and
exhausted condition, and from the fifst feared she
would sink; that he had, however, brought her suc-
cessfully on until the birth of the child, when both
she and it began to sink. That while they were in
this critical condition, requiring the closest attention,
a person calling himself her father, accompanied by
a professional nurse, had arrrived, and dismissed
every oue from about Mrs. Paul, including himself.
“T went away very far from easy in my mind,” con-
tinued Sturmes, ‘‘for I had commenced a course of
treatment which the counter-treatment of the new
attendant would render worse than useless, and have
fatal consequences. There was nothing for it, how-
ever, but submission; 1 was tendered my fee, and
had to go.
“That night, late, Miss Markham, the lady you saw
at the cottage, sir, came riding up to my place ina
state of great excitement, and called me out to the
gate to say: .
“*T can’t get peace in my mind, doctor, if you don’t
get right into your gig, and go back to that poor
lady. I don’t like the man that turned us all out to-
day, and J don’t like the dreadful doctress that’s at-
tending her, and I’m off for Dr. Warrender to help
with his opinion. Ifit were necessary, I should re-
turn with the whole village at my back to help get-
ting you in.’
“With that she galloped off on her little pony the
fifteen miles to Cruden for the famous Dr. Warren-
der, and not a bit of fear had the brave girl, though
she was alone.
“She’s a good girl, is Lina Markham, and there’s
not many could raise a village to do their bidding
quicker than could she.
“Tn less than half an hour I wasin the sick-room,
wrangling in dumb show with the doctress—she was
deaf and dumb, too, the hag!—and examining the
patient before her eyes.
‘Poor dear! she was pretty near the end then, and
it was a toss-up whether she or the infant would be
tirst gone.
The woman stared very hard, and very suspicious-
“Neglect, my dear sir—the most criminal neglect
was killing her!
“Well, sir, the doctress wrote on a piece of paper,
since I didn’t understand her digitorial exercises,
that ‘if 1 didn’t leave the patient in her care she’d
send for her father to come and protect her from the
mistakes of a bungler.’ I kept cool, and asked her if
she would allow me to watch the patient in company
with her for four hours, and if after that time my in-
terference was injurious I would go. In spite of her
teeth, I may say, I staid.
“Before three hours had passed, Mrs. Paul revived
a little, and Dr. Warrender arrived. A glance atthe
state of affairs and a few words from me showed him
all he wanted to know.
*‘He told the wretched woman that he had heard of
her before—that she had earned a berth in the State
prison several times, andéghat he’d have her arrested
on the spot unless she confessed who had hired her
to do this deed, and then took herself off.
“She wrote down a queer confession about Mrs.
Paul being brought to herin a ‘Home for the Unfor-
tunate’ by a Mr. Talon, and that she escaped, but
was tracked to Spottsford by the gentleman, and that
she had accompanied him to follow out his evil de-
signs. She neither knew who Mr. Talon was nor
why he wished the lady tampered with.
“When she had done, Warrender turned her out at
the door, and she went away thankful to escape so
easily. That announcement in the New York papers
took us all by surprise; but we argued that the
wretch must have inserted it, perhaps to satisfy her
principal that she had executed his orders—perhaps
that Talon himself had inserted it to cause her
friends to believe she was dead.
*‘Warrender brought her nobly through, though—
nobly! You never saw anything more beautiful than
the skill and confidence of his treatment. Then,
whenever he could leave her, he left me in charge,
and Miss Markham would have it that she would be
nurse; so here she is to-day, sir, the living mother of
as tine a boy as ever I saw; and we've got Lina
Markham’s clever little head to thank for it.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ee
THE WISE ALWAYS LEARNING.
Cato said that wise men have more to learn of fools
than fools of wise men. Probably he meant that,
being wise, they would learn more. Everwhere the
wise man is the apt learner; and the lesson of avoid-
ance is one which wisdom will ever glean from the
exhibition of folly. While the examples of good and
great men are powerful in winning us to love and to
imitate their excellencies, those of an opposite de-
scription may exercise a warning and restraining
effect. The cruelty which excites horror and indig-
nation may lead us to cultivate kindness and com-
passion. The selfishness which appears in such re-
pellent features may cause us to dread and shun it.
The fretful and peevish temper, so disagreeable to
witness, may stimulate us to be cheerful and patient.
The sight of dishonesty, with its lamentable results,
may be the turning-point in the career of one just
beginning to swerve from strict rectitude. Certain
it is that we may, if we will, in some of these ways,
reap harvests of good from the evil that is all
around us.
—--— > © ~
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freckles had entirely disappeared from the face of
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MY LOVE.
BY MARGARET M’KENZIE.
The vision of a perfect face
Rises before me as I write.
Dark lashes droop with tender grace
O’er eyes illumined with heaven’s own light
A mouth that seems to smile, and yet
In all its gracious curves I read
Of noble will, that never set
Its signet to an evil deed.
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Enframed and crowned by rippling hair,
Where shade and sunshine seem to meet
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While shines the sun, or rides the storm,
My own, my only love thou art!
Recordsof the Bean Club:
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—
>Ss
THE CLOSET DOOR YIELDED TO HER WEIGHT, AND
THE NEXT MOMENT MRS. SAWBUCK LAY UPON
THE FLOOR AT HER HUSBAND’S FEET.
NUMBER EIGHTEEN.
“Good gracious, madam!” gasped Mr. Bulger; “I
cannot understand——”
“This is no time for explanations,” interrupted the
excited Mrs. Sawbuck. “Hide me somewhere—
quick!”
“But——”
“Ah, this will do,” and the lady flung open the
door of alarge empty closet. ‘‘Not a word, as you
value your. life !’
In another moment she had entered the closet and
closed the door,
“This is simply appalling !” exclaimed the Mentor.
“Really, I—”
“Don’t say not’in’ more,” whispered Rocks, in a
cautious whisper. ‘‘Here’s old man Sawbuck.”
The door was thrown open, and Mr. Sawbuck
stalked in, his face aflame, his features convulsed
with rage and indignation.
“Hello, Mr. Sawbuck !” said Rocks, cheerfully; ‘‘is
dat you? How’s t’ings down your way ?”
“(Where is my wife ?” demanded the enraged grocer,
breathing heavily and glaring fiercely at the Mentor.
“Where is she, L ask?”
“Tam at a loss, sir,” began Mr. Bulger, with as
much dignity as he could possibly assume under
these trying circumstances, “to imagine——”
“Silence, sir!’ roared Mr. Sawbuck. “You pulled
the wool over my eyes once, but you cannot do it
again. I now believe that those letters, the author-
ship of which you denied, were written by you, and
that——”
He was interrupted by arap upon the door. The
next moment, without waiting to be bidden, a hall-
boy entered.
“Another lady for you, Mr. Bulger.”
As the Mentor extended his hand to take the visi-
tor’s card from the salver, who should burst into the
room but Mrs. Gasper, his former affianced wife, from
whom he had recently parted under circumstances
so painful that they must be indelibly impressed
upon the reader’s mind.
“T could not wait in the parlor,” she cried, as she
rushed forward and threw herself into Mr. Bulger’s
arms. “Raphael, you cannot tell how I have missed
you. I was too hasty; can you ever forgive me?”
The Mentor implored Mr. Sawbuck by a glance to
be silent regarding the distressing object of his visit,
and perhaps the grocer would have yielded to the
mute entreaty had not Mrs. Sawbuck seen fit to faint
at this juncture. She fell against the closet-door, it
yielded to her weight, and the next moment she lay
upon the floor at her husband’s feet. 5
Mrs. Gasper shrieked; Mr. Bulger uttered a brief
remark in a low tone, the exact purport of which is
not recorded; Rocks turned away to hide a smile;
Birdie gasped “Ba Jove!” and Mr. Sawbuck, equal
to the occasion, exclaimed, addressing the Mentor:
“Fiend! behold your work !”
“Who is this woman?’ demanded Mrs. Gasper,
tearing herself from Mr. Bulger’s embrace.
Mr. Sawbuck took it upon himself to reply.
“Who is she, madam?” he roared. ‘I will tell you
who sheis. She is his wretched victim, whom he has
lured from her peaceful, happy home; and I, madam,
am her husband and her avenger!”’
“Oh, you wretch!” shrieked the widow, turning to
the Mentor. ‘I——”
“My dear Mrs. Gasper," began Mr. Bulger, “I
assure you fd
“Don’t you ever dare speak to me again!”
“But I—"
“T’ll never see your face again as long as I live—
never!’ and with these words, Mrs. Gasper rushed
from the room, slamming the door violently.
‘Now see what you have done!” cried the Mentor,
turning fiercely upon Mr. Sawbuck.
“How dare you address me in that tone ?”’ bawled
the grocer. ‘See what you have done;” and he
pointed at the prostrate form of his wife.
“Oh, dis is great!’”? murmured Rocks, an expression
indicative of ecstatic pleasure on his youthful coun-
tenance.
At this moment Mrs. Sawbuck chose to regain con-
sciousness.
“Where am I?’ she demanded, opening her eyes.
oe ee !” muttered Rocks, but nobody heard
im.
‘You are in the house of the man for whom you
left your husband, and whose career of crime is
nearly at an end,” said the grocer.
“Tt is false!’ moaned Mrs. Sawbuck. “You made
my life a burden by your constant reproaches and
accusations, and I fled to my Uncie Pretzelheimer
for protection.”
“You cannot deceive me, madam. Those letters
”
“If you are referring to the letters which were re-
ceived by Mrs. Sawbuck during the stay of the Bean
Ciub in your city,” interrupted Mr. Bulger, “did I
not inform you, and, moreover, prove to you, that I
never wrote one of them ?”
“But I am not referring to them, sir,” said Mr. Saw-
buck, furiously, ‘‘but to those which you have sent
since your departure from my home.”
“JT have sent none, sir.”’
“Nor have I received any,” added Mrs. Sawbuck.
“No, madam,” roared her husband, ‘‘you have not,
because I was clever enough to intercept them. Here
oe are—proofs of your baseness which you cannot
eny.’
And Mr. Sawbuck wildly flourished two envelopes
in the air. ,
Birdie and Rocks exchanged glances.
ee THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3 x see5c. "VOL. a 33,
“Dem’s de ones we sent,” whispered the latter.
“Wonder ef yer popper won't tumble ter der racket
now.”
“But you had some other means of communication
which you were shrewd enough to hide from me,”
continued the grocer—‘“‘the telegraph probably, and
the elopement proposed in one of these letters would
have been carried ont in spite of my vigilance had I
not chanced to see you take the train for Boston, I
took the same train, and we came to the city to-
gether. I followed you, and found my worst sus-
picions confirmed.”
“Hiram, I am innocent!” wailed the unfortunate
Mrs. Sawbuck.
“Silence, woman!’’ shouted her husband.
no longer a fond, doting fool.”
“Mr. Sawbuck,” interposed the Mentor, “will you
let me see the letters?”
“No, sir, I will not, sir; but I will read one of them,
that your son may know the sort of father he has
got.”
Unfolding one of the sheets, the grocer read the
following:
“T am
“My SouL’s IpoL:—How long it seems since we
have met—and yet it is but a few days! I feel that
life without you is not worth the living. You must
come tome. Can we not fly together to some more
or less sunny clime, where we can live for each other
alone? Be careful, dearest, not to let Sawbuck get
his hands on this—although if he shoulé, I could ex-
plain the matter away as I did before. Write me at
once, and tell me when you will come to me. I shall
await the arrival of your reply with burning impa-
tience. Ever yours,
“RAPHAEL BULGER.”
“Do you deny the authorship of that communica-
tion ?”” roared Mr. Sawbuck, as he returned the prec-
ious epistle to his pocket.
‘“Most assuredly [ do, sir,’ returned the Mentor, in-
dignantly.
“Of course you do—I knew you would,” howled the
grocer. “But I am not here to bandy words with
you, but to accomplish my vengeance. Die, wretch!’
And, to the horror of every one, he drew a revolver,
aimed it at the Mentor’s head, and pulled the trigger.
But the weapon missed fire. The next moment
Birdie rushed forward and seized his arm, exclaim-
ing:
“B-ba Jove, you’re going too far, doncherknow,
Mr. Sawbuck.”
“Unhand me, youth !” bawled the grocer.
“No, I won’t either. It -it wasn’t papa that wrote
those letters, doncherknow; it was I.”
“You !’”? exclaimed Mr. Sawbuck, the revolver fall-
ing from his nerveless grasp.
“You, Birdie!” gasped Mrs. Sawbuck.
“He’s goin’ ter give der hall snap away !” muttered
Rocks, disgustedly.
“Is it possible, Birdie,” cried the Mentor, ‘‘that you
love Mrs. Sawbuck ?”
“No, of course not, papa,” replied the youth, indig-
nantly. ‘I only did it for fun, doncherknow.”
“For fun, sir!’ thundered Mr. Bulger.
“Yes, sir.”
‘And who else knew of it?”
‘““N—no one, papa.”
“He’s white,” mused Rocks; “he won’t give me
away.”
But we regret to be obli
diately added, aloud:
“T didn’t tink you’d do a t’ing like dat, Mr. Birdie.”
“Birdie,” said the Mentor, ‘‘do you appreciate the
fact that this senseless joke of yours has nearly
robbed you of a father—and such a father ?”’
“Y—yes, sir.”’
“Let this be the last time you ever indulge in prac-
tical joking.”
“Y—yes, sir.”
“Go to your room.”
“Y—yes, papa.”’
And the youth vanished.
“Birdie,” said Mr. Bulger, “is only a child, and is
excusable for what he has done. But what shall be
said of a gray-haired man who permits himself to be
robbed of his reason by a senseless trick like that
which has just been exposed, and deliberately at-
tempts the life of a fellow-creature ?’
“Nothing can be said,’ interrupted Mrs. Sawbuck,
“except that he’s an old fool.”
“Dat’s ’bout der size of it,’? added Rocks.
“Mr. Bulger,” said the crest-fallen grocer, “for the
second time, I owe you an apology.” ,
“T should say you did, sir.”
“T—I was hasty.”
“You were more, sir; you were criminal.”
“Er—will you accept my hand, Mr. Bulger ?’’
“No, sir; I will not.”
“Of course he will not,” added Mrs. Sawbuck.
should not respect him if he did.”
‘Me, neider,” said Rocks.
“Tf [ did my duty, I should pursue you to the bitter
end,” added Mr. Bulger; ‘‘and you would find your-
self ere long in a prison cell.”
“And serve him right,” said Mrs. Sawbuck. “But
he is beneath your contempt, Mr. Bulger.”
“He is, my dear madam, and I hope never to see
his face again.”
“You never shall, Mr. Bulger. Hiram Sawbuck,
7 sent about face, and get out of that door.”
ae u » odshaid .
“Do you hear me—go !”
Mr. Sawbuck went without another word; and as
this is the last appearance of the couple in these
records, we may state, on the authority of an inti-
mate friend of theirs, that the grocer has never for-
gotten the lesson he learned on that eventful day,
and that Mrs. Sawbuck is now the head of their little
household.
“This has been, indeed, an unfortunate day,’
mused the Mentor, as his visitors left the room.
“Wy, [tink yerin big luck not ter have had @er
roof shot off yer head,” said Rocks, in a tone of sur-
prise.
“Silence, sir! Rocks!”
“Yes, sir.”
“T am glad to know that you were not implicated
in this foolish trick of Birdie's.”
ee ? I wouldn’t put up no job like dat on no-
ody.”
“No, Ido not think you would, Rocks. Did I be-
lieve you capable of such an act, you would be sum-
marily discharged from my employ.”
“Dat’s w’at I tought.”
“And now, Rocks, you may procure me writing
materials.”
“All right. Goin’ ter write ter der widder, an’
make yerself solid wid her again ?”
“Rocks, you forget yourself,” thundered Mr. Bul-
ger. ‘Go at once.”
“*Nough said,” and the youth vanished.
It was the Mentor's purpose, as Rocks had sus-
pected, to write to Mrs. Gasper. Within an hour he
had indited an epistle to her, in which he declared
his undying love, and explained the cause of the un-
fortunate misunderstanding that had so cruelly sep-
arated them.
“T shall remain in Boston one week,” he wrote,
“awaiting a reply to this letter. If at the expiration
of that time Ido not hear from you, the Bean Club
willleave for foreign parts, and its Mentor will, in
all probability, never return to his native land. I
await your decision.”
For seven long days he awaited it.
In the meantime Birdie was not idle.
Although now a prominent member of the Bean
Club, and second only in importance to its chief, his
entire time was not monopolized by the search for
Culture.
There was in the employ of the hotel a chamber-
maid, by name Maggie Finnegan. She was arather
eo girl, and soon found favor in the eyes of
irdie.
Observing this, Rocks, upon whose hands time
oe heavily, took upon himself the role of a match-
maker.
Chancing to catch Birdie in the act of kissing the
chambermaid one morning, Mr, Bulger, having dis-
missed the girl with a withering glance, thus ad-
dressed him:
‘‘Never let this happen again, sir,”
“B—but Maggie’s a mighty pretty girl, doncher-
know, sir,” pleaded Birdie.
“Silence!” fairly shouted the Menter. “Never let
me hear her naine mentioned again. Do not forget
that you are a Bulger.”’
And he strode away.
Rocks, who chanced to overhear this brief dia-
logue, at once commenced to condole with Birdie:
“Yer popper’s on his ear, ain’t he ?”
“Ba Jove, yes.”
“He t’inks nobody oughter fallin love but himself.
He’s got his widder, ain’t he ?”’
‘‘He did have.”
“Yes, an’ he will ag’in. Now, Maggie’s a good-
lookin’ gal.”
‘Ba Jove, she is!”
‘An’ she likes you.”
“D-do you think so, Rocks ?”’
“TI know so. Why don’t yer get up an elopement ?”
“Ba Jove! Maggie wouldn’t listen to it.”
“Aw, yes she would.”
“But my papa ’d never forgive me, doncherknow.”
“Yes, he would. Take a brace. Ain’t you got as
good a right ter git married as he has ?”’
The unprincipled youth continued in this strain
until he had aroused a deep interest in the subject in
his companion’s bosom.
Then he went to Maggie, with whom he was on
friendly térms, saying:
“Dat young Birdie Bulger’s a good-lookin’ young
feller, ain’t he?’
“You go ’way, Rocks,” was the shy response.
“He's dead stuck on you.”
«T know he is.”
“An’ [’ll bet yer gone on him.”
“T ain’t neither.”
“Yes, yer are, too. Why don’t yer marry him ?”’
“Marry him! he’s never said anything about mar-
riage to me, an’ he never will.’”’
“Won't he? Well, I’ve got money dat says he will,
an‘ dis very day, too.’
“You're jokin’, Rocks.”
“No, I ain’t, neider. Now, ef yer
take it. He’s got lots o’ stamps, an’
fer you. See?”
Mi&ggie did see. She got the chance, and she
profited by it; and that evening Mr. Bulger was
ged to state that he imme-
aT
it ther chance,
e’s a big catch
startled to receive a note from Birdie, stating that he
had eloped with Maggie, and would return in a few
days for the paternal blessing.
“Ingrate!” cried the Mentor, aloud,
indeed, alone!
member.”
There was a light tap upon the door.
“Come in!” cried Mr, Bulger.
To his astonishment the Widow Gasper entered.
In another moment she was folded in his arms.
“Il never expected to see you again,” he murmured.
“How could I remain away from you ?” she re-
turned. “I am yours forever—on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That you resign forever from the Bean Club.”
“Tt is a terrible sacrifice,” said Mr. Bulger, ‘‘but for
your sake [I will make it. Iam no longer a member
of that organization.”
* +
*
“Now I am,
The Bean Club consists of but one
* * *
Years have passed since the eventful morning
when the Bean Club ceased to exist.
Mrs. Gasper has long been Mrs. Bulger, and it is
said that the couple are very happy together. Birdie
and his bride, with both of whom Mr. Bulger has be-
come reconciled, live with them in the old homestead
in Lowell.
Rocks has become a performer on the so-called
“variety” stage, andis now one of a popular ‘song
and dance team,” of which refinement and chastity
are, according to the bills, the leading characteris-
tics.
We regret deeply to be obliged to state in closing
that neither Dr. O’Fake nor Mr. Pretzelheimer has
ever renewed his old friendship with his former Men-
tor; and that both speak in terms of disgust and de-
rision of the organization in which they were once
so dazzlingly prominent—the BEAN CLUB.
[THE END.]
———__ + e~«
Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.
*
: The Open Sesame.
First Reporter (at crowded meeting)—‘How did
you manage to make your way through that awful
crowd outside ?”
Second Reporter—“I got a club, blackened it with
shoe-polish, and then began hitting right and left.
As the peopie dropped with cracked skulls, I stepped
over them, and hammered away again until I reached
the door.” -
“Cracky! Didn’t the crowd try to mob you ?”
“Oh,no. They thought, from my actions, that I
was a policeman in citizen’s clothes.” .
- That Coal Surplus.
Coal Operator (despondently)—“I wish a way could
be found to relieve the glut in the coal market.”
Consumer (confidentially) — “Tell the dealers to
give better weight.”
Theory and Practice. ;
Madame Tweedledee (principal of great dramatic
school)—“I was so sorry I could not be present at
your debut last night. Did you follow my advice,
and hold your powers in check during the earlier
acts, so as to reserve yourself for the grand climax
in the fourth act?’
New Society Actress—‘‘Y-e-s.”
Madame T.—“‘I’m so glad. And didn’t the audience
go perfectly wild over that grand climacteric scene
in the fourth act ?”’
New Actress (sadly)—‘‘They went before the fourth
act—all of them.”
Family Likeness.
Mrs. De Firm—“I tremble to think of our daughter
marrying that young man. Why, he orders his mother
and sister around as if they were slaves.”’
Mr. De Firm—‘‘Don’t worry, my dear. He won’t
order our daughter around more than once. She
takes after you.” :
Out of the Question.
Theater Manager—Your play, ‘The Anarchist,’ is
an excellent one, but it does not call for enough
modern stage effects. Can’t you change it a little, so
I could ring in my mammoth tank of real water ?”
Author—“Impossible, sir. Water has nothing to do
with the subject.”
Rolling in Wealth.
Miss Suburb—Ma, are the Stuckups rich ?”
Mrs. Suburb—“T guess so. They rented their house
for three summers right along, and got the money.”
Trials of Greatness.
Mr. Greatman—‘‘Good-morning, sir.
do for you, sir?”
Reporter (with Edison phonograph and camera)—
“T have come to phonographically and photographi-
cally interview you for the Daily Hustler. Now, grin
and chin.”
What can I
A Nice Neighborhood.
Deacon Ebony—‘“‘I heah you hab moved, Brudder
Black. Has you got inter a select neighborhood ?”
Brudder Black—‘“‘I hab, fer a fac’, deacon. Nebber
saw sich a selection ob chickens in mah life.”
Modern Journalism.
Great Editor—“T see it stated that the new electri-
eal chair will not kill. Detail a reporter to try
it. If he escapes it will make the biggest kind of a
sensation.”
City Editor—‘But what shall I do if it does kill?”
Great Editor—“‘Get a new reporter.”
Saving the Heathen.
Stranger (in Brooklyn)—‘‘Where are all those gen-
tlemen going ?’
Resident—“‘They are going to bid farewell to a
popular missionary to China who has been very suc-
cessful in teaching the heathen the gospel of love and
peace.”
“Tsee. And where is this gang of boys going?’
_ “They are going to stone a Chinese funeral.’
One of Many.
Thompson—‘‘You look pale and thin, Johnson.
Why will you persist in killing yourself working
night and day such weather as this ?”
Johnson—“I am trying to earn money enough to
pay the expenses of a week’s rest in the country.”
Counting the Cost.
Mrs. Smallpurse—‘‘Let’s go to the theater to-night.”
Mr. Smallpurse—Good idea. Look over the paper
and sée what’s going on.”
Mrs. Smallpurse—‘‘Well, let me see. Oh! Here
they are. At the Downtown Theater they are play-
ing ‘The Sea of Ice.’ ”
Mr. Smallpurse—“‘That won’t do.
thing cheaper.”
The Passing of Base-Ball.
Foreign Visitor—‘‘I see it stated that public in-
terest in base-ball is declining.”
American Host (sadly)—“TI fear itis. I fearitis. I
haven’t seen an umpire mobbed this season.”
Hunt up some-
Travel as an Educator.
Agriculturist (on a railroad train)—“‘So you’re a
drummer, eh? Well, ’'m something of a business
man myself now. [’m getting ready to start a
creamery out in Squash County.”
Drummer—“My goodness! See here, my friend.
If you wantto start a creamery, go to New York
city. There’s no cream anywhere else; nothing
but skim milk. I’ve been everywhere, and I know.”
A Busy Family.
Miss Good—‘‘Where are your brothers now, Mrs.
Flyer ?’ :
Mrs. Flyer—‘‘One of them is in Europe, at Monaco;
another is lobbying for the Louisiana Lottery, and
the other has a seat in the Stock Exchange.”
A Recommendation.
Mrs. Slimdiet—‘“‘So you have placed yourself under
the care of a physician who reduces superfluous
flesh? Did he recommend any special diet?”
New Boarder—‘‘No, madam. He simply recom-
mended your boarding-house.”
Mismated.
Anxious Mother—“And so you and your husband
have a great many differences ?”’
Weeping Daughter—‘‘No, only one; but that keeps
us nagging and quarreling and fighting from one
week’s end to the other—boo, hoo, hoo!”
“Only one? What is it?’
“We differ on religion.”
How They Always Talk.
Levelhead—“‘Seen Jinks lately ?”
Binks—“‘Yes, met him last night in Ginsling’s
saloon. He was on one of his periodical sprees, and
it was very hard to get away from him. Jinks is go-
ing down fast.”
Levelhead (a few hours afterward)—“Hello, Jinks!
Heard you were with Binks last night.”
Jinks—‘‘Yes, met him at Ginsling’s last night, and
the fellow was so drunk I had to help him home.
Just tell you, Binks has got to reform pretty soon or
he’ll be in the gutter.”
Patrick’s New Quarters.
Mr. Gotham (to new man, from the country)—
“Well, Patrick, how do you like living in French
flats ?”
Patrick—“Sure, sor, it’s not a French flat Oi’m livin’
in. It’s an Oytalian flat, sor.”
A Scathing Rebuke.
Chicago Teacher—**How many tenses are there ?”
Pupil—“‘T wo—present and past.”
Teacher—‘‘Haven’t you ever heard of a future
tense? Any one might think you’d been brought up
in St. Louis.”
A Rainy Day.
Talented Boy—‘‘Papa, may I get my paints, and
paint a picture ?”’
Practical Father—‘‘Not now, my son; but you may
get some lime and whitewash the cellar.”
A Park Mystery.
First Park Donkey—‘‘Here comes another fat
woman.”
Second Park Donkey—‘“‘Yes. I wonder why itis
all the delicate, ethereal, light-weight girls pass us
by, and all the fat women want to ride us ?”
SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,
UNANSWERABLE.—Anxious sister (to brother just
returned from aenree lesson)—‘‘Oh, Jack, don’t
learn to fight in that brutal way. If you want to per-
fect yourself, take lessons in fencing.”
Jack—“Yes, but if I was attacked I probably
wouldn’t have a foil with me.”
She (triumphantly)—“But you might not have
your boxing-gloves, either.”—Jes/er.
IT WAS THE CouRT HouSE.—“That’s a fine )uild-
ing,” said the stranger.
“You bet it is,” said Tope.
myself once.”—-N. Y. Herald.
A TaATERAL VERSION.—Clara’s mother (calling)—
“Clara, Mr. Smithers isin the parlor, and says he
wants you.”
Clara (entering the parlor and throwing herself
into Smithers’ arms)—“Oh, Charlie, this is so sud-
den.”— Clothier and Furnisher.
A HOUSEHOLD HINnT.—“Ice is too expensive, Mary.
You must get along without it.”
“But how am I to keep the beef fresh, and the but-
ter and milk cool?”
“You have a fan, haven’t you?’—N, ¥. Sun.
STILL QUIET.—Mrs. Simple (whose husband has
been brought home from his club with such a “jag”
on that the doctor had to be called)—“Is my poor
husband still quiet?”
Doctor—‘‘Well—ahem—yes, madam. He has a quiet
still on that will last him for some hours yet.”
' Texas Siftings.
REFORM IS IN THE AIR.—Customer—“Is it custom-
ary to fee the waiter here?’
Waiter—“‘Yes, sir.”
Customer—‘Then hand over your fee.
for you nearly an hour.”—Racket.
A Poughkeepsie doctor is ACeeEe ee play the
cornet. Well, it’s business with him. e makes all
his neighbors feel sick.— Yonkers Stalesman.
There may be pleasures in being poor, but it takes
a very rich man to see them.—Atchison Globe.
“T am about scared to death. I hear that the an-
archists have sworn to kill me if they find me. What
shallI do?’ “Geta position in a bath house.”
Chicago Inter-Ocean.
The lamp-posts of Cincinnati were recently draped
with crape in memory of a deceased director of the
os company. But, as some one remarked, the meters
idn’t stop working a minute to attend the funeral.
N. Y. Tribune.
The youth whose attentions were ignored by the
young woman, said that his trouble was slight.
Washington Post.
The frogs will soon open their annual pool tourna-
ment.—Rome Sentinel,
“What's the matter with mommer?”’ asked the
Prince of Wales. “I fear her majesty has the grip,”
replied the royal physician. ‘I know she has,” added
Albert Edward, sadly, ‘‘the grip on the throne.”
Exchange.
‘You should never take anything that doesn’t agree
with you,” the physician told him. “If I’d always
followed that rule, Maria,” he remarked to his wife,
“where would you be ?’—Philadelphia Times.
. HE WISHED IT.
“T would I were an angel!’
Thus to her beau sang she.
“T would you were,’ he said, “for then,
Love, you might fly with me.”
New York Herald.
“T was fined $10 there
I’ve waited
@
The Ladies’ Work-Box.
Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood
FASHION’S FANCIES.
Bonnets continue to grow smaller, and hats larger.
Yellow velvet roses, without foliage, are popular for hat
garnitures.
Among old fashions revived is that of cording each seam
of the bodice with silk of a corresponding or harmonizing
color. ;
It is now the fashion for all girls under fourteen years
of age to wear very short skirts.
The embroidered nainsook gown is much in demand
this summer for girl graduates and commencement
dresses.
A simple belt, collar, and cuffs of gold or silver passe-
menterie make the only trimmings of many lovely white
commencement gowns.
All the most fashionable women wear their skirts flat
in the back, alittle longer behind than in front, and all
the trimming placed at the bottom. z
Both tinted and pure white pearl buckles, with buttons
to match, are in favor for trimming India silks and thin
wool dresses figured with white.
Calico frocks for piazza and house wear are made up
with large cuffs and collars, guimpes and waistcoats of
white pique, duck, butcher’s linen, or ecru canvas.
A plaiting of black lawn is put underneath the edge of
walking-skirts, from which the dust can easily be shaken
out after it has been worn, and it can be renewed often
enough to keep the bottom of the dress always in good
condition.
Fine smooth woolens, in hair-lines or stripes, are the
favorite materials for tailor-made costumes. The bodices
most approved closely resemble those of riding habits,
and are so fitted and carefully pressed that at a distance
they have the effect of the new French seamless corsage.
Flower balls on a dinner or supper table are novel, and
there is usually a large one in the center, and smaller ones
around the table. The flowers are bound over a willow or
wire frame, which is globe-shape, with sections, and moss
is used to hide the frame.
An old-rose cheviot has a Pa full skirt, edged entirely
around with nine graduated rows of black velvet, while
the back breadths are held in a large triple box plait. A
square Spanish jacket, trimmed with black velvet ribbon,
falls over the full front of the bodice, and the high sleeve
is completed by a second sleeve from the elbow, also
trimmed with rows of velvet.
The new goods which appear from on to day for sum-
mer wear are soft wools, or wool and silk weaves, which
are light in weight, dainty in tint, and exquisite in tex-
ture, while the Priestley batiste, in sage-greens, dark and
light mixed grays, is about the finest material for summer
wear one can find. Among the latest invoices, besides
these silk and wool batistes, are gazalines, many kinds of
grenadines and fancy mixed vailings, taffetas, in damask
and satin effects, colored failles, tartan plaid bengalines,
printed China crapes, poplins, and camel’s hair bourette.
The champignon striped crepon is another light wool,
which in a Paris-made costume has a plain English skirt,
mutton-leg sleeves, and round bodice covered with an en-
tire bodice of guipure lace, in one piece, fitted like an ar-
mor, and fastened on left shoulder and under arm. These
wools are combined in black, and are found flecked with
spots, or rough threads, or line stripes. A turquois-blue
flecked with ecru threads, and wrought with black silk
spots, is strikingly combined with a shirt blouse front,
box-plaited, of black Sicilian, with turned-over collar and
full sleeves of black. A black Neapolitan hat, trimmed
with blue corn flowers, forms the finishing touch to this
suit, and dark blue iscommon made up with red, which
is quite Russian, while turquvis-blue is used with black.
Miss Alice M.—Lace dresses are by no means out of
fashion, and the newest laces have raised designs, in
which thick corded parts alternate with flat openwork
spaces of the pattern, and when worn over silk, this lace
looks like passementerie. Gauzes come in great variety,
some simply spotted, others with alternate stripes of
satin and lace patterns, and still others lace-patterned
throughout. Black dotted net is the special favorite with
young ladies, and for evening wear is relieved by clus-
ters of long-stemmed flowers, which drape the skirt, and
ornament the front and shoulders of the bodice. It is
said, that for midsummer, corsages with the neck cut
low front and_ back will be worn without the guimpe or
chemisette, which has been considered necessary hereto-
fore. Most ladies will, however, use muslin or lace in-
side the low neck, while guimpes and sleeves of muslin,
plain and embroidered, will be worn during the summer,
and sleeves differing from the dress are ati popular.
Miss W. F. C., Philadelphia, Pa.—ist._For a little
girl’s white flannel sailor suit, have a full skirt, shirt
sleeves, full blouse, and sailor collar, with gold braid or
blue silk feather-stitching on all edges, as a finish.
Striped flannels, or the cheaper cloth imitating flannel,
answer for hit le sailor frocks, and have full or
plaited skirts, shirt sleeves, blouse, and deep collars
meeting in points over the chest. 2d. Plain nainsook
may be fashioned with a full skirt, shirt sleeves, and
baby waist, while the belt, cuffs, collar, and square yoke
must be of embroidery. Another design has a yoke in
the back as well, sashes of the material tied in the back,
and a row of insertion set in above the hem.
Emma S., Eureka, Kans.—Stockings and shoes are sub-
jects that we do not often treat, because they undergo so
little change. Black hose are still very fashionable for
all occasions, either in silk or lisle thread, while very
elegant silk stockings are trimmed with lace, beads, and
embroidery, and also come in all colors, for dressy wear,
to match costumes, while plaid silk stockings are con-
sidered to be in very good taste, and also those em-
broidered with tiny sprigs. But such fancy hose are
very Sree ee for besides the first cost, the cleaning is
no small matter, as they have to be cleaned by steam,
ordinary washing spoiling them at once.
Miss Lidie W.—Home dresses of fine cashmere, vail-
ing, or crepon have a full skirt, leg-of-mutton sleeves,
and a basque having under-arm seams only, being shaped
to the figure by tiny tucks, extending above and below
the waist-line, while velvet ribbon trims such dresses
unless they are made of the “robes” that are embroidered
along one edge.
Abbie.—A ladies’ plaited cape may be made of cloth or
lace, with the yoke and collar of velvet or passementerie.
The cape is laid in five plaits, and left pinked, cut
smooth, embroidered in scollops, or hemmed on the edge.
We can furnish a pattern for one of these capes on re-
ceipt of fifteen cents.
————__>-0~__
Items of Interest.
Undertakers do not wear very sad faces when “on
duty ;” but there is onein Buffalo who was caught in a
mean trick, and his woe-begone visage, when discovered,
was rather comical when viewed in connection with the
circumstances. This man was given a costly broadcloth
coat to put on a body he was preparing for burial. When
the widow saw the body in the coffin, she at once noticed
that it it had on a strange coat; she also discovered that
her late husband’s coat now graced the form of the under-
taker. The latter had swapped coats with the corpse.
The widow compelled-him to rectify matters, and the
undertaker looked like an opera-bouffe actor when he put
on his own coat, which, to adjust to the form of the corpse,
he had split up the back.
Blind men who are able to read will learn with
pleasure of some gifts just awarded to Dr. Willian Moon,
whose system of embossed letters has opened the field of
literature to numerous thousands who have been de-
prived of sight. At his home, in Brighton, England, he
was lately the recipient of a valuable chiming-clock, as
well as a check for £250. They were tendered as a testi-
monial of his efforts in promoting the circulation of books
printed in embossed types. As Dr. Moon is blind him-
self, he knew what a boon these books would be to those
suffering from the same affliction.
Seventy years ago, John McAllister was married
in a little brick church, in Boone County, Va. A few days
ago he was married for the second time, in the same
church, at the sedate age of 101. On the last occasion his
bride was Mrs. Jane Hart, aged 91. She, too, had formerly
been married in the same church. The bride wore an
outfit made for her first wedding, sixty-seven years ago,
and the bridegroom wore the hat, neckkerchief, and gloves
he was married in in the year 1820.
The eight horses which are attached to Queen Vic-
toria’s coach upon famous occasions are of the famous
Hanoverian breed—big, stalwart creams. These horses
are still bred in Hanover, and the severest pains are
taken to keep the stock pure. If at birth the colt is not a
pure cream, or if, subsequently, it develops some defect,
itis killed. In this way none but sound and distinct-
colored horses are to met with in this peculiar breed.
- A circus was put to a novel use by a pair of lovers
in Sault St. Marie, Mich. The mother of the young lady
objected to the young man asa prospective son-in-law,
but said she liked him asa friendly visitor. He invited
the girl and her mother to a circus, and secured seats far
apart. While the mother was intently eying the perform-
ance, the plotters hastened away and were married before
the circus entertainment was over.
A strange and unjust law prevails in Italy in re-
gard to military duty.