ANNIE ASHMORE'S NEW STORY,

"TELE: Tas'T OF ILOv EI;

THE BEAUTY OF BONACCORDE,

LL BEGIN NEXT WEEK,

 

er

-

Entered According to Act of Congress, wn the Year

 

 

 

1889. vy Streer é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.

 

Office

Vol. 45.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.
In clouds the western beams expire—

The night is wild with sleet and storm ;
Come heap the yule logs on the fire

To keep the Christmas hearth-stone warm.
With holly branches deck the room,

Turn on a dazzling flood of light;
No somber shade of grief or gloom

Should dim this happy, happy night

Ring, bellman, ring a merry chime,
To-night a thousand youthful feet,
And happy hearts, will dance in time,
To music’s numbers, clear and sweet—
A thousand furrowed brows grow bright
With pleasure’s warm, unclouded glow ;
A thousand aged bosoms light
With memories of long ago.

Ring, bellman, ring a mournful wail;
To-night a thousand eyes will weep
O’er loving faces, cold and pale,

A thousand weary mourners keep
Lone vigiis through the midnight hours,
Dreaming of cherished treasures lost,
Of budding hopes and blooming flowers,

Blighted by winter’s cruel frost.

Ring, bellman, ring a chime of praise!
To-night, amid the angel throng,
A thousand golden harps will raise,
A thousand mortal tongues prolong
The glory of that blessed night—
That Christmas night of glad renown,
When o’er Judea’s silent plains
The birth-star of a God looked down.
o

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

GLADYS GREYE.

By BYRTHA HM, CLAY,
Author of “ Marjorie Deane,” ‘ A Heart’s Idol,”
*§ In Love’s Crucible,” ‘‘Another Man’s Wife,”
‘A Heart's Bitterness,” etc., etc., etc.

{“GuLADYS GREYRK” was commenced in No.7. Back

numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]}

CHAPTER IX.
AN ADDITION TO THE PARTY.

Lord Wilmot was dn invaluable traveling com.
panion. He was never impatient.in reality, though
he sometimes pretended to be. He was never out of
temper, never grumbled at being too hot or too cold,
never complained of the table Whole, never bullied
the waiters. He did not know more than ten words

of German, it was true, but he always contrived to |

make himself understood, generally by a series of
excellent pantomimic efforts. He was always genial,
and cheerftl, and satisfied, and yet he was a thor-
ough Englishman.

No man, much less any woman, ever spent two
hours in Wilmot’s. society without liking him; and
not a few of the latter sex had found it easy to go
beyond mere liking, In a word, there was no resist-
ing his frank, pleasant, light-hearted nature.’ Even
Gerald, from whom it was as difficult to. get a hearty
laugh as from a red Indian, paid tribute ,to Wilmot’s
unforced and spontaneous humor.

Yes, he was a good traveling companion, and he
was still with Lord and Lady Dashleigh, though the

month was now December, and the country was
Italy instead of Germany—Rome instead of Thale.

There was no particular reason why Lord Wilmot
should accompany them; there was, on the other
hand, no particular reason why he should not. He
was unmarried, wealthy, his own master, and with
nothing in the world to do but amuse himself; and
if it anrused him to wander about the Continent with
a newly married couple, and they did not object to
his company, the affair was ‘his and their own, and
no one’s else.

And, as a matter of fact, neither Gerald nor Gladys
objected. At first, Gerald’s reception of his old friend
at Thale was anything but cordial; but before the
evening had worn out, old associations had asserted
their influence, and he had begun to thaw. And as for
Gladys—well, to Gladys his light-heartedness and
ever-buoyant spirits acted like a subtle stimulant;
and, woman-like, she dove beneath the surface, aud
discovered the sterling worth that lay beneath the
light covering of boyish humor. Before the evening
was over he had taken her into his confidence; had
told her all about his mother and sister; about his
schoolboy days, and about’ his troubles; and never
for a moment had bored her.

Gerald, sitting a little apart, smoking in silence,
and half-listening only—his real attention, as usual,
being fixed on Gladys—smiled now and then, pleased
that Gladys should be amused, on her own account.

The next morning, when Gerald announced his in-
tention of moving South, Wilmot looked downcast,
said he was very sorry—awfully sorry; wished he
had never met them if they were going to part so
soon. And when Gerald, at a glance from Gladys,
had said, “Better come with us, Wilmot,” he had
looked up eagerly and scanned their faces wistfully.

“No. really! Do you mean it?
way, de trop, and all that? Do you really mean it,
Lady Dashleigh ?”

And Gladys had smiled—that smile which Wilmot
said afterward made a man sorry to take his eyes off
her face—and said;

“Yes, please come.”

And he had come, and every time he had said he
would leave them—always with an expression of
utter melancholy—Gerald had repeated his formula,
and Gladys her siiile, until, at last, whenever he
mentioned starting off on his own account, Gerald re-
torted :

“Nousense! you'll go South with us, Wilmot, you
may lay your life on it.”

And so at last they had come to that city, toward
which they say all roads lead—Rome.

Gladys would have liked it to be all sight-seeing,
would have wished for nothing better than to be free
to spend the day wandering, fancy free, from one
antique ruin to another, from this historic spot to
that. But modern Rome had its claims. The colony
of fashionables had become fully aware of the great

people who were in their midst; and Gladys found
erself overwhelmed with cards and invitations.

“Bad as heing in Paris,’ said Wilmot, turning over
the pack of ecards that stood inches deep on the table
of Gladys’ private drawing-room in the Grand Hotel.
“More people here than ever this year. Such a heap
of Enatish. too. Well, it’s only fair, you know, Lady
Dashleigh; the Romans invaded us once, and now
it’s eur turn. Look here! here are two invitations
to dinner, and ene to Lady Northdean’s big recep-
tion. What are we going to do?”

And he looked at her with a smile on his handsome

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

Sha’n’t I be in the

3) St.

Rose

New York, January 4, 1890. :

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te eee tee reas me ro
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|ears. It had become so thoroughly an understood
| thing that he should accompany them wherever they
went, that Gladys accepted it as a natural conclu-
sion.
|} “Tf don’t know,” she answered, looking up from
i what Gerald called a litter of fine art-prints and
| photographs. “I don’t want to go anywhere. What
| do you say, Gerald ?’

Gerald, who was buried in the depths of an easy-

L\
NY \\
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EY, BUT TAKE THIS,”

The ‘we’ did not sound strangely in Gladys’ }

chair, reading the weekly edition of the Times, raised |

his eyes and nodded indolently.

| “Go where you like—do what you like,” he an- |

| swered.

“Then I should like to go over the catacombs by |

| night,” said Gladys.

“And catch your death of cold,” remarked Wilmot, |

| still turning over the cards and murmuring the names
{in asort of recitative.

“The Countess of Fenchurch, |

| Lady Sauldgier, the Honorable Mrs. Smith—that’s | l
| thing that ceuld have happened, your turning up

| the American lady whose husband struck it rich in

| some silver mine, and who wears the dress with the |

| diamond trimmings—Lady Northdean again. Here’s
Lady Northdean’s card again and again. Lady Dash-

| leigh, I’m afraid you'll have to put on that black |
velvet dress in which you look so remarkably like a

young empress, and go to Lady Northdean’s recep-
tion.”

“Really ?’ said Gladys, with a laugh.
really go, Gerald ?”’

Gerald looked up.

“Eh! Oh, yes, [ suppose so, if Wilmot says so.
| He’s a regular old woman at that s**t of thing. But
| L wish the people would let us alone. One has fully

a dose abroad.
Wilmot laughed.
“Lazy beggar, isn’t he, Lady Dashleigh ?’
“Poor Gerald!” said Gladys, sympathetically.
is rather hard. He doves hate this sort of thing; don’t
| you, Gerald?, And he has just received the Zimes.
| He would like to sit there all the evening and read all
| the beautiful and exciting parliamentary speeches.
By the way, Lord Wilmot, did you ever make a speech
in the House of Lords ?”’
*‘Never.
. lost my chance. Another man made the same speech
| 1 was going to. Bought it of the same man, I fancy.”
|. Gladys looked shocked, and he laughed in his
| cheery way. y
| “Does Gerald ever speak ?”” she asked.
“Oh, sometimes—he used to. Speaks very well,
| to0 3 but he’s too lazy to care for it. There’s nothing
onthe face of the earth he does care
| abruptly, in a low voice, and with a glance from his
blue eyes at the beautiful face opposite him—‘‘ex-
cepting one.”
| Gladys looked at him curiously, then colored, and
| bent over the prints. Then she rose and put her
| hands, white as marble, with priceless jewels flash-
| ing on them, over Gerald’s eyes.
‘Now. which is it to be, Gerald?”
“Oh, Wilmot knows,” he answered, putting up his

“Tt

“Must I |

| Old Man of the Sea to you and Lady Dashleigh. Well,
| enough of this sort of thing at home without getting |
| hint,

| dear

| But, Wilmot, aren't you tired of us?

Was going to once, but fell asleep and |

| gravity.

for,’—then |
| his short, curt laugh.

| having to turn out.
| or alittle music, By the way, don’t you come unless
| you like.”

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DROPPED THE BR

As carefully—alas! more carefully than if he were
paid to do it—he arranged the engravings according

to their numbers, locked them up in their portfolio, | é
| but a schoolgirl a few weeks ago, but she showed no |

and then went to the window and looked out.
“Oold,” he said, “I’ll tell them to put Lady Dasb- |
leigh’s furs in the carriage.”
“Thanks,” said Gerald, yawning. “Great nuisance,
We could have had a quiet nap,

Wilmot had been standing by the fire leoking down
at a piece of work which Gladys had thrown from
her hand, and which he had not dared to “clear up.”
He looked around atthe words of the other.

“Don’t you want me? Shall I be de trop ?” he
quietly asked.

Gerald went across the room and laid his hand on |
his shoulder.

“What a question! My dear fellow, are you ever |
in the way? I—we, both of us—count it the luckiest

that evening in the Hartz. Seriously, I don’t know |;
what we should have done without you. I’m not
good at guide-book work, you know; while you seem
to be acomplete historian and to know everything.
I don’t know how you manage it. You didn’t use to |
be so knowing ”’

Wilmot looked down. It was scarcely necessary to
admit that he had sat up into the small hours, read-
ing up histories and guides so that he might be able
to answer Gladys’ questions.

“T don’t know,” he said, quietly. “I’m often afraid
I’m trespassing on your yood-nature by playing the

the moment you are tired of me you can give me the
No, I shall see it sharp enough.”

“You'll never want to use your eyes, then, my
fellow,” said Gerald, in his curt way. “We
sha’n’t grow tired of you. I speak for Gladys as
well as for myself. Why, man, you are her right
hand. Without you she’d be lost. Who’d do all the
sights and the shopping, and pick up her litter?
Watching other
people’s felicitous connubialities is rather slow work,
I’m afraid.”

Wilmot thought a moment. The light falling on
his handsome face—with its golden hair and soft, |
silky mustache, his blue eyes and finely cut lips— |

|

 

revealed nothing but a certain vague saduess in its |

“No,” he said, at last, and in a low voice, “T do not |
find it slow. Itis something to see two people thor-
oughly happy.” ?
Gerald looked at him curiously, and then laughed |

“You are a strange fellow, Wilmot. You used to |
be a rum chap when we were at school, full of queer |
fancies, and that sort of thing. Tiere! go and get
your coat on. If Gladys could do without you I

| couldn’t.”

| nearly full.

hand and eclasping hers, and she looked a laughing |

inquiry at Lord Wilmot.

“Better go to Lady Northdean’s, and have done
with it,” said the oracle, ‘‘and, by Jove! there isn’t
much time.”

“Go. Gladys,” said Gerald, rising and stretching
himself, “go and get your war paint on.”

“T wish you’d take your tomahawk and scalp the

“But you confine your slaughtering to the male sex,
unfortunately, Lady Dashleigh.”’

Gladys laughed. She was used to his compliments;
and he closed the door and went back. Gerald was
still standing looking at her, and his eyes turned
| from the closed door to his friend’s face.

“Happy, isn’t she?”
Wilmot nodded.

An hour later and Lady Northdean’s saloon was |
Ali Rome—that is Rome the fashionable
—was there; from a branch twig of the reigning |
house to the newly discovered artist’s wife. Bril- |
liantly lighted, with the famous frescoes of a dead

| and gone master still shining bright and unfaded on |
| the walls, the immense room presented a scene not

| easily to be forgotten.

Exquisitely dressed women

| and high-bred men moved in an endless circle, their

| voices mingling with the soft strains of a famous

lot,” said Wilmot, as he opened the door for her. |

band. Outside in the cold street a group of the Ro
man poor stood, shivering and watching, with that
eagerness and interest which belong to the. children

| of the South, the brilliant scene in which they had |
|no part, and turned from the dazzling window to |

crowd, at a respectful distance, around the car- |

| riages that were still drawing up at the door-way.

Presently the ery went up in the hall and was ecar- |

| ried to the saloon:

“As an angel, as she deserves to be,” he said, and |
he went and picked up the prints and put them |

| straight. He had a trick of setting Gladys’ litter
straight, and he had always some excuse for it when
Gerald bantered him: The things would be mislaid,
or lost, or spoiled, if they were left to the servants.

“Lord and Lady Dashleigh, Lord Wilmot.”
And as Gladys entered on her husband's
murmur ran through the crowded assembly.
Slowly, with that impassive expression that always
sits on his handsome face on such occasions, Gerald
led his wife to the hostess. He knew that every eye

arm, @

’ was fixed on them, but his calm serenity was as un-

| Gerald’s impassive countenance was impassive still,

| still announced, the thing grew oppressive and seemn-

| away by the tide, and that Wilmot was by hersside

a fearful ordeal!”

| smiled.

| we always went into

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| disturbed as if he were walking across the smoking

room of the club.

It was the first appearance of Gladys. She was
trace of nervousness or agitation. With the usual
frank, half-smiling expression of confidence, she
made her bow and shook the great lady by the hand,

and not even Wilmot, whose eyes were fixed on her, |

could discern a single tremor of the red lips, or a sin- |
gle quiver in the beautiful eyes.

“Yes, she is beautiful,’ said the Countess of Fen- |
church; ‘“‘very beautiful! I heard of her
but they were very quiet, and went out very little.
But who was she? I knew something of Lord Dash-
leigh—everybody does; but who is she?’

“The world will not care to ask that question, Lady

Fenchurch,” said an English earl, watching Gladys |

through his eye-glasses.
ready to receive her for wha she is.”

“If Lord Ganby is going to set the seal of his ap-
proval,” said the countess, with a smile.

The old earl smiled,

“Tt does not need my seal,” he said, simply; ‘Lady |
Dashleigh will carry everything before her.”

“Look,” said Lady Sauldgier; “his highness is |
being introduced. Yes, her success is accomplished, |
But who is that handsome man with the yellow hair
standing between them? He came in with them.”

“That is—yes, it is—Wilmot,” said Lord Ganby. |
“Came in with them?” |

Lady Sauldgier laughed meaningly. |
queen of scandal-mongers.

‘*Yes, they say that he goes with them everywhere. |
He is staying at the same hotel.”

‘‘ Her brother, perhaps.”

“No, [know all the Wilmots, and she is not one of
them. Andso Lord Dashleigh is chained at last! It
is Una and the lion over again.”

“The world will be quite |

She was the

“But Una was a meek girl with golden hair, and
they always paint her with a simper,” objected Lord
Ganby. ‘‘Lady Dashleigh is anything but a Una, and
I cannot fancy a simper on that face.”

“Magnificent jewels!’ murmured the countess,
never saw anything better than that set.”

“Tt is nothing to the Dashleigh diamonds,” said
Lady Sauldgier, turning a bracelet on her arm, *‘T|
saw them onthe former Lady Dashleigh only once. |
She never cared for diamonds. They are unapproach- |
able—even by Miss Smitli’s.”

It was very hot. The lights reflected on the Vene-
tian mirrors, though beautiful to look at, were emi-
nently conducive to headache, Gladys had received
the introduction of fifty distinguished persons, whose
names she had mixed up in hopeless: confusion.

“J

’

but Gladys knew as surely as if he had groaned and
thrown up his arms that he was bored to death.
Wilmot, with his crushed hat in his hand, had gone
the rounds with them, occasionally meeting and
stopping to talk with an old friend. Arrivals were

ingly endless, but at last Gladys found herself ina
quiet corner, just as if she had drifted there, and
found at the same time that Gerald had been washed

instead.

“Oh,” she said, below her breath, ‘fare you here ?
Iean understand now why Gerald hates this sort of
thing, and clings like a dying man to his Times. Itis

He looked at her as she stood inher glorious
beanty—glorious in its youth and freshness—and

“This is your first experience of this sort of thing?”
“Yes, and Iam trying to be delighted; but I can
scarcely realize that this is the sort of thing we used
to read about at school and long for.) They used to |
say that I could give a special unction to descrip-
tions of receptions, and make me read them; and |
ecstasies. “And this is it! I}

was never so hot in my life, and never so Bored

 

bored !”

“And yet you have gone through the ordeal tri-
umphantly,” he said, still looking at her with a}
strange smile. “I hear your name on every lip, and
always with admiration—or envy.”

| me.

 

|
| know.

 

| upon her.

in Paris, |

jewels.

Enterea ai the Post Office, New York, as Second Class.Matlter.

 

Per Year,
Two Conies Five Dollars.

Gladys smiled.

“Ought'I to feel triumphant—happy ?’ I felt Hap-
pier yesterday, when we were at high mass at St.
Peter’s. What a farce it allis! Oh, here they come

| again,”’ she broke off, as. a wave surged in their direc-

tion. “Do you know what Iam devoutly praying for
at this moment?”

He shook his head.

“That none of these great people to whom E have
been. introduced will come up and begin talking to
I can’t. reniember one from the other. Fancy
addressing a German baron as a French count, or an
Italian count as-an Austrian duke! What would
happen?”

“They are so courtcous that each would pretend to
be the man you mistook him for, just te save you
elnbarrassment. But do you really want to get out
of it for a little while ?’

“That is your. petitioner’s most earnest prayer,”
said Gladys.

“Then. come with me,’”he said. “I know a way
down to:the bottom of the stairease. You will find
people sitting on the stairs, but there will be some
air there, and you will: get out of the glare of these
million candles.” £

She put her hand on his arm, but as they moved, a
crowd of. people pressed upon them and forced them
to stop. Just in front of them were a lady and
gentleman—the lady Italian, the gentleman English.
At the moment of the forced stoppage the gentleman
was replying to a question of the lady.

“Lord Dashleigh ?”’ he said. “Oh, yes, I knew him
well. Haven’t seen him since his marriage. Been
abroad here.”’

“Ts it true that he was rather wild ?’

“Mad as a hatter. Town full of steries aout him.”

‘‘All true 2?”

“Well, most of

”

them. Nothing is quite true, you
But he went the pace. I’m surprised he is
married.. There is a story of an escapade of his——”

Wilmot had been making violent but polite strug-

| gles to get his companion-away, and at this point, by
| something like sheer force, he succeeded.
| that she had heard every word, but he did not raise

He knew

his eyes to her face until they were out In the little

| gallery that led to the hall; then he looked up and

saw that her face was white; but her eyes still
bravely looked straight ahead unflinchingly.

“You are right,” he said, almost savagely, “itis a
confounded nuisance and an unmitigated bere; and
no one but fools—ourselves excepted—would ever
come te: such places.”

Gladys Jeoked at him with a forced smile, and
gradually the color returned to her face. They had
reached the hall by this time. As he had prognosti-
eated, the staircase was simply lined; the women
fluttering their fans, the men leaning against the
marble balustrade and looking insufferably bored,
Gladys drew a long breath and moved toward the
door.
with am anxions expression on lis faees “1848 & LZ
we should have to go back.” ;

Gladys smiled emphatic assent. ;

‘1 do not mean to go baek,” she said. “I shall stay
here.”

“Gerald will never find us,’’ he said.

Gladys sighed, aud the sigh appealed to him at
once.

“Look here,” he said, “if you don’t mind my leay-
ing you——,. Oh, here’s.a man I know, and ean leave
yous with.”

“No,” she said, grasping his arth, “danot. Edon’t
want any more introductions. If you will go back
and find Gerald and tell him that——” ;

“T understand,” he said,.as if her lightest word
were a royal eommand to him. ‘Wait here and I will
find hiin,” and he led her te a quiet cofner and dis-
appeared.

Gladys stood, her heart beating fast, her color eom-
ing and going. Every werd spoken so lightly by the
Englishman rang inher ears. What right had they
to speak of her husband in such a manner?

“It was false! It was only scandal!’ she mur-
mured. ‘‘And it is for this—for-this—that woman,
and inen toe,-fight so hard!” and, with mingled won-
der and contempt, she looked around on the confused
mass crowding the stairs. Then her aching eyes
sought the darkness of the night that lay moekingly

| in its cool repose, outside the brilliantly lighted door-
| way.

It lay temptingly within reach of a step, An irre-
sistible desire to get out of the heat and glare fell
It would be five, teil minutes, a qnarter
of an hour, perhaps, before Lord Wilmot could tind
Gerald and bring him to her. What. if she just
stepped ont upon the broad stone steps that lay so
white and cool before her?

With Gladys desire was next akin to gratification.

| She hesitated, but at the moment of vacillation, she

saw one of the men to whom she had been introduced
pushing his way down the staircase, with his eyes

| fixed smilingly on hers.

With an impatient gesture she drew her India
shawl] around her shoulders and stepped out into the
shadow.

With a sigh of relief she stood and looked up aft the
heavens, all alight with stars that mocked the dia-
monds on her arms and bosom,

All was quiet. The curious crowd that had col-

| lected to watch the arrivals, had walked away; the
| crowd which would spring up, Heaven knows from
| whence, to’ stare at the departures, had not arrived.

Excepting for a footinan or two the street was de-
serted. There was scarcely a sound, till suddenly
the great bell of St. Peter’s awoke and boomed out
the hour, and drowned the music of tke band that
floated out into the night.

At the sound of the solemn bell Gladys started.

“T wonder,” she mused, “if we can see the domé
from here?”

And eagerly scanning the sky she almost uncon-
sciously moved down the steps and stood on the
pavement. Yes, there it was, like a thing of life,
rearing its majestic dome, heavy with the prayers of
centuries, to the sky.

Gladys. stood, rapt and lost for a few minutes, then
she was about to turn and re-elter the hall, when she
felt a hand upon her arm.

It was not a heavy hand—it was not a man’s hand.

3efore she turned and looked she knew it was a wo-
mans.

“Lady,” said.a Voice, sneaking Italian, “for the
sake of the Heaven above us——”

Gladys started. She had learned something during
her travels, aud she knew that. though the language
was Italian, the voice was English, She turned, and
the light from the hall fell full upon her exquisite
loveliness—clad in its velvet and. glittering with
It fell, too, upon a woman—a mere girl—clad
in threadbare, weather-worn garments, adorned with
misery. But Gladys had no eyes for the tattered
dress; her whole attention was taken up by the pale,
thin faee, that still, through all its pallor, showed
traces of a vanished—and not along vanished beauty.

“Well,” she said, her voice vibrating with pity.

The girl looked up at her, startled by the English
word, and gazed with lack-luster eyes on the glorious
vision.

“Did you speak to me?” inquired Gladys, gently.

The girl opened and closed her lips speechlessly
for a second; then she ejaculated with feverish
earnestness :

“Yes. Forgive me!
lish.”’

Gladys smiled pityingly.

“Are Englishwomen so*hard that you do not care
to beg of them ?’

“Beg!” echoed the girl, and a curious flush stained
her pale face. Then, with a gesture of despair, she
went on, ‘Yes, I forgot, [did beg—I do. If you are
English, if—if yon have any charity in your heart, if
you have any gratitude for the happiness that sur-
rounds you, listen to ne. Iam all alone in this great
city. I—am—”’

She stopped, her breath coming fast and pantingly,
as if a'terrible struggle was tearing her heart.

Gladys moved off the steps and placed a hant,on
the girl's arm. A footman, who had been watching
the scene with languid interest, approached to inter-

IT did not know you were Eng-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
  

 
 
 
 
  

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fere, but an impatient gesture from Gladys sent him
back.

“You are English?” she said, ‘‘and you are quite
right, [am English, too. What isit you want? Are
you’—she hesitated at the threshold of the ugly word
—‘‘are you hungry ?”

The girl made a scornful gesture of assent.

“Yes, but that is nothing. I would not beg for
food. Iam willing, more than willing, to die! But,
no, no—not yet—no! I do not wanttodie. I want
to get back—back %

“Back—where ?”’ asked Gladys.

The girl raised her eyes—beautiful eyes still,
though dimmed with misery.

“To England,” she said, with feverish intensity.
“T must, I must go back.”

‘Have you no friends here ?” asked Gladys, regard-
ing the pale face and burning eyes with pitiful seru-
tiny.

“Not one—not one,” replied the girl. ‘I am alone,
alone! Lady, think of it! You who are surrounded
with friends, you who have husband or lover, father,
mother—oh, Heaven! think of me alone in this awful
city! I—I never begged before. IL do not beg now
for food, but for money, money, to get baek—hack 1”

‘You have friends stillin England ?” asked Gladys,
the tears rising to her eyes.

The girl hung her head, and a low moan rose to her
lips; then she looked up suddenly.

“Yes, yes, [ have friends— one. He will not, he can-
not refuse to help me. He, even he, must do that.
Lady, lamill, I searcely know what I say, but for
Heaven’s sake help me!”

Gladys put her hand to her dress before she re-
membered that pockets were not made in dresses of
ceremony. If she were starving herself, she could
not find about her a penny for the loaf of bread.

“I—Ihavenomoney,” she said, in a tone of distress.
“T am very sorry.”

The girl looked at her; then with a choking moan
turned away.

“Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, “May
Heaven keep you from such a fate as mine!” and she
drew her tattered shawl about her and moved off.

Gladys looked after her with an aching heart;
then, suddenly, sprang off the steps and iaid her
hand upon the girl’s arm,

“Stop!”’ she said, breathlessly.
not deceiving me.”

The girl looked at her vacantly, and Gladys felt
ashamed of her caution.

“Ttis true I haven’t any money,” she said, impetu-
ously ; “but, here—take this.’’

With tearful haste she tore from her round arm a
bracelet set with diamonds and pearls. One of the
set that had been pronounced incomparable. She
thrust it into the listless hands of the astonished girl.

‘Take this. I am so sorry for you!”

And before the girl could say a word she had darted
up the steps and into the hall, almost into the arms
of Gerald, who had just come to look for her.

“Hello, Gladys! what are you doing out here?” he
exclaimed. ‘My dear child, you will eatch your
death of cold.”

“Worse than the catacombs,” said Lord Wilmot.

“Nothing on her but that miserable shawl,’ went
on Gerald. “My dear Gladys!”

‘Don’t, don’t speak to me,” said Gladys. ‘Let us
go atonce. Miserable shawl! If you had seen what
i have seen—a poor girl shivering and starving vi

Gerald raised his eyebrows.

“My dear Gladys, the place is infested with beg-
gars.

“Were you are,’ said Wilmot, who had been hunt-
ing up the carriage. ‘Get in, Lady Dashleigh, as
soon as youcan. You will take a chill.”

“T never take a chill,” said Gladys, laughing a little
tremulously. “I never felt better in my life,” and
she stepped into the carriage.

The two men followed her.

“Put your shawl over your head, Lady Dash-
leigh,” said Wilmot. “You can’t be too eareful.
Hello!” he exclaimed, for his eyes, alas ! were quick
to notice any change in her dress, and he observed
the loss of her bracelet.

“What’s the matter?” asked Gerald, putting up
the window.

“Nothing,” said Wilmot, carelessly; but. Gladys
colored and looked at Gerald steadily.
“T haven't my bracelet,” she said.
“Your bracelet!” he said, quietly.

consequence 2?”

“Part of the set,” said Wilmot, concisely.

“Oh,” said Gerald, ‘better tell them about it,” and
he felt for the check-string,

“No,” said Gladys, ‘‘don’t stop the carriage. I
didn’t lose it. I gave it away to that poor girl.”

Perhaps she expected him to show some sign of
displeasure. If so she was disappointed. ;

“Oh,” he said, calmly. ‘All right! I dare say we
shall be able to match it. Better put your furs
around you, dear.”

“T amso glad you are not angry,” she said, frankly.

“Angry?” he echoed, with a short laugh and a

Stare of surprise. ‘‘Why should I be? My darling,
give away the whole set if you like. Whaton earth
should I be angry at? I ouly hope the girt will make
zood use of it. Let me. put,that fur around your
neck.’ ‘3 ote) Sai Le ih ss

Médnwhite’a girlish figure in a tattered gown stole
feebly through the street, hugging something to her
bosom, and murmuring, “Home! home!”

Does not the poet say something like this:

“Though the mills of God grind slowly ;
Yet they grind exceeding small.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

A LIRR AT STAKE.

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

 

“T hope you are

 

“Ts it of any

 

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

Back

 

CHAPTER XVII.—(CONTINUED.) ¢

mer, LDE set aside the now neg-
lected tray, and drew nearer to
Sir Allyn, whose lips formed
themselves into a wan smile.

“Little comforter!” he said,
weaving his fingers among
her loose curls, and speaking
in a fond, proud tone. ‘You
have already cheered me
greatly. There is hope for us
yet, Iide. Do whatever you
think best. You have my approval for all your ac-
tions. Go to Oakshaw, if you wish, but take Kate
Arsdale and a servant with you. Therwell can sup-
pose you to be in attendance upon me during your
absence. Make what terms you can with Hoadley, or
with Shaweross, if you can find him. I wish I could
battle for you, my darling, but since I cannot I will
assist you to battle for yourself.”

“Thanks, dear papa,” returned Iide, almost gayly,
as she kissed him. “The matter is so far settled
then. You are not to be anxious nor troubled about
me, whatever I may do. I will go to Edenville im-
mediately, and see Hoadley. I will take a gentle
stroll through the park to the village, as I have done
before, and stop at the Dare Arms to rest. There
will be nothing unusualin such an action, and even
Therwell could scarcely suspect my motive.”

She arose as she concluded, made afew more en-
couraging observations, and then retired to her own
rooms to prepare her out-of-doors toilet. A black
silk jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat to shade her
face from the sun, were the only additions necessary
to her costume, and these additions effected she left
the mansion, and set out for the village.

Anxious to avoid an encounter with Therwell,
whom she believed to be upon the terrace, she hast-
ened into the friendly shade of the park, and walked
on toward Edenville, her bosom the battle-ground of
conflicting thoughts.

Her father had not told her that Lord Tressillian
had confessed his love for her, but her delicate in-
tuitions had assured her that the young viscount re-
garded her with a feeling stronger than friendship,
short as had been their renewed acquaintance. It
may be that some thought of this ardent young lover
was mningled with her earnest desire to be freed trom
the claims of Therwell, but if it were so the thought
was unacknowledged even to her own heart. But, as
she neared the lake, beside which she had recently
encountered Lord Tressillian, a soft color flushed
her cheeks, a brighter light shone in her mild eyes,
and a faint smile flitted over her month—all evoked
by the memory of him between whom and herself
she believed an impassable barrier to have arisen.

Suddenly the color, the light, and the smile deep-
ened as she paused near the edge of the water, and
beheld the object of her thoughts seated upon the
opposite bank, gazing dreamily and sadly in the di-
rection whence she had come.

He beheld her at the same moment, and, with a
bounding step and a smiling face, came toward her.
He did not fail to mark, with a lover’s keen sight, the
gentle tokens of her pleasure at meeting him again,
and he greeted her with a kind of passionate tender-
ness that surprised and pleased her.

‘Dear Nde,” he said, holding the hand she had ex-
tended to him, “I have haunted this spot every day
since our last meeting here. I think I should have
called at Edencourt if I had not met you to-day.”

“Papa has been ill,” said the maiden, gently with-

  

drawing her hand. “I have not left the house since

 

 

 

you called. He was taken ill directly after your visit
to him.”

Lord Tressillian expressed his regret that his call
had had such an unpleasant effect; and then his
dark, bright face glowed with love and tenderness
as he said:

“T told your father, de, that I love you, and I
begged him to allow me to settle the demands of
Therwell, and permit me to guard you as my wife.
He refused me, but I will not accept that refusal.
It is for you to say whom you will marry. You
know, Ilde, that I have always loved you; you know
that I cannot live without you. Can you not love me
in return ?’ ,

He paused in his passionate pleading as he saw
the maiden’s face grow pale, and her eyes become
full of inexpressible sadness.

“Do not ask me, Gay,” she said.
love——”

“So Sir Allyn told me, but no paltry debt shall come
between you and me, my darling. I will give this
Therwell everything I own; [ will mortgage every
bit of land in my possession, and he shall have Eden-
court. We will have youth and love, and I will work
for my darling. Say, Ilde,’’ and his voice was pain-
fully eager, ‘‘say that you love me, and thatif you
can you will marry me.”’

Ilde hesitated, then she faltered unconsciously the
answer he craved.

His dark face beamed with joy, and he stole one
arm around her waist, holding her to his heart.
She essayed to loosen herself from his clasp, but
he detained her almost fiercely, yet tenderly, ex-
claiming:

“No, no. You are mine, llde, by your own confes-
sion of love. Iwill not give youup. I have aright
to care for you, to shield you, to love you. Oh, my
darling. [had feared that you were willing to marry
that Therwell, and that you cared notfor me. Let
him plan and plot now—he shall not have you! Look
up at ede. Let me read your soul through your
eyes.”’

‘The maiden obeyed, and the young viscount looked
with lover-like rapture into their clear hazel depths,
in which were revealed a world of purity, of good-
ness, and self-sacrifice. He saw there love, too, and
when he had finished the delicious scrutiny, he
pressed a long kiss upon her brow—a caress that Ilde
returned, forgetting everything but that she loved
and was beloved.

But the next moment memory reasserted itself,
and she said, half frightened :

“Let me go, Gay. I cannot be your wife.
marry Therwell of

“You must not, you mean,” interposed Lord Tres-
sillian, with asmile. “Did I not say that we would
give him everything, dear Ilde, except our happi-
ness ?”

“You don’t understand, Gay, dear Gay; and the }
girl stood a little aside, with paling face and down-
cast eyes. “It—itis not a paltry debt that papa owes.
I thought you understood it better. [knowI can
confide in you, but I dare not tell papa’s secret. I
have but partly guessed it myself. But itis nota |
debt. Money would not satisfy Therwell. He wants
me.”

“But he shall not have you, dear Ide. Such amar-
riage could not happen in a Christian land. I would
forbid the banns myself,’ cried the viscount, im-
petuously.

“Can you not understand, Gay, dear Gay ?”’ said
Iide, in a broken voice. ‘Papa is afraid of Therwell,
who has it in his power to crush us with shame and
disgrace. It is no question of money or land. Papa
has offered him Edencourt if he would release me,
but he refused. Therwell says papa did a wrong |
thing once, and he has witnesses to proveit. You |
understand,” she added, in a kind of frightened whis-
per, with a glance around, as if fearful of being over-
heard, ‘“‘papa’s lifeis at stake!”

“Tam not free to

I must

 

   

purchased return tickets to the village nearest

Hawk’s Nest, and continued her journey almost with-
out any delay.

Arrived at her destination, she hired a vehicle at
the station, and drove immediately to the ancient
home of the baronet’s family.

The reader has been informed through the com-
munication of the worthy Porrocks to his young mas-
ter, of the particulars of the young bride’s visit to
Hawk’s Nest, but the butler little imagined with
what emotion the vailed lady listened to his tales of
Sir Hugh’s goodness, bravery, and wildness, nor
with what joy and gratitude she gazed upon the
pictured semblance of Sir Hugh in the portrait gal-
lery.

She recognized the resemblance to her husband at
the first glance. The blue eyes that had sought to
look into her face beneath its thick vail, the fair and
noble countenance, the womanly mouth—all these
had their counterpart upon the canvas, and in her
joy she could have kissed each separate feature with
blessings and thanksgivings.

Until that moment she did not know how much
she had feared to find a different portrait. She gazed
at it through her vail until a thick mist ef tears
shrouded her eyes, and then she brushed the wist
away and looked again, her heart quickening its
pulsations as the pictured eyes seem to smile upon
her in a recognition.

“Tt is he, my lady,” whispered Nelly, who had
shared her mistress’ tears, and who was enraptured
at discovering how vain they had been. “I should
ee ae face anywhere. He isas handsome as a

ing.

Lady Chellis did not appear to hear the remark, but
with rapt gaze continued to survey the portrait.

At length she aroused herself from her dreamy
trance and encouraged the wondering Porrocks to
talk of his young master, listening so attentively
that it was ro wonder that the butler wove a little
romance in his awn mind, the leading idea of which
was that the young lady had fallen in love with Sir
Hugh, who was indifferent to her.

When at last she turned away from the picture,
Porrocks offered to show her the mansion, and she
followed his guidance, taking a strange pleasure in
walking through the grand old rooms, with their
earved ceilings, and reflecting that Sir Hugh had
often sat by those quaint windows, or had lounged
in those old-fashioned chairs.

A wild impulse seized her, when she had seen
everything, and was about to depart, to solicit an
interview with Miss Chellis, of whom Porrocks had
several times spoken, and confide in her her strange
history, the story of her marriage, and her present
friendlessness. But she remembered how long she
had been reported insane, and reflected. that Miss
Chellis was very old, and would probably become
dangerously excited, fancying she was either schem-
ing ora iunatic. Besides, and here perhaps lay the
chief reason, she could not own to another by what
means her marriage had been brought about. Her
maiden delicacy revolted at the thought of confessing
that she had proposed the marriage, and had even
paid her bridegroom for his consent.

_Indignant with*herself that she had for a moment
thought of confiding in Miss Chellis, she re-entered
her cab, followed by Nelly, and was driven back to
the village, where she arrived justin time to catch
the desired train. She then proceeded to London by
way of West Hoxton, arriving in town at alate hour
of the evening.

The carriage was in waiting for her at the station,
a sign that Mr. Wiimer had not retrieved his lost
position, and she hastened home at once.

As she alighted at the door she observed that the
house ‘was brilliantly illuminated from attie to base-
ment, as if a grand party were in progress, and, with
comer misgivings, she ran up the steps, Nelly at her
side.

Before she could knock the door swung open, and

 

 

Lord Tressillian was uncomfortably impressed
with her manner, but he shook off his conviction of
the truth of her words, exclaiming: ‘ |

“Your father, Ilde, is nervous, and in ill health.
You must not permit yourself to be deluded by his
sickly fancies, or by anything that Therwell tells
you. I see now more clearly than before that you
need a protector, and I will be that protector. I dare
say that Therwell has some hold upon Sir Allyn. He
may know of some youthful error, for Sir Allyn was
very wild once, but itis too preposterous to believe
that your father could have committed a crime.
Why, everybody knows that he is as gentle as a wo-
man. Therwell ought to have some one like me to
deal with him. If necessary I would relinquish to
him everything that I have, save the merest pittance.
Whatever his claim is, money should satisfy it.”

Ilde shook her head, but she could not tell her lover
the suspicions she entertained as to the nature of the
bond between Sir Allyn and Therwell. Not even to
Lord Tressillian, for whom she had just confessed
her love, could she reveal what she knew and sus-
pected. He might not believe in her father’s inno-
cence, he might fancy there was something in his
claim that had never been contested by the baronet,
and he would surely condemn Sir Allyn’s weakness in
having allowed his enemy te maintain a hold upon
him,dnring so many years. Sho, therefere, svisely
kept silence as to what she kuew, and said:

“I have hopes of outwitting Therwell, dear Gay. |
He has two accomplices, and [ am going to try to pur-
chase their assistance. So do nothing in our behalf
until I tell you that I have failed.”

“Can IL assist youin your plans ?” . .

“T think not. There is a paper to be procured, but
I had better go for that myself. I will not hesitate
to callupon youif Ineed your did. And, Gay,” she
added, with heightening color, “you must not con-
sider that weare engaged. [ cannot promise to
marry you without I have papa’s approval, and until
the dark cloud that overshadows us now is dis-
pelled.”

The young viscount acceded to this condition, be-
lieving that he could readily dispel the cloud by fill-
ing the pockets of Therwell from his own coffers.

“Be it so, then, dear Iide,” he said. ‘There need
be no formal engagement between us, for I have had
the assurance of your love, and you know that I love
you. My life shall be devoted to the task of clearing
away the shadows that have enveloped your home,
and of making your future life glad. Iam going
home now to look over my accounts and see exactly |
what I can offer Therwell. I have not examined my
father’s affairs since his death, but I will do so im-
mediately. You shall not battle alone with this vil-
lain, my darling. You have need of my strong arm
and ready purse.” ‘

He smiled encouragingly and pressed her hand to
his lips. For a moment longer they stood conversing,
and then they separated with hopeful hearts—ilde to
visit the Dare Arms and endeavor to come to favor-
able terms with Hoadley, and Lord Tressillian to
look over his father’s neglected affairs, and learn
how much money he could command to purchase the
silence and absence of Sir Allyn’s enemy.

CHAPTER XVIII.
CAPTAIN HEDDELL APPEARS,

“Hail, independence, hail! Heaven’s next best gift
To that of life, and an immortal soul!
The life of life that to the banquet high
And sober meal gives taste; to the buw’d roof
Fair dream’d repose, and to the cottage charms.”
—THOMSON.

Lady Chellis had now assumed her rightful posi-
tion as mistress of her own household, and her ene-
mies were paralyzed by the promptness and energy
with which she had acted. id

That her servants believed in her complete sanity
was evident by the hearty rejoicings over her sup-
posed recovery, and by the earnest sympathy and af-
fection they expressed for the lovely young lady who
would henceforth reign over them in place of Mr.
Wilmer and the ex-governess.

The latter had always borne herself toward the
servants of the establishment as their future muis-
tress, and her rule had been so very far from mild
that they all rejoiced at her sudden downfall.

The butler was the strongest adherent of his young
mistress, and constituted himself herchampion. His
influence was sufficient to procure for her the hearty
support of all his subordinates, and to check un-
seemly gossiping with regard to the mysterious mar-
riage and the unknown husband.

Lady Chellis thus found her position all that she
could desire, and, with a lightened heart and inereas-
ing courage, she set herself to arranging her pecuni-
ary affairs, thus establishing her complete independ-
ence of Mr. Wilmer.

At the very outset, however, she felt disheartened
by the doubts and suspicions as to the identity of her
husband evoked by her late guardian, and she felt it
necessary to her peace of mind and future happiness
to know beyond all doubt exactly whom she had
wedded, and to whose name she had aright in case
of a contest with Mr. Wilmer. :

It would have been natural, she acknowledged to
herself, that the young spendthrift to whom she had
proposed marriage should have assumed a name in
order to conceal his own. To know the exact truth
became, therefore, her first object.

Accordingly, the morning subsequent to her mar-
riage and assumption of authority at home, she at-
tired herself plainly, and, in company with her maid,
set out for Hawk's Nest, to satisfy her doubts in one
way or the other.

Mr. Wilmer had not made his appearance before
her departure, and Mrs. Barrat chose to remain in
her own room. Lady Chellis gave directions to the
butler with regard to his actions in the event of her
uncle attempting to usurp her authority during her
absence, and was then driven to the station in the
elegant brougham purchased by Mr. Wilmer for his
own use.

She did not desire that her late guardian should be
made aware of her journey; or of the doubts she had
entertained respecting Sir Hugh,:so she determined
to change her course at some point upon the road,
and thus mislead him should he attempt to trace her.

West Hoxton, the village nearest the country home
in which most of her life had been passed, appeared
to her the most favorable point, since it would be
oo that she had gone to prepare for a residence

here,

Procuring tickets for West Hoxton, she proceeded
thither with Nelly, but instead of stopping there, she

 

she entered the hall, finding herself between a double
row of servants, who had assembled under charge of
the butler and housekeeper, to do honor to her re-
turn.

It was a pleasant surprise to her to see those rows
of honest, welcoming faces, and to find that the illu-
mination was in her honor. She threw aside her
ecumpbrous vail, and, with a beaming face and tremu-
lous voice, thanked her attendants for their faithful-
ness to her, and promised them her enduring friend-
ship. She looked as if some great joy had come to
her since her departure, and the expression of her
countenance had in it a tenderness that, while they
failed to comprehend it, appealed to each humble
heart. ;

Having thanked them all, and spoken a few kindly
words, Lady Chellis entered her drawing-room,

- whither she was followed by the steward and house-

keeper, who desired to report the progress of affairs
during her absence.

“Mr. Wilmer has been in the library all day with
Mrs. Barrat.” declared Watkins, ‘‘and I know they’ve
been plottin’ against you, miss. This morning, Mr.
Wilmer sent for me, and I went to him. He asked
what you had done, where you were, and how the
servants felt toward you. and what they thought of
him. Then he said that you were crazy, and might

do us all amischief- He offered we anything Imight

ask if I would stand by hia, »utT told him that [had
served the old admiral from my boyhood, an’ [ wasn’t
going to desert his daughter. Then he rose right up,
and, says he, you are discharged, you ungrateful ras-
cal. But Ll answered I wouldn't take my discharge
from any one but my mistress, Then he ordered me
out, and sent for Mrs, Wilks.”

“He said about the same to me as to Watkins,” said
the housekeeper. ‘He asked me to name any price I
chose, and he would give ittome. ButI told him
that my young mistress had been wronged long
enough, and I should stand by her, money or no
money. Mrs. Barrat reproached me, but I wouldn’t
hear a word she said. Then Mr. Wilmer got angry,
and discharged me and all the servants on the spot.
Mrs. Barrat said that that was wrong, and that the
servants would talk, so he said that things were to
remain as they are at present. He took dinner as
usual in the dining-room, and is now in the library.”

“Very well. I will not see him until morning. I
thank you both for your devotion to me. I cannot
say more to-night, for Iam tired from my journey.”

But she had said enough, with her winning smile
and gentle courtesy, to amply repay them forall they
had done in her behalf, and, pleased and charmed,
the two retired. A moment later Mrs. Wilks returned,
with a porcelain basin nearly filled with perfumed
water, and with a dainty towel thrown over her arm.

“If you please, miss,’’ she said, with a smile, ‘‘you
are too tired to go up stairs. Let me bathe your face
and hands here.”’ .

She gently removed her mistress’ bonnet and as-
sisted her to remove from her attire the dust of
travel. Then, with a gentle touch, she bathed her
small white hands, noticing the wedding-ring upon
the marriage-finger. This self-imposed task accom-
plished, she again retired, and the ex-steward came
in her place.

“T thought you might come home hungry, miss,”
he said, ‘‘and so had a little supper prepared for you
in the third drawing-room. It is pleasanter there
than in the dining-room.”

Lady Chellis arose, and, smiling her gratification
at his thoughtfulness, proceeded down the long vista
of the drawing-rooms, until she arrived at the third,
which was divided from the second only by a velvet
curtain.

It was a charming room, bright withlamp-light and
fire-light, redolent with the fragrance of many hot-
house flowers, and warmed by the small, genial fire
that was very pleasant at that hour. In the center
of the room, under the glittering chandelier, stood a
little round table, covered with the snowiest of dam-
ask cloths, and a pretty little silver tete-a-teie service,
some dishes of Sevres fit for the table of an empress,
and a repast fit for an epicure.

This last attention completed the pleasantness of
her return. It was sweet, after all her years of im-
prisoninent, to be the object of affectionate care,
and to feel that there were hearts. even though
humble, that rejoiced in her smiles. Her newly ac-
quired freedom became more than ever precious in
her eyes now that she had the prospect of a happy
home. She rewarded the ex-steward with a bright
smile, and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
Then, with a sweet gayety, she made Nelly sit at the
table with her, treating her foster-sister and humble
friend as an equal, a condescension which the maid
was too well bred to abuse.

Watkins waited at table himself, delighted to hear
the laughter of his young mistress—laughter that he
had not heard for years, and which now sprang un-
consciously from a hopeful, happy heart. He watched
her affectionately, tracing in her lovely face a resem-
blance to the rugged features of his beloved admiral,
and wondering that he could ever have accepted Mr.
Wilmer’s assertion that she had lost her reason. He
abused himself mentally for not suspecting the
truth, and only succeeded in regaining his own good
will by vowing that he would watch over her, and
shield her from any of the wicked machinations of
which he believed Mr. Wilmer capable.

The repast was at length coneluded, and Lady
Chellis returned to the principal drawing-room,
where, in company with her own thoughts and the
unobtrusive Nelly, she spent an hour. She then re-
tired to her newly chosen room for the night, and her
departure was the signal for extinguishing the many
lights throughout the dwelling.

It was not strange, perhaps, after the events of the
day, that Lady Chellis’ slumbers were haunted that
night by a pair of smiling blue eyes, set in a fair,
noble face, nor that she dreamed of a manly voice
whispering words of love in her ears. But it was
rather strange that when she awakened in the morn-
ing she regretted the brevity. of her dream, and
sighed, blushed, and murmured to herself.

“Yes, he isnoble. He might have given a false
name, but he would not. It is something to be the
wife of such a handsome, fine young man, even if he
is never to know who Lam. He has generous im-
pulses, for he saved the life of his butler’s son once
at the risk of his own. He has a grand heart. I
wish, though, he were not so wild. I wonder if he
were ever to discover me,” and the color here deep-
ened and came in and out of her cheeks like a fright-
ened bird at its covert, “if he would despise me and
deem me unwomanly. But he shall never, never
know!” she added, energetically. ‘I am glad I can
divide my fortune with him. With that, after a time,

 

eS VOL, 15—No, oe

 

he can procure @ divorce from his unknown bride,
and marry some one whom he will love.”

She grew pale.as she uttered the last words; her
hands trembled, and she sighed again, more heavily
than before. :,

With a painfully abstracted look she finished her
toilet, scarcely noticing her attendant, but when she
descended to the breakfast-room she was quiet and
self-composed. She took her place at the head of the
table, Nelly at her right hand, and had nearly com-
pleted her repast when Mr. Wilmer entered. He was
soon followed by the ex-governess.

The two confederates had concluded that they must
preserve a calm demeanor, notwithstanding the des-
perate state of their fortunes, if they would retrieve
what they had lost, and both exhibited toward Adah
a pitying, soothing tone, as if they were humoring an
insane fancy in the hope of curing it.

Mr, Wilmer addressed several remarks to his niece,
oo mish she replied very briefly, and with a chilling
1auteur,

Mrs. Barrat did not venture to agar and appeared
to breathe more freely when Lady Chellis made a
sign to Nelly and arose to retire. y

‘Mr. Wilmer,” said the young lady, pansing beside
her chair, “I would hke to see you alone in the draw-
ing-room as seon as you have breakfasted. I will
await you there.”

Her uncle replied that he would soon join her, and
with a cold inclination of her head Lady Chellis with-
drew, being escorted to the door by the butler, who
in his anxiety to treat his young mistress with be-
coming respect, and to annoy her relative, rather ex-
aggerated his attentions, bowing very profoundly
again and again, even after she had passed out.

Nelly of course accompanied her mistress to the
drawing-room. She was the only tried friend Lady
Chellis had in the whole wortd. She had comforted
her in her imprisonment, had cheered her with hopes
of future freedom, and assisted her to escape, had
personated her in Her first absence, and had been a
witness to her marriage. She had endeared herself
to Miss Wilmer by her uniform devotion and faithful-
ness, and she was now treated as a dear and humble
friend rather than as a servant. Until her pathway
had become perfectly clear, her young mistress de-
sired the constant presence of the devoted girl,
cette feeling more secure from the desigrs of her
uncie,

Mr. Wilmer .did not allow his niece to wait long,
but joined her in a rather nervous, excited state. He
was unaccompanied by the ex-governess, and seemed
lost without her, having for years been aceustomed
to depend upon her for counsel and aid in his various
schemes. He came in with an unsteady step and
paused near the door, saying:

“Well, Tam here, Adah, to hear what you have to
Say.” t

“Be seated, then,” said the young bride, coldly.
“Nelly, close the door.”

The attendant obeyed, then went into the adjoining
rooms and locked the doors communicating with the
corridor, thus effectually preventing the widow from
becoming an unseen listener to the interview. She
then returned, and stationed herself behind the chair
of her mistress. ‘

“Mr, Wilmer,” said Lady Chellis, very quietly, yet
with symptoms of emotion in her voice, “I cannot
forget if I would that you were the half-brother of
my late father. For his sake I would spare you from
the ignominy you deserve. But I must also be just
to myself. I wish you to understand that, to secure

my leniency, you must without delay render me a
full and exact account of your stewardship of my
wealth. You could not have dared to appropriate

 

I was married to him the day before yesterday. Here
is the certificate of my marriage.”

She exhibited the precious document to the captain,
who examined it as if ithad been the first of its
kind, and then handed it back, tendering his congrat-
ulations.

“The condition of the will has been complied with,”
said Lady Chellis, “and now I desire to enter into
possession of my property, Mr. Wilmer will make no
objections, on condition of not being exposed, and we
will proceed with the business immediately.”

The captain had come provided with ail necessary
papers, as he had been enjoined to do in Adah’s note
to him, and he sat down and proceeded to give an ac-
count of his stewardship, occasionally calling upon
Mr. Wilmer for papers or statements, A lawyer was
sulmmoned to assist in ee eee’ the property to
its rightful owner, and before the interview had
ended Lady Chellis found herself in possession of a
ere revenue, , % ‘i

The business concluded, and the solicitor with-
drawn, Captain Heddell turned to Mr. Wilwer and
requested him to leave the room, and the house, as
8001 a8 possible, adding: ash

“If Lady Chellis desires any protector beside her
husband, she has one in me. Go!” —

The ex-guardian obeyed, humbled, but not crushed.

When Adah found herself alone with her father’s
friend, she confided in him more fully, telling him of
the wrongs she had endured, but withholding the par-
ticulars of her acquaintance with Sir Hugh. Enough
was said to satisfy him, however.

She then begged him to put fifty thousand pounds
in a certain bank to the credit of her husband, with
whom she did _ not intend to live, but in whose pros-
perity she took a ore interest.

“T suppose it's all the same whether the husband
or wife has it,” said the captain, forbearing to ques-
tion her, and beginning to understand the ease. “You
are quite right to keep the marriage secret, if you
choose. All I have to say is, that you are of the true
mettle, my dear Adah. And the admiral would have
been proud of you. You won’t seriously miss this
sum, and I’llrun down to the bank now, and bring
you back a certificate of deposit.”

He went away directly, and returned in good time
with the all-important paper, which was tu pay Sir
Hugh for his share in the drama. Nelly was dis-
patched with it to the baronet’s chambers, and en-
Joined to bring home the diamonds in Sir Hugh’s pos-
session. During her absence, Lady Chellis enter-
tained the old naval officer in the small drawing-
room with a tempting collation, and they still lin-
co at the table when the maid returned, casket in’
rand.

“You can put itin my trunk, Nelly,” said her mis-
tress. “Tam going to start immediately on my jour-
ney, and Captain Heddell will attend to my affairs
here, You can pack up what I shall need.”

As the maid withdrew she captain remarked :

‘““You may depend upon it, Adah, [ won’t give Wil-
mer house-room after to-morrow. You are too good
in giving him a hundred a year. He ought to be in
prison. But have your own way, my dear; it is time
you had, I think. [ will close this house, and give
Wilmer a quarterly installment of his annuity to-
morrow. He will not dare to trouble you; but if he
does, ypu_ must telegraph to me immediately. He
won’t tind me easy to deal with,I ean tell him. I
will remain with you till you go, and then see you to
the station. You will find a servant or two at your
residence, and I'll send these down to-morrow when
I close the house.

The captain kept his word. He did not leave the
young bride until he had carried her to the station,

 

any to your own use, for you have had associated
with you in the charge of my fortune a gentleman
too incorruptible to allow. sueh a wrong: I have
written a note to Captain Heddell, and expect him
here immediately.”

“You have?” cried the confused guardian, gasping
for beath. “You have written to Captain Heddell z
I will tell him you are insane. I will prove it by
Mrs. Barrat. os

Unable to say more, he sank into a chair, and
sare at his niece with an appalled and stupefied
ook.

“Tf you do so,” Adah replied, composedly. “you will
only expose your own villainy. I will tell Captain
Heddell that my insanity has nothing to do with my
fortune. Under your guidance my dear father made
a will that, if [ did not marry before attaining the
age of twenty-one, I should forfeit my inheritance to
you. Ihave fulfilled the condition. But, insane or
not, the property belongs to me. I have a witness
here to my mariage,” and she inclined het head
toward Nelly. “I have a certificate also, and the
clergyman will prove that he performed the cere-
mony. Then there is the church register. If that be
not enough, my husband can be called upon to cor-
roborate my statement.”

“But a marriage with an insane person is illegal,”
stammered Mr. Wilmer.

“You have first to prove me insane,’ was the un-
ruffled response. ‘Who has said so except yourself,
Mrs. Barrat, and an ignorant practitioner? If you
choose to put the question to the proof, we will sum-
mon half a dozen first-class physicians, You would
not- dare to do it. “You know that the resn!t would}
be to cover you with infamy. You know that Iam as
sane as you are. Shall I prove it?”

There was intense scorn expressed in her eyes, and
Mr. Wilmer shrank before it, murmuring a frightened

 

négative. gx :

“You agree, then, to restore to me my property ?”

Her uncle reflected, but deliberation could not
benefit him. His brain was in a whirl; his heart
was full of seething passions. He felt tempted to
spring upon his haughty, detiant niece, and again to
imprison her in her chamber, and a cold perspira-
tion broke out on his forehead as he remembered he
dared not do it. The servants would defend her.
He felt convinced that Watkins was outside the
drawing-room door, waiting for a single cry from
his young mistress as a Signal to rush to her defense.
He telt that his hands were tied--his evil career had
met at last with a strong check—that he could do
nothing. He dreaded exposure to Captain Heddell,
his co-executor of his late brother’s will, and he also
dreaded the contumely of the world.

Nothing remained, therefore, but to yield.

His lips quivered as he faltered forth a promise
that he would place no obstacles in her way, and
begged that she would not reveal his systematic per-
secutions of years.

Before she had time to assure him on this point
even if she had so intended, the door was opened and
Captain Heddell was announced.

The new-comer was a fine specimen of an old
naval captain, and had been the dear friend of Ad-
miral Wilmer. The rapid and deserved promotion of
the latter had not severed their friendship, but had
tended rather to strengthen and cement it. The
captain was one of the most frank and unsuspicious
of men, firm in his integrity, and full of scorn for
the baser passions which were exemplified by Adah’s
unele. He had been grossly deceived in the charac-
ter of Mr. Wilmer, and had accepted with perfect
faith the story that the admiral’s daughter had in-
herited her father’s malady and was become incur-
ably insane.

His fine, bronzed face was full of astonishment and
pleasure as he entered the room and advanced di-
rectly to Lady Chellis.

“Yes, itis little Adah, arrived at womanhood, and
in sound health,” he said, pressing her,hand and then
kissing her cheek. ‘I was never so surprised in my
life as when I received your letter. I am delighted
to see you, my dear child.”

He kissed her again, and then his gaze was directed
toward Mr. Wilmer.

“This is delightful, isn’t it, Wilmer?’ he cried,
heartily. “Adah hitherto has never been able to see
me when [ called. Only last week she could not re-
ceive me, and now she is grown into the handsomest
woman Lever saw. It seems too good to be true.”

Mr. Wilmer muttered an unintelligible response.

“f have not been ill, captain,” said Lady Chellis,
quietly. “I must make you acquainted with the true
state of my affairs, for I shallrely upon you for coun-
sel and protection.” /

“Certainly, my dear,’ responded the captain, un-
easily, glancing from the niece to the uncle, who ap-
peared to shrink down in his chair.

“You know what a singular will papa made?” said
Adah. “I remember that you afterward protested
against it, when poor papa was dead. According to
the will—but it is unnecessary to explain its purport.
Of course, you rememberit. My father’s insanity
resulted from grief, and it was therefore impossible
that [ could have inherited it. But Mr. Wilmer—I
will never again call him uncle—conceived the idea
purposely, to prevent me from marrying before the
specified time, intending thereby to secure my in-
heritanee. He gave out that I was insane, hired an
unscrupulous woman to attend upon me, and kept
me in close imprisonment. For years I saw no face
but theirs and that of my maid. I had not even
a competent physician, lest he should declare me
sane——”’

“Coan this be possible?” ejaculated Captain Heddell,
looking from the earnest, glowing face of the young
lady to the crouching figure in the arm-chair. “By
Heaven! I believe it is true!”

“Three nights since I managed to escape for a brief
time, and the morning after I accomplished my free-
dom,” said Lady Chellis, speaking with earnestness
and force. ‘‘Since the day before yesterday I have
been the mistress of my own house. Mr. Wilmer has
not dared to molest me. To-morrow I shall be twenty-
one——’ ,

“And unmarried !” cried Captain Heddell, quickly.
“Ah, I see! The villain! Mr. Wilmer will inherit
your father’s property, but not that you received
from your godmother,”

He regarded Mr. Wilmer with intense scorn, read-
ing in his attitude complete confirmation of the
young lady’s words. Indeed, it would have been im-
possible to doubt Adah’s truthfulmess or sanity, and
he immediately enlisted himself in her cause.

“It’s a pity you are not acquainted with some
young gentleman, Adah,” he said. “You ought to be
married before to-morrow. If I were not married
myself——”

“Tcould not marry you,” interrupted Adah, smiling.
“T am already married.”

“Married! Why, how did you obtain your husband ?
Who is he?” .

 

 

 

“He is Sir Hugh Chellis, of Hawk’s Nest, in Wales.

and placed her in the train for West Hoxton; thenhe
went back to look after her affairs, while she pro-
ceeded to her country home, joyful and happy in her
newly attained independence.

(LO BE CONTINUED.)

> 24

This Story Will Not be Poblished in Book-Form,

HIS EARLY SIN;

the Romance of the White Horse,

By HERO STRONG,
Author of “‘The Manager’s Favorite,” “The Cap-
tain’s Orphan Daughter,” “The Lost Bride.”

Back

 

(“His EARLY SIN” was commenced in No. 1.
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
LADY BIANCA’S Visit TO THE TOWER:

“And while the moonlight wrought its miracles,
peer ne the world with silent silver rain,
He spoke of life and its tumultuous ills;
He told me of his pain.
“He said his life was like the troubled sea
With autumn brooding over it; and then
Spoke of his hopes, of what he yearned to be,
And what he might have been.”
T. B. ALDRICH,

Aileen McGregor read the story of Wilbert with
many tears. The reception of the package of manu-
script was, the first intimation she had received of
his arrest, for news did not travel so fast in those
times as weof the nineteenth century are accus-
tomed to see it travel. And arrests and executions
were matters of such every-day, and even every-
hour occurrence, that unless the personage thus fall-
ing under the royal ban was of unusual consequence,
little or nothing was said about it.

The kindness of the outlaw to Aileen, during the
time she had been under his protection, had won her
gratitude and affection, aud she could not have re-
garded more warmly an own brother than she re-
garded Black Wilbert.

Bianca surprised her weeping over the papers, and
though fora long timeshe had been very cold to
poor Aileen, the sight of her tears touched a chord of
tenderness in Bianca's breast. Evenif Wilbert did
love her, Bianca said quickly to herself, it was no
reason why she should be angry with her for it, and
obeying the gentle impulses of her heart, she went
and put an arm softly around the girl’s waist.

Aileen started, and blushed at being discovered
weeping. f

“What grieves you, Aileen?” said Bianca. “In the
olden days you were wont to tell me all your sorrow.
Is that time passed forever?”

‘But you have been so cold to me lately, dear
Lady Bianca. Ithought you did not care for your
Aileen any more.”

“My dear child, [have been a foolish girl. And I
do care for you, and for all that interests you.”

Aileen folded Wilbert’s manuscript together, and
held itin herhand. Some impulse moved her to give
it to Bianca, and let her read for herself. It would
give her a better understanding of Wilbert’s secret
heart than she could ever receive in any other way.

But would it not be a breach of confidence? Per-
haps so, but Aileen was very sure Bianca loved him,

and now at this time, whenit- was so probable that -

he was to die ere long, was it not her duty to effect
a reconciliation if she could.

So she laid the packet in her friend’s lap.

‘“My dear Lady. Bianca,” she said, ‘‘ Wilbert has
fallen under the displeasure of the queen. He has
been arrested—he is in the Tower——”

She stopped; for Bianca had uttered a lew ery, and
fallen back in her chair pale and trembling. Aileen
gathered her in her arms.

“My dearest Bianca, my own love,do not feel so
wretched. There may be hope; he is not yet con-
i his trial has not yet taken place. Be encour-
aged.

“But he will be convicted! Oh, Aileen! Aileen!
and I love him so! ButI forgot! Itis you who have
the right to weep. Itis you whom he loves and not
me.”’ ‘

“You mistake,” said Aileen, gently. “Ilove him,
but only as a sister might. My heart is given to

Frederick—it will never be reclaimed to bestow upon.

any other. And Wilbert, believe me, feeis for me
only the attachment of one friend for another.”
Bianea started up, radiant and joyful.

“Tf that be so, then have I been very wretched for |

nothing. But this package, Aileen—what is it! Why
do you give it to me?’

“TItis his written history. And it will give youa
sight of his inner self. It will prove to you that I
have told-you the truth.”

Bianca took the papers, and read them in the soli-
tude of her own room. Read them with mauy tears

—and pressed warm kisses upon the unresponsive |

aper. j
. ra spite of the doom that threatened the man she
loved, Bianca was happier than she had been for
many a day. For now all doubt was removed, and
she knew that he loved her.

- By and by. she went back to Aileen with a face so
rosy and radiant that the latter hardly could believe
she was the same wan and haggard Bianca who had
so coldly avoided her for weeks past. :

Young Lord Allingwood had just sent in his card,
but Bianea searcely glanced at it.

‘Tam going to the Tower,” she said to Aileen, ‘‘ to
try to get admittance to his cell. Will you go with
me?’

** Not now,” said Aileen. “I judge you by myself,
and I think you had rather see him alone.”

It was a half-day’s journey to London, but Bianca
changed horses often, and shortened the time. When
she reached the Tower it was almoft dark, but she
was full of hope, for she knew the potency of gold.

But this time it failed. The jailer was a man faith-
ful to his charge. The orders, he said, were positive,
no visitors are admitted to see those prisoners who
are awaiting trial. After the trial—if the execution

 

 

 

 

 

  

 
   

 

  
 
  
  
 
    
  
   
  
   
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
   
 
 
   
    

     
   
    
 
  
   

   
  
 
    
  
  
    
   
  
     
  
  
 
 
  
   
 
    
   
  
 
  
   
 
   
  
 
  
   
   
    
   
  
    
    
  
  

 

 

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VOL. 45—No. 10.

 

doubt that the lady might see her friend. :

Bianca begged and entreated; she offered the man
alarge sum of money to break the rules, for once,
but he was firm. The business of keeper of the
Tower might be a disagreeable one, but he was true
to it. ;

While she was talking to the keeper, Gertie, his
little daughter, came to his side and stood, nestling
her hand in his, and gazing shyly at the lady. And
when Bianca sank into a chair, weak and faint over
her great disappointment, Gertie left her father and
eame and stood by the side of Bianca. : ‘

“Pretty lady,” she said, in hersweet, childish voice,
“Gertie 1s sorry.” .

Bianca put an arm around the little thing and drew
her # her breast. Blue-eyed, golden-haired, with a
eomplexion like a blush-rose, it is no wonder that
Gertie was a favorite with all the poor prisoners, to
Whom she came always like aray of sunshine.

“My dear little girl.’ said Bianca, kissing her,
“pray to. Heaven that you may never kaow a wo-
man’s sorrow !”*

“What makes you cry? Tell Gertie!’ said the
child, twining her fingers among the disordered ring-
lets on the lady’s neck. ;

“One whom I love very dearly is in pe here,
and I cannot see him. Oh, child, child, how little
you realize of the misery which is all around you!’

“What is his name—the man the lady loves?” asked
Gertie. 3 :

‘Wilbert; they call him Black Wilbert, my dear.”

“Oh, I know him so well. Heis very good, and he
is not black at all, only his hair. He let Gertie curl
it yesterday, and it was so beautiful! And his eyes
look like the violets in mamma’s flower-pots—only
more as if they were not happy. He kisses Gertie,
too, and says she is a good little girl, when she ear-
ries him flowers.” ‘

“You carry him flowers? Oh, you darling child!”
eried Bianca, kissing her passionately.

“Every single morning,” said Gertie—“violets, and
roses, and lavender. And if the pretty lady will tell
me anything to say to him, I will say it in the morn-
ing.”

“Oh, will you? You dear little girl!’ And then
Bianca blushed hotly at remembering how much of
her proud heart she was suffering this keen-eyed
little creature to see. But love overcame her pride.
“Tell him,” said she, “that Bianca Howard came to
see him, but the rules would not admit her until after
his trial. Tell him that she has not forgotten him,
and that the moment they will admit her she will be
with him. Can you remember all this ?” ‘

Gertie repeated it over word for word, hesitating a
little, in her childish way, over some of the longest
words, as children do over a lesson in school.

“Yes,” she said, gravely; “I can remember it all.”

Bianea kissed her passionately.

“7 will give him that, too; he will like, it best of
all,” said the child.

‘No, no!” eried Bianca. “Not that, Gertie——”

“But you love him?’ said Gertie, wonderingly.
“Gertie always kisses everybody she loves.”

“Yes, but I will not send any kisses to my friend,
now e:

“You will carry them yourself when you go—yes,
that will be so much nicer,” said Gertie, with evident
satisfaction.

Bianca kissed her again, and went away. She took
lodgings close by the Tower, determined to see some
of the higher officials the next day, and again try for
admittance.

But, though she pleaded her case warmly, she met
with no better success. The unvarying reply was
that prisoners could receive no visitors until after
their trial. But she would not have long to wait,
Bianca was assured. Wilbert would be tried within
the week.

' So Bianea was fain to rest as content as she could,
and to Send daily messages to him by little Gertie.

When she told the poor prisoner what Bianca had
said, that she had not forgotten him, and in her
childish way described. to him the sorrow of the
pretty lady over his imprisonment, Wilbert’s eyes
grew moist, and he pressed the lovely little tale-
bearer closer to his heart. His doubts were all re-
moved. He felt sure that Bianca loved him, and
with that assurance to sustain him, he was ready to
welcome life or death. :

“Heaven bless her!’ he said to himself when the
ehild had left him to solitude, “she has brought me
sunshine! If Bianca loves me, I can bear imprison-
ment—disgrace, death! What matters it so that she
is mine! Oh, my darling! my darling !”

He did not sleep that night—he was too happy. His
rison had changed to a palace, and instead of a
1elpless, hopeless outlaw, he was a king.

Three days thereafter he was brought forth for
trial. Lt was, so tospeak, a dull time for the heads-
man—there had not been an execution for more than
a week, and the queen’s council of judges were rather
well-pleased to be able to have a chance of again ex-
ercising their peculiar prerogative.

There was not much to be proved against Wilbert
which was not already proved. His daring, lawless
deeds were known all over the kingdom, and he was
condemned before the testimony was heard.

Only the form of condemnation, and the passing of
sentence, remained to be gone through with.

He was calm and quiet through it all, manifesting |

no emotion, and offering nothing by way of defense.
He felt how useless it would be, and he would not
humble himself to his accusers sufficiently to state
any circumstances which might in any way excuse
his misdeeds.

His friends, and he had many, urged him to memo-
rialiZe the queen in a petition for pardon, but he re-
fused. She had judged him before hearing his story,
he said, and he would not trouble her majesty with
any petitions.

Lord Cleve was one of the council of judges, and
upon him it fell to pronounce on the outlaw the sen-
tence of death. Todo Lord Cleve justice, he was not
naturally a cruel man, but his recentdisappointment
in regard to his marriage with Lady Margaret had
soured his nature, and made him less open to merci-
ful thoughts. Besides, his lordship was tolerably
certain that it was because of a foolish passion for
this outlaw that Bianca Howard déclined to fulfill
her engagement with Frederick, and to this failure
on her part Lord Cleve attributed much of the trouble
which had fallen upon his house. For Frederick had
always been a dutiful son up to the time when he
knew Bianca did not care for him, and if she had not
been otherwise infatuated, doubtless she would have
fancied Frederick. Aud if she had fancied him, the
young man’s sense of honor would have kept him
from other entanglements, and there would have
been no necessity for foul play toward Aileen.

And Lord Cleve could not help believing that his
wife’s respect for him had begun to wane from the
moment she had known of his cruel treatment of
Miss McGregor.

So Lord Cleve. thinking it all over, came to the
conclusion that this notorious Wilbert had caused a
great deal of trouble; and having this private score
of his own to settle with him, my Lord Cleve was
rather happy than otherwise to have the pleasure of
pronouncing upon him the death-sentence.

Wilbert heard it in silence—not a muscle of his face
moving—his noble form drawn to its full height, his
head thrown back, and his dark blue eye fixed upon
the face of the speaker.

He was to die by the ax of the headsman, but the
exact time was not fixed. In those days they were
not quite merciful enough to allow the condemned
prisoner a knowledge of the number of his days.

Wilbert was taken back to the Tower to await the
pleasure of the queen. Whenever she found time to
affix her royal signature to his death-warrant, then
he was to die. : :

Jt might be to-day, to-morrow, next week, or a
month hereafter—no one could tell. And so in the
suspense of uncertainty must he live out the re-
mainder of his days. /

The weary night after his condemnation wore
slowly away. ;

Wilbert tossed about on his hard couch, but he
slept very little. He was thinking. Going back over
his past life; wondering how it would have been
with him if he had been brought up by kind and loy-
ing parents. He felt within himself the capability of
better things than he had dene—he wished that he
might be judged after death by his few friends, by
ee he might have been, rather than by what he had

een. : ‘

 CHAPTHR XTX,
THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
———When to feel
That thou hast loved me, with love to the last,

Is joy enough to steal
All fear from life, the future and the past.

“

“ And when another’s head

Sleeps on thy heart, if it should ever seem
To be my own instead,

Oh, darling, hold it closer for the dream!”

Early the next morning after Wilbert’s trial,
Bianca again made application for admission to the
Tower, and this time she was not refused. The turn-
key admitted her, passed out, and closed the door of
the cell behind him. He was a rude, rough fellow,
but he had consideration enough to leave these two
poor souls to themselves.

*~ Wilbert was feeding his birds at the window, and
did not look up at the opening of the door. He
thought it was only the turnkey with his breakfast.

Bianca stood waiting just inside the door.

Wilbert turned at last, and theireyes met. One
moment they stood silent ; then he snatched her to his
breagt®, and covered lip, brow, and cheek with kisses.

“My own love! my darling!” he rapturously cried.
“Even death is welcome when its threatening pres-
ence brings me thee!”

And Bianea, soothed by his touch, comforted by
his strong, bright courage, forgot what the future
was bringing, and wept herself calm upon
breast. ;

“Bianca,” he said, when her sobs had subsided,
“vou will not say the wordsT am longing to hear?
Think how long I have waited forthem. Loving you
with all my soul since I first saw you, yet deeming it
not honorable to tell you so,now that my fate is
fixed, I dare evérything, and tell you that I worship’

you. Will you not in some wise repay me Y

my
did not immediately follow conviction, he had no

*

“THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #~

 

i

Her cheek burned red with blushes, but her beauti-
ful eyes met his full of love and trust.

“Tlove you Wilbert,” she said, softly, and kissed
the forehead he rested for a moment on her shoulder.

“And that -recompenses me for everything,” he
cried, rapturously. “Thank Heaven for imprison-
ment, since it has givenme the sweet knowledge.
Oh, Bianca, I was reckless when I thought you did
not care for me, and took no trouble to hide myself!
For what was life worth, lacking your love?”

“But you must not, shall not die. Oh, Wilbert,
Wilbert, is there no way? Is there no escape? Oh,
that I had the wit to compass it! That I had the
strength of a giant to rend these prison walls and set
you free!” : ;

“My love, it must be. I have gone many deeds for
which I suppose I deserve death. If I had known
you earlier, I should never have been the reckless
desperado I have been. But I will not think of that.
We must think only of the present, for, alas, we have
no future!” ;

ik there is a hereafter, dearest—a world be-
yond——’ ;

“Yes, so they tell me; dut it is all sodark! Oh,
Bianca, how I wish that I knew more of these mys-
terious things which mean so much for you—so little
for me !”’ NS ;

She slid from his arms to her knees at his feet. and
prayed. Only a simple little prayer, asking God to
reach out to him through the darkness and lead him
into the light. ;

Wilbert still clung to her hand, as if he fancied by
so doing he should bea little nearer the heaven which
had been only a dream to him.

As she rose from her knees the turnkey came to say
that her time was up. The words struck like a death-
knell upon the ears of Wilbert, for he knew that there
was more than a possibility that this might be their
last parting. His execution might take place on the
morrow, and then

He would not think of it, neither would he eloud
Bianca’s hopeful face by speaking of this wretched
probability.

He took her in his arms, and looked at every sepa-
rate feature of her face lovingly and lingeringly, as
one looks at the features of the dead, about to be
hidden forever beneath the coffin lid.

Then he kissed her, not passionately, as before, but
solemnly as we kiss our dead, and putting her away
from him he walked to the window. Bianca could
not leave him thus, she flew to his side, put her arms
around his neck and kissed him over and over again.

‘Farewell for a little, my beloved,” she said, ‘and
remember to keep your heart undismayed. There
is still hope! And let come what may, Ilove you! I
‘love you!”

a quitted the room hastily, and the prisoner was
alone.

Wilbert did not sleep much that night for thinking
over the sweet happiness her presence had brought
him. And his heart beat the warmer, for her head
had rested against it, and he liked to fancy that the
porters of her hair, where it had swept his shoulder,

ingered there still. .

He should see her again in the morning, he thought,
unless they should lead him forth to die, and he
counted the hours till the sun rose, and was happy
to greet its light, though perhaps he had seen it rise
for the last time, but how could he be unhappy when-
he was looking for her?

She did not come so early as he had expected, she
did not come at all, but Gertie brought him a note.
Her handwriting, he felt sure, though he had never
before seen it.

Only a line, but so precious that he laid it away
against his heart.

“DEAREST WILBERT :—I cannot come to-day.
going away.
with you.

Tam
To-morrow, please Heaven, I shall be
Hope for the best. YOUR BIANCA.”

His face grew pale as he read the words.
row he might be in eternity! And why must she go
away that day of all others?) For a moment he felt
like blaming her, in the next he chided himself for
sodoing. Surelyshe had some good reason forit, and
he would trust her.

But such a terribly long day as it was, and he had
no interest in anything. His little birds came and
pecked impatiently at his window, and went away
wae their wants unsatisfied. He did not even notice

em.

Toward night Aileen came to see him, and the sight
of her comforted him. And she tried to make him
hope that eventually he would be pardoned, but
there was no room for hope in his heart.

Just as she was taking her departure, the turnkey
entered, and with him a clergyman.

Wilbert was well prepared for the turnkey’s words.

“Captain Wilbert dies at noon to-morrow. The
warrant for his execution has just arrived. Father
Donnell will remain with you awhile to prepare your
soul for death.”-

Aileen turned back, and took the passive hands of
Wilbert in her own, while her tears fell fast.

“Oh, my friend! my poor friend!” she eried. “God
comfort you!”

“Tt is not for myself, but Bianca! Oh, Aileen, be
very tender and loving to her, and tell her that she
was my last thought.”

“The time is out, miss,” said the turnkey.

To-mor-

“Sorry,

 

| her with a clang, and the ponderous bolt shot into

| so tiresome to him, the slow and measured utter-

| periment by fainting from fright.
1is

 

 

but the rules has to be minded.” 5
Wilbert kissed the forehead of the weeping girl, and
gently put her out at the door, which closed behind

the socket with an ominous crash.
To all of Father Donnell’s well-meant attempts at
spiritual consolation Wilbert was indifferent. It was

ances of the good man, all of which seemed to his
dull ears to have so little that was genuinely sincere }
about it. ;

He was glad when the discouraged clergyman left
him, shaking off the dust of his feet as he went, for
Father Donnell was the prison spiritual adviser, and
quite as vain as it is ever necessary for any good man
to be. And he groaned in spirit as he remembered
Wilbert’s stony indifference to his stereotyped conso-
lations, and felt moderately sure that the prisoner
was bound for the domains of Satan.

But when he was gone all Wilbert’s indifference
melted away. He remembered that she believed in
God; he remembered her prayer, too, and he got
down on his knees on the damp stones, just where
she had knelt, and repeated it over word for word.

Then he climbed to the grated window and watched
the coming forth of the stars. By and by the moon-
light glorified everything. The last night of moon-
light he was ever to see. To-morrow night he should
lie beneath that same moon, his head severed from
his body, his sightless eyes upturned to the pitiless
heavens, deaf, dumb, blind, and feelingless. The
woman, at the thought of whom, now, every pulse in
his bedy quickened and thrilled, might pass him by
to-morrow night and he should not heed her. Her
voice would have no power to reach his ear. Her
re would bring no magnetic thrill to his cold

eart.

And gazing out through the passionless moonlight,
thinking only of her, the sentry pacing back and
forth, in the yard far below, shuddered with super-
stitious dread, as faintly to his ear came the only
wail of anguish the prisoner ever uttered :

“Oh! Bianca! Bianca!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
" > 0 Gm

A POOR ACTOR’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

A young man, the proprietor of a gentleman’s fur-
nishing store in London, had joined the Junior Gar-
rick Club, and became inoculated with the idea of
going on the stage. So he sold out his store, reserv
ing an ample supply of underwear, and invested the
proceeds to eke out his salary as an actor. In time,
his grand dreams of surpassing Kean and Kemble
having departed, he was an humble utility man at the
Theater Royal, Manchester. But his invested money
gave him income enough to provide a Christmas-Eve
supper for his associates at the theater. One of them
hesitated to accept, because the weather was so cold
and his clothing was so thin and worn. ]
supper, the host pushed this poor fellow into a bed-
room, saying, ‘“There’s a little present for you in
here!” It was asuit of warm woolen underclothing.
Fancy this poor actor’s feeling when, comfortably
clad, his body and his heart equally warm, he took
his place at the table! “I can feel that grateful

rarmth yet!” exclaimed Henry Irving, who tells this
story; “for I was that poor actor.”

SCALPED BY STEAM.

A tinker’s apprentice, who was of an inquiring
turn of mind, was wont to improve the time which
his master spent each day in an after-dinner nap, in
making experiments of hisown. One day he thought
to test the power of steam; and so, filling the tea-

kettle partly full of water, he riveted the cover on
tight and strong, and after plugging the nose with a
cork stopple, placed a pane of glass in range and
built a good fire, expecting to see the stopple pop
out with sufficient force to break the glass. But
things didn’t work just as he planned. The stopple
became swollen by the steam and did not pop, and
the confined steam sought for liberty by blowing
the kettle in pieces, breaking the glass, and making
sad havoc about the shop. Just then the youth
thought of the tinker, who had been sleeping in the
loft overhead, and glanced upward, Now, the ap-
prentice did not know that the gentleman wore a
wig, and when he saw him surveying the ruins from
aloft with not a hair on his head, the culprit thought
that he had blown it all off, and finished up his ex-

$$ rp 0

; CATARRH CURED.

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

:

‘that you claim for yourself ?

Before the |.a

 

WHO KEEP CHRISTMAS BEST?
BY F, Pi’ A.

Old Father Christmas rose one day,
And he took his staff in hand,

Quoth he, “I’ll see who Keeps me best
Throughout this Christian land.”

So away he strode with the early dawn,
Wrapped up in his robe of snow,

And he calied on the glittering ice to form,
And the keen north wind to blow.

From far and near he heard the sound
Of the merry Christmas chime,

And the jovial carol singers came
With many an ancient rhyme.

The holly shone in the casement old,
The mistletoe hung on high,

And from the hearth-stone wide he saw
The sparks from the yule log fly.

The board was set with festive cheer,
The liveried menials wait,

All heedless of the shivering poor
Outside the mansion gate.

They quaffed no ruby drops, nor saw
Their table amply spread ;

Enough for them the daily toil
And scanty daily bread.

Too proud to beg, too poor to eat
Save of the coarsest fare,

Their hovel homes no fitting place
For human souls to share.

Old Father Christmas shook his head,
And he breathed a heavy sigh,

“God help the rich man, then,” he said,
“When such beside him lie.”

And the north wind bore the words away,
With a wild and wailing shriek,

As a good Samaritan drew near,
Kind, pitying words to speak.

He bound the wound, he dried the tear,
He cheered the spirit faint,

And listened with untiring zeal
To every mourner’s plaint.

And yet he wore no costly robe,
He owned no stately hall,

And no long train of menials proud
Came forward at his call.

But in his heart lay hid a gem
A thousand times more rare

Than all the rich and precious things
The world could gather there.

“Such keep me best,” old Christmas said,

“Such have not learned in vain

That well-filled barns and garnered store
May not be always gain.”

So, draw a moral from my tale,
All ye with riches blessed,

For they who spare to those in need
Are keeping Christmas best.

THE WOMAN OF HIS CHOICE,
A TALE OF REAL LIFE.
BY M. E. D.

“You will not forget me, Helen!”

They stood beneath the clustering vines that over-
shadowed the long colonnadeof Helen Clifton’s hand-
some home. How beautiful she looked in her snowy
muslin and blue ribbons, that harmonized so well
with her fair, delicate complexion. Well did she
merit the glance of tender admiration from the dark,
thoughtful eye bent so proudly upon her.

“Forget you, Arthur! You knowI can never for-
get you.”

There was deep sincerity in her tones, and, looking
into her truthful eyes, Arthur Leland might indeed
entertain no fears of being forgotten. But he was
older than the fair young girl] at his side, had seen
more of the world, and understood better the pecu-
liar difficulties that attended bim as her acknowl-

edged suitor, and a shade of sadness crossed his
features, and there was a tinge of sadness in his tone,
as he said:

“Helen, I know that you love me. T have faith in
your constancy and devotion, but to-day we part for
years. During those years changes may and will
come. Soon you will be called upon to mingle in
fashionable life, to do the honors of your father’s
house, to be smiled upon and caressed by all. Helen,
‘when other lips, and other hearts, their tales of love
shall tell,’ will you still be true to me?”

“Oh, Arthur,” cried the young girl, passionately,
‘why will you speak thus? Why will you not give
me credit for the same truthfulness and constancy
My vows, my promises
are not so frail that a few years can alter or break
them,’’ said she, reproachfully.

“Forgive me, Helen,” replied the young man, ten-
derly, as he drew her to his side, and caressed again
and again the pure white brow.

* * * * * e *

Four years with their lights and shadows came
and went. Tt was the height of the season at Sara-
toga. Beauty, wealth, and fashion reigned supreme.
Northern belles and Southern beauties vied with
each other in the richness of their attire, and the
tastefulness of their toilets. ‘To-night there was
more than usual gayety and animation, and among
the fair ladies conspicuous for theirloveliness, grace,
and elegant simplicity of dress, Helen Clifton was
pre-eminent. She stood now beneath the glowing
chandelier, hanging upon her father’s arm, a haughty
old man, whose attention seemed equally divided be-
tween his lovely daughter, and a jealous care for his
own dignity and superiority. A crowd of friends
and admirers thronged around them, for Helen’s
beautiful face and winuing manners, independent of
her great wealth, rendered her the center of attrac-
tion wherever she went.

Among those who, during her sojourn at this far-
famed watering place, had paid her the most marked
attention, and whose advances met with more than
usual encouragement from her father, was a Mr.
Forester, of Alabama, a wealthy planter, whose men-
tal endowments and golden charms,in the eyes of
the world, compensated for the lack of heart and
moral worth. He was now essaying to entertain
Helen with a learned disquisition upon some scien-
tific subject, to which Mr. Clifton paid the most ob-
sequious attention, but his daughter seemed restless
and abstracted, and her eye frequently wandered to-
ward the door as if in quest of some one. Her tather
noticed the abstraction, andas a bright smile illu-
mined her lovely countenance, and conscious blushes
dyed her cheeks, his eye followed hers across the
apartment, and a stormy, lowering cloud gathered in
his haughty features. In the door-way, looking
eagerly around the apartment, stood a young officer,
his whole bearing and dress indicative of grace, ele-
gance, and refinement. His eye fell upon Helen, and
ina moment he was at her side. But in the presence
of strangers only common civilities and friendly
greetings could be exchanged between the lovers,
who, after four long years’ separation, met once

ain.

ie. Clifton looked upon them with a frowning eye
and made efforts to keep them apart, while he gra-
ciously sanctioned and encouraged Mr. Forester’s
attentions. But just at the close of the evening for-
tune favored the lovers, and in a few moments’ quiet
conversation the heart-history of years was unfolded,
leaving no cause of complaint for want of constancy
or devotion on the part of either.

Mr. Clifton, after an eager search for Helen, found
them thus engaged, and his anger knew no bounds.
Without deigning to recognize Arthur’s presence at
aH, he said:

“Helen, itis time for you to retire, but I desire to
speak with you alone first.”

Helen nodded a silent good-night to Arthur, and
followed her father to his private apartment. He
closed the door, and then, in an angry voice, ex-
claimed :

“Helen, from your infancy till now you have had
your own way in everything, and never have [
thwarted you in any of your inclinations or desires ;
but I now most peremptorily forbid any further in-
tercourse between you and Arthur Leland.”

“Father,” said Helen, in a calin, determined tone,
“sive me your reasons for so unjust a demand, and
if I feel that they justify me in such a course of con-
duct, I will obey you; otherwise, father, I cannot
promise to deal so unkindly by one whose friendship
I value.’’

“Reasons! Helen, are youmad? Do you ask why
Helen Clifton, the daughter of one of the proudest
and most aristocratic families, should cease all inter-
course with a mendiecant, a pau——’”’

“Father, forbear!” replied Helen, while her height-
ened color betrayed the spirit with which he had to
contend, ‘Arthur Leland is no mendicant, no pau-
per. Heis the descendant of as noble a race of an-
cestors as youorl; and if a reverse of fortune has
left him to contend with poverty, it is no disgrace,
but rather an honor that he does not idly fold his
hands, but with a strong and determined will takes
his noble stand among the many whosuffer, struggle,
and win.”

“Ah!” said her father, with a mocking laugh,
“what an advocate he has! It is a pity he is not

behind the scenes to hear himself so nobly defended!

 

You acknowledge, then, that you love this Arthur
Leland, and haye told him so?’ added he, eying her
intently. .

Helen’s silence was a sufficient confirmation of his
fears, and, with a voice hoarse with rage, he said:

“Helen Clifton, listen tome! Unless you promise
now from this time forward to renounce all inter-
course, all communication with Arthur Leland, and
look upon him as an entire stranger, I do most
soleinnly aver that I will disown you as my daughter,
utterly disinherit you, and bequeath to others more
worthy the inheritance that naturally belongs to you
as my child!”

“Father,” cried Helen, seizing his hands and kneel-
ing at his side, “spare me this anguish! TI love Ar-
thur Leland, and, years ago, I promised to be his
bride. Father, he is noble, well worthy of the love
and trust bestowed upon him. Do not thus doom
your child, who has hitherto existed but for your
happiness, to life-long anguish.”

Her sad, tearful face, her kneeling posture, and,
perhaps, the memory that recalled his child’s entire
obedience and devotion for years, brought a milder
expression to his countenance, and he said, more
gently :

‘Helen, it grieves me to disappoint you, to come
in any way between you and what you consider your
happiness; but my love for you, my duty to you as
my child, and the honor and respect I owe the proud
and aristocratic name you bear, will not allow me
to diverge one iota from the path of duty prescribed
for you, and which, as a grateful and dutiful child,
you are bound to obey. To-morrow Mr. Forester
will pay you his addresses. He has my consent and
approval, and it is my desire that you encourage his
suit. Of all those who have approached you as
suitors, he alone, as regards family, wealth, and po-
sition, do I consider worthy of my daughter.”

“Father,” said Helen, supplicatingly, ‘Ido not love
Mr. Forester—I cannot be his wife!”

“Then,” replied her father, sternly and unflinch-
ingly, “accept the consequences. [ no longer re-
gard you as my child, and henceforth we must be as
strangers!”

Helen Clifton loved her father devotedly, and till
this hour no harsh words had ever passed between
them. He had beena kind and indulgent parent,
and the thought of an entire separation from him
could not be endured for a moment; neither had she
the slightest inclination or intention of disobeying
him, however unjust and heartless his commands
might be. Her lessons of obedience had been too
well learned for that, and while she loved Arthur
Leland, and knew she never could be happy away
from him, still she felt her first duty was to her
father, and the memory of a solemn promise to her
en mother, let the consequences be as they
might.

For a few brief moments she remained silently
kneeling at her father’s side; then rising with a face
calm and tearless from utter hopelessness, she said :

“Father, Lacecept theright which you take upon
yourself in settling my destiny for life. I accept it
as the law of God, which commands honor and obe-
dience to our parents, andas afulfillment of the
promise made to my dying mother; but, father, if in
the future, your daughter should never be the merry,
light-hearted girl of old, and care and sorrow should
set heavily upon her brow, remember that you this
night had the power to prevent it.”

She turned hastily, and was about to leave the
room, but Mr. Clifton drew her to him, and kissing
her, said, with a smile of intense satisfaction :

“You are a good and obedient daughter, Helen.
You will soon forget this idle fancy, and as the
proud bride of Mr. Forester, will wonder that you
ever indulged in it.’”’

As he pronounced the name of the man to whom she
felt she was to be bound in a hopeless, loveless mar-
riage, a shudder ran through her frame, and a
ghastly pallor overspread her features, but in silence
she received her father’s good-night kiss, and left
the room. In afew moments she returned, and plac-
ing upon the table a package of letters, a little band
of gold, that had until then encircled her finger, and
a few other trifling ornaments, simple in them-
selves, but intinitely dear from association, she said:

“Father, you will return these to the donor, with
explanations, and the intelligence that our separa-
tion must be final!’ Before Mr. Clifton could reply,
she was gone, and he was left alone.

* * * * * * * *

Again we shift the scene and the season. Stern
Winter had commenced his reign, and the forests of
the north were leafless, and the beautitul lakes and
rivers were locked up in his icy embrace, but his
presence was searcely felt in the lovely southern
village, where the orange and magnolia grew, and
the balmy air was laden with the perfume of bright
flowers, that knew naught of blighting frosts and
stormy winds.

It was a lovely nightin December, such a one as
we could fancy heralded the birth of the Prince of
Peace, when the moon bathed the calm earth in her
soft silver beams, and the stars, in their brilliant
glory, kept silent, taithful wateh over a sleeping
world.

It was Belen Clifton’s bridal-night. In all of her
girlish beauty, she stood before the altar, the ac-
knowledged wife of the Hon. Henry Forester, of
Alabama. Was slie happy? Perhaps the world that
looked only on the surface, beheld the proud, stately
being, the flashing of brilliants and diamonds, and
dreamed only of wealth and position, deemed her so,
and envied her; but there were those who knew
more of her heart-history, and read a different story
in the calm face, and the languid movements. But
her lips revealed no secrets, and she went through
the bridal ceremony with the resolution of an act-
ress, who has a part to perform, and desires to per-
form it well.

In a private apartment of a boarding-house in the |
same Village, a young man sits looking dreamily out
into the dark. In the tall, manly form, the classically
cut features, we recognize the Arthur Leland of our
story. But little of the struggle going on in his
heart is perceptible in his outward bearing, for
pride rules him with aniron rule, and none can know
of the mighty anguish within. He had loved Helen
Clifton as few men love, and though he had antici-
pated obstacles in the way of their union, he had
never believed she would thus quietly resign her
rights, and perjure herself by a loveless marriage,
merely to gratify a selfish father’s whims, and while
he censured the cold, mercenary spirit of the latter,
he laid up bitter charges against Helen. But he
looked his fate calmly in the face, and while the
world now seemed to him but a worthless show, be-
reft of its tinseled gilding, ambition still whispered
sweet dreams of honor and fame. He would go back
to his command in the far West, forget his foolish
dream of love, and seek glory, it might be death,
upon the gory battle-field.

* * * * *

Four years later, and again we look in upon Helen
Clifton, now Mrs. Forester. Time, that ever leaves
foot-prints in his onward march, has brought changes
to her. She sits once more in her father’s home, but
hears no more his haughty tread, nor his stern, com-
manding voice, for one year ago, death, that respects
neither family, age, nor condition, bore him to his
long home; and now in the dim, silent watches of
this lonely night, she feels that he has come to claim
another victim.

Upon a bed of fatal disease her husband lies,
utterly unconscious, as swiftly and surely he ap-
proaches the brink of that dark, unkuown river,
from whose voiceless shore no echo has ever re-
turned. She leans her head against the pillow, and
presses kiss after kiss upon the unconscious brow,
asif she would thus make atonement for the lack
of affection that had made up the sum of her short
married life. She had been an obedient and dutiful
wife to a jealous, exacting, and tyrannical husband,
aud had never in word or deed given him cause for
complaint; but, alas! it was from amere sense of
duty, and she submitted to the galling chains only
from self-respect, and in compliance with that divine
law that requires honor and obedience from the wife
to the busband.

The presence of death softens the feelings and
throws a different and more solemn aspect upon all
the circumstances and situations of life, and the
young wife feels now,if she could only bring her
husband back to life and consciousness, she would
foree the love that had never been his, and gladden
his home with sunshine and happiness; but the
awful conqueror listens to no ireatiniges: takes cog-
nizance of no penitential tears, and an hour later
Helen Forester is left a lonely widow.

The same night, the same hour, and in the same
village, we look in upon a different scene. The
chureh-bells peal forth a merry strain, and around
the sacred altar of the little Gothic church stands a
bridal train. The ceremony is performed, the bene-
diction pronounced, and the hour that makes Helen
Forester a widow, binds Arthur Leland in the holy
bands of matrimony.

“Ah, how inopportune,” exclaim some of our read-
ers. So it seems; but as the story herein told is
founded on truth, as a faithful chronicler, the writer
is bound to confine herself to facts.

Arthur Leland had long remained faithful to his
first love, and even now the affection he bore the
fair young girl at his side, was naught compared to
the feeling he had once cherished for Helen, but she
had deceived him, and after the first shock was over,
he resolved that such deception was not worthy of
any constancy or devotion on his part. He would
take life as it was, and catch every sunbeam that
came in his way.

A funeral and a bridal! In one home, sadness,
loneliness, and desolation; in the other, smiles, joy,
and gladness. Mr. Forester was borne to his long
home, and Arthur Leland and his lovely bride wended
their way North on a joyous bridal tour.

* * * * *« * a *

“Who is that lovely girl?’

The speaker was Helen Forester, at a fashionable
party, eighteen years after the events just recorded.
The question was addressed to a friend in reference
to a beautiful girl, standing opposite, surrounded by
a host of friends and admirers.

“Ts it possible that you do not know Florence Le-
land, Arthur Leland’s eldest daughter, whose beauti-
ful face leads captive all that behold her? I wonder

 

that you never met with her before!”

“You must remember,” replied Helen, with a smile,
“that [have been abroad fer the last few years, and
am almost a stranger in my native village.”

And then her eye wandered back to Florence. It
was a beautiful face, but it was the resemblauce it
bore to another countenance that riveted Mrs.
Forester's attention, and stirred the depths of mem-
ory. There was the saine noble brow, the same eclas-
sically cut features, and the same proud curve about
the beautifully formed mouth. How it pained her
to look upon that fair, sweet face that recalled so
vividly the bright dream of other days, and as the
long ago crowned with love, hope and beauty rushed
before her, the recollections and associations it
awoke were too sad and overwhelming, and she left
the room and sought the deserted library. It wasa
calm, bright, and beautiful night, and as she looked
forth upon the peaceful serenity mirrored in the
glowing stars, and the silent, sleeping earth, she
longed for rest from the anguish that had for so many
years tortured her cheerless life.

There are women that can easily transfer their af-
fections, and early forget their sorrows, but Helen
Forester belonged not to this class. Warm and ardent
in her feelings, with a sympathy and affection easily
aroused where mere friendship was concerned, she
was nevertheless fastidious to a fault, and it required
more than an ordinary man to inspire the holier sen-
timent of love, but which, when once awakened, in
its purity, strength and durability, bore the stamp of
eternity itself.

As the wife of another, she had struggled against
the feeling as sinful, and when death freed her from
all obligation, she.still felt and acknowledged that
she had no right to love that which belonged to
another; yet, alas! she was but human, and to-night
the strength that had so long been her stay and sup-
port gave way, and the wailing cry of her heart was,
‘*Take all things from me, but give, oh! give me back
the love that is so inestimably precious !”

“Please excuse me,’ said a sweet voice at her side.

Helen started. It was Florence Leland, who had
sought the library to fasten the bow on her slipper.
Mrs. Forester smiled kindly upon her, and a friend
coming in gave them a formal introduction.

“Mrs. Forester,” said Florence, innocently, “you
scarcely seem like a stranger. I have heard papa
speak of you frequently. [remember he once said
that you sang most delightfully, and that he hoped I
would be gifted with just such a voice! Will you not
favor us with a song this evening, Mrs. Forester?”

If Helen turned a shade paler it was scarcely no-
tieced, and with graceful courtesy she acceded to
Florence’s request. Taking the guitar in her hand,
she sang in a sweet and touching strain the old but
favorite ballad, ‘‘We met.”’

Florence was charmed, but to her unsophisticated
ears the expressive words conveyed no hidden mean-
ing; yet there were those in the assembly that felt
that no better language was needed to portray the
heart-history of the singer; and Helen herself was
borne on the tide of memory till she was searcely
conscious of her surroundings, aud was quite startled
by the ery:

“Florence Leland, come quick!
dying!”

The words were spoken by a gay, thoughtless
young girl, who, in her haste to convey the sad
tidings, forgot the deep sorrow she was bearing her
young friend.

Mrs. Leland had long been the victim of consump-
tion, but, as is often the case with that flattering and
deceptive disease, she had rallied so much within
the past months that no immediate danger was ap-
prehended, and she really seemed so much better
this evening that Florence, though loth to leave her
mother, could not resist the urgent entreaties of the
latter for ber to attend the party. But, alas! the poor
girl felt so wretched on her return home and found
her dear mamma in such a speechiess aud dying
condition, that she could never forgive herself for
having left her on this the last evening of ler earthly
existence. She lingered but a few days, and was
wholly unconscious of her child’s grief and tears,
who followed her with a sorrowing heart to her
lonely grave.

* *

Your mother is

* * * *

Two years later, on Christmas Eve, Helen Forester
entered the little village church-yard. The same
principles of duty that had governed her in her rela-
tionship to her husband while living actuated her in
her care for his last resting-place, and she had come
now to place flowers upon his grave. She loved to
visit this quiet home of the dead, far removed from
the din, noise, and contusion of worldly strife and
occupation. Her trials had not been without their
effect. Her treasures once laid upon earth, her affec-
tions once twined around a human idol, were now
centered in heaven. Her heart felt inexpressibly
lonely on this Christmas Eve. She still loved Arthur
Leland, but it was with a purer and better love, that
looked for no realization in this life.. They had met
occasionally on the street since the death of his wife,
but there was only a formal bow of recognition, and
no efforts were made to renew an intimacy that had
once been so dear.

After wandering about the cemetery for a while,
Helen brushed the dust from her husband’s costly
monument, and sat down upon a low bench beneath
two drooping willows. Her mind traveled far back
into the past, to girlhood’s sunny days, and so ab-
sorbed was she in reflection that she heard hot the
sound of approaching footsteps, and was startled
when a gentleman’s voice said:

“Excuse me, Mrs. Forester. I thought I was sole
tenant of this lonely burial-ground, and did not mean
to intrude upon you.” «

The first sight of the face she remembered and
loved so well, for it was Mr. Leland, quite unnerved
Helen; but soon regaining her composure, she an-
swered him with ease, and assured him it was no
intrusion. Accepting with graceful courtesy the
proffered seat at her side, he observed, quite natu-
rally :

“What inroads time and death make in their on-
ward progress, Mrs. Forester! A few, short years
ago this little burial-ground numbered only twenty
graves; but the hillocks have grown rapidly, and
the dreary voids they have created are numberless.
Change, change is written on all things.” He sighed
deeply, and then continued: ‘‘Man himself is but a
fitful, changeable being, floating like a leaf upon the
stream of life—now dallying with the sunshine, and
then submerged beneath the dark waves—continually
seeking rest, and finding none.”

“But there is a rest, Mr. Leland,” said Helen, in a
low voice, “which, if properly sought, can be found.”

“T don’t know. I would like to believe so, but my
experience is that man, like Noah’s weary dove, finds
no rest for the sole of his foot.”

“That may be,’ replied Helen, “rather an error in
his mode of seeking it, or, perchance, a want of the
perseverance that characterized the efforts of the
dove. You remember she was finally crowned with
success.”’

“Yes; youmay beright, and I possibly belong to
the class who have made amistake in the way of
seeking it. I looked for it in the affections; I leaned
upon them, trusted them but a little, and like a frail,
perishable reed, they broke, and pierced my heart.
Itwined the myrtle and the ivy around my_ brow,
but beneath each leaf a cruel thorn was hidden.”

“And yet, Mr. Leland,’ replied Helen, earnestly,
‘there is a rest to be attained even in the affections—
in their depth, their truth, and their durability.”

“Tt may be so,” replied Mr. Leland, with a bitter
smile, ‘though that is a point upon which I am ex-
ceedingly skeptical. Will you listen patiently toa
little episode in the life of a friend of mine, which I
think will prove the fallacy of your assertion? In
early manhood I had a friend who staked his all
upon a bright and beautiful dream of love. His pas-
sion was glowing, ardent, and sincere, and he, poor
foolish man, was silly enough to believe his affection
returned. But suddenly the bright dream was dis-
pelled, and he awoke to the bitter truth that he had
made the most terrible mistake, and committed the
most egregious folly. More tempting offers were
laid at the shrine of the object of his devotion, glit-
tering baits of gold before whose seductive charms
love’s bright dream vanished as mists before the
early dew. It mattered not that the owner of these
brilliant gems was hoary-headed, selfish, and mer-
cenary—that the bright flowers of spring were
twined amid winter's leafless branches, or that the
crushing of hearts was heard beneath the steps that
led to higher fame, wealth, and posi rt

“Oh, Arthur!” cried Helen, imploringly, forgetting
the lapse of years and all their changes in her eager-
ness to detend herself against his cruel and unjust
accusations, ‘‘spare me these bitter taunts, and do
not, oh! do not believe that any selfish, mercenary
motive guided me in my conduct toward you, which
may seem mysterious, but is not deserving of the
cruel censure heaped upon me.”’

“Then, Helen,” replied he, in the calm, sweet tone
of the long ago, ‘‘why did you doom to intolerable
misery one whose affection you so earnestly pro-
fessed to value ?”

‘My father’s commands, Arthur, were binding, and
Teould not disobey him, however much my heart
might bleed at the fearful sacrifice I was called upon
to make. My life has not been a happy one. Let the
suffering and loneliness I have endured be an atone-
ment for all the anguish I have caused you.”

“Have you suffered, Helen?” replied Mr. Leland,
tenderly. ‘Then let the bitter, bitter past be for-
gotten, and sanctify this Christmas Eve by coming
back to my heart as in days of yore, and let our
future be crowned with the sunlight and hope that
has so long been a stranger to our paths.”

He drew her to him. She leaned her weary head
upon his shoulder, and two hearts, long severed
by the vicissitudes of unpropitious fate, were united.
It mattered not that the romance of youth had passed
away, and the sober tints of middle age were creep
ingon. The heart beat as warmly still, and their
happiness was but the greater for the obstacles that
had surrounded them.

The sun went down, the little birds ceased their
carols, and the stars came out ere Helen and Arthur
left the quiet cemetery, the blessed spot of their re-
union.

A few months later a joyous bridal took place in
the little gillage church, and Florence Leland was
there, beautiful and charming as ever, still preserv-
ing a fond recollection of her own mother, while
making room in her heart for her father’s second
wife, the woman of his choice.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

cata THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

VOL, 45—No,. 10,

 

 

 

§
SMITH

NEW YORK, JANUARY 4, 1890.

Vee

STREET & SMITH’S

NEW YORK WEEKLY
FOR 1890.

The Npw YORK ‘WEEKLY for 1890 will equal in
merit and attractiveness the issue of any previous
year.

The SERIAL STORIES, while diverse in style and
subject, will be not:only extremely interesting, but
‘models of excellence and purity, without even a
suggestion likely.to bring a blush .to the cheek of
modesty. They can be subjected :to ‘this test of
‘merit—they may be read aloud atthe family fireside.
They will be the :productions of many-of the best
novelists of the day.

During the coming year the works of new and
eminent writers will from time to time grace our
columns.

As heretofore, the EssAYS and SKETCHES will be
by authors of established reputation.

The regular departments—ANSWERS 10 ‘CORRE-
SPONDENTS, WORK-BOX, PLEASANT ‘PARAGRAPHS,
ITEMS .OF INTEREST—will be so cenducted as to
maintain their reputation for correctness, practica-
bility, vivacity, and brevity.

Every number will sparkle with sense, wit, thought,
suggestion; so that the reader ,whetherold-or young,
will always find the NEw YORK WEEKLY. an instruc-
tive as well as an entertaining companion.

Among the prominent contributors whose produc-
tions will appear in our columns during the coming
year, we may mention the following:

Bertha M. Clay,
Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,
Mrs. M. V. Victor,
Annie Ashmore,
Margaret Blount,
P. Hamilton Myers,
Clara Augusta.
, Virginia F. Townsend,
Helen Corwin Pierce,
Annie Lisle,
Francis A. Durivage,
; Annie Clare,
Professor Wm. Henry Peck,
Enma Garrison Jones,
Lieutenant Murray,
} Helena Dixon,
Chartes T, Manners,
Kate Thorn,
Harkley Harker,
Chas. W. Foster,

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CHRISTMAS BELLS.

Christmas bells jingle with the most delightful
music, and hard indeed must be the heart that does
not throb with gratitude as the ear listens to the
merry chime. The sound reverberates in harmoni-
ous waves to the old, recalling the delightful days of
youth, reviving memories of friends scattered and
gone.

Who would not be happy at Christmas time? Al-
though the poor are a) ways with us, and never more
in need of assistance than at Christmas, general joy
prevails, and each person, whether rich or poor, to
the extent of his ability, is eager to add at leasta
little te the feeling of universal content.

While Christmas is the time chosen by many for the
display of generosity, and acts of charity which arise
like incense to heaven, we are all aware that good
deeds are seasonable all the year round. Philan-
throphy is a virtue which should be encouraged at
all times. Men of means should not need the chime
of Christmas bells to impart the hint that they are
not doing their duty with the wealth that God has
merely intrusted to them. They should heed the in-
junctions of the Prince of peace and kindness, whose
natal day is celebrated on Christmas. He knew the
ways of the rich as well as the wants of the poor, and
thus the Son of God wisely warned the avaricious:
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,
where moth and rust doth corrupt, * * * * but lay up
for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither
moth nor rust doth corrupt. *** * For where your
treasure is, there will your heart be also. * * * ** Ye
cannot serve God and mammon.”

It is in the power of men of influence to make them-
selves net only esteemed, but loved. How? By
seeking the humble, the needy, the suffering, the dis-
couraged, and lightening their cares. By bringing
to the widow’s pinched face the smile of gratitude;
by enabling the struggling husband and father to see
his loved ones comfortably clothed; by lifting from
the back of a despairing toiler at least a portion of
the debt which has been running for years, with little
prospect of its extinction.

At this joyous Christmas time let us resolve to
share each other’s burdens. Let those who revel in
the blessings of wealth, only intent upon their own
enjoyment, think of the hopeless toilers who,
through no fault of their own, are compelled to live
on scant fare from year to year, with no prospect of
advancement, no hope of rest, until the clods of earth
have settled upon the coffin-lid.

You powerful men of the land, think of the great
good you might do with only a fraction of your rust-
ing wealth! Reflect upon the happiness it is in your
power to bestow by a change of heart. Instead of
adding year by year to the millions you will never
need—instead of occupying nearly all your waking
hours in devising schemes to gratify your insatiable
clutch for gold, resolve to spend a quarter or a half
of your income in relieving some of the wants of the
poor.

While thoughts of Christmas prevail let the divine
spirit enter your hearts, and there remain forever-
more. Nowis the time to do good, while you are
here. How much more sensible it would be to ex-
ercise generosity now, instead of waiting until you
have no further use for your money—when the active
brain that accumulated it is a lifeless clod, when
death makes necessary a division of your hoard. You
may have cleverly planned for the distribution of
your wealth, according to your wishes; but no man
can be assured that his testamentary wishes will be
respected. Cunning lawyers, as we learn every day,
can readily contrive schemes to invalidate your will,
and frustrate your intentions. Do not leave it in the
power of lawyers and judges to use your wealth as
they decree. Do good with it now, while you are
alive, and can see that it is rightfully employed.

If you would listen to music sweeter far even than
that of Christmas bells, win the voice of gratitude
for generous deeds. The music of heartfelt thanks
never dies; it echoes and re-echoes while life lasts,

3 months
4 months

2 copies
4 copies
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awakening those divine impulses which prompt us
to be generous not only at Christmas, but at all
times—the impulses which teach us the blessings of
‘peace on earth, good will to man.”

TOFF’S WIFE.
A CHRISTMAS SKETCH.
BY ANNIE ASHMORE,

“Wall, 1swow! I can’t make that gal out, nohow!
What’s she up to now ?”

Mrs. Erling required no glasses to assist her sharp
black eyes; a ferret three fields away would have no
chance from her piercing orbs; she did wish, how-
ever, that, like the Irishman’s gun, they could sheot
crooked, since the corner of the barn would shield
her prey.

She took off her shoes, and slipping the bolt in the
kitchen door, stole up stairs to young Mrs. Erling’s
bedroom, whose window commanded a wide view of
the marsh, and the cold winter sea.

“That there captin’s shootin’ on the beach agin; an’
there she stands, the idle gaby, starin’ like he was a
circus!” snorted the old woman. “Fine divershin
fur my son’s wife, as isso good at psalm-singin’ an’
convertin’ other folks!’

She turned angrily away, and began to examine
the chamber, with eager nose pricked for disorder.
Not for worlds would she have gratified her daughter-
in-law by an open visit to this, her bridal-nest.

She lifted the silk-incased perfume-flasks from the
prettily draped toilet-table, with a disgusted eleva-
tion of her thin nostrils, and surveyed with jeering
amusement the wonderful arabesques of mosses and
berries, and tinted leaves, with which Toff's wife had
decked the ugly walls in preparation for Christmas.

“Land’s sake! ef she ain’t a fool!” said the old
lady, refreshing herself by a reassuring glance
through the window before she dropped on her
knees before a big trunk, and began pawing like an
eager magpie among her son’s coats and trousers.
Every garment was neatly folded, while a faint odor
of sweet gums and camphor rose to her nostrils.

“Well, ’'m everlastin’ly burned ef the durned fool
ain’t gone an’ scented the baccy out’n Toff’s duds!’
she exclaimed, with a burst of harsh laughter; and
slamming down the lid, she tiptved back to the
kitchen.

Toff’s wife still stood by the farm-gate, facing the
wide marsh andthe desolate sea. She would have
been alovely thing to look at, with her pallid but
softly moulded face, and blue-black hair, but for the
brooding sadness in face and figure. The best type
in the world for maternity, physicians say. Corinne
had the maternal heart. Toff Erling had never seen
Bernhardt, but this bride of his reminded him of the
long, bending iris lilies that clustered round the
marsh borders, among the cat-tail flags. She was so
pure, so dear, so precious to the hard-visaged sailor,
that he almost trembled when he thought of her.
What had she not done for him ? the hardest drinker,
the loudest swearer in all Marshlands.

She had given him her sweet self for a talisman;
ay, she had given him a God to worship, and a heaven
to win.

Yes, Corinne had the maternal heart.

When her artist father died and left her, at the age
of sixteen, to battle for life alone, her first enthu-
siasm came to her in the shape of a certain band of
Christian Crusaders, who laid claim to her, and
trained her, in their heroic fashion, to love all
humanity. For two years the delicate girl, with a
badge upon her arm, led her band up and down the
streets to the beat of drum and tambourine, and
called upon humanity to become divine.

When health failed and she could sing no more,
the wild, insistent marching hymns, she got a place
as teacher in Marshlands, in lien of the last incum-
bent, a young man with a hair-lip, who kept a rum-
bottle in his desk.

Pilot Erling saw the new teacher the first Sunday
after he returned from taking the big mail steamer
out to sea, and vowed in his deep heart not only to
win but to be worthy of her. That night he flung all
his fine old Jamaica into the sea. The pity was, he
could not throw his mother in, too.

Three mouths a bride, and with that weary craving
in her eyes.

Corinne knew by this time what life in Marshlands
meant. No one’s soul was in danger here; Mr. Fane,
the minister, was a better captain to the gruff fisher-
men and farmers than she could ever be. She had
rescued one—yes, that was true—but already her
work was done.

Ugly, hopeless Marshlands!

The little, chilled hands wrung themselves together
in sudden despair; the prisoned soul beat fiercely
against its bars.

* * * *

* * *

“What’s come to my little queen?’ cried Erling,
holding his wife before him, to look fondly into her
pale face. ‘*Mother, your eyes see through a gimlet-
ar ke what’s amiss with my lass this Christmas

ve |

The old lady nodded grimly tothe stocking she
was knitting, and took in the pair with one cold
stare.

“Mother, speak up!” said the tall pilot, turning
tiery-red, and straining his wife closer to him.

“Ye big softy!’ returned his mother, with a sar-
eastic laugh. “git two doctors to oncet—she might
sneeze. No, there’s nothin’ the matter, as I knows
on, ’n less its idleness. That navy capting, Ross-
mun, ye hed over here shootin’, is goin’ sleigh-ridin’
up to Red Head, an’ she’s crazy to go with him—
that’s all.”

“No, no! oh, Theo, no!” interrupted Corinne, in a
sort of panic.

“An’ why shouldn’t ye, Corrie, my dear?” cried
the pilot; “ta ride will put some colorin them white
cheeks, an’ the canting’ll be rare an’ proud to hey
my little lady alongside of him.”

“Wali,” ejaculated the old woman, changing her
needles in the quills with a click, ‘“‘there’s no fool
like an old fool.” f ;

Erling’s beaming face clouded; his mother was
vraae to say these sharp things to him; but to

is little queen ?——

“Wrap up in your seal-skin coat, Corrie darlin’,’”’ he
said, turning his back to crabbed age, and laying a
finger reverently on her milky white cheek; “it’s
cold across the ma’ash, ye know.”

“‘Seal-skin !” screamed the old woman; “a two-
hundred-dollar coat! Hev ye gone crazy, Toff Er-
ling? You're a fine perfessor of religion, Co—rinne”
(she always pronounced the name asif it was some
heathen shibboleth) ‘‘fur to go traipsin’ round the
country with a strange man.”

Flushing and paling by turns, the girl turned
wearily away, murmuring:

“T shall not go; say no more, Theo.”

“Theo!” screeched the old lady, her eyes very
bright and snapping; ‘‘who’s he?) We wunst hed a
dog called Leo—I reckon it ain’t him, fur he’s dead.
Toff, ye old gaby, ef ye’d set her to mendin’ them
jerseys of yourn, that are allto tatters, makin’ ye
the guy of the steamers ye go aboord——”

“Mother, you’re dreamin’,” interjected Toff, with a
laugh. ‘They call me the ‘swell pilot’ now; I’m so
spick an’ span—like a dook!"’

“Sweet-scented, like a polecat! Faugh !”

“Old lady,” said her tall son, laying one hand
gently on her bowed shoulder, ‘this ain’t like you.
Do ye know, there’s nights, even yet, when the salt
spray freezes in my face, an’ the grogin the cap-
tain’s room smells up hot an’ strong, and ’'m more
than willin’—that the sweet smell my little wife has
put on my duds seems like the prayers of angels
drawin’ me back from harm. Heaven bless her!’
and he kissed pale Corinne; she’s been my guard’een
angel many a time!”

“Don’t,” muttered the girl, shrinking back with a
sob in her throat.

“What odds?” cried the pilot, with a jolly laugh;
‘the old lady hain’t forgot her young days. But,
Corrie, [ want ye should go with the capting; you
and him understands each other, and a talk about
picters an’ furrin travels will bring a little life into
them sweet eyes of yours. Lor’ sake! you’re only a
child, an’ it’s dull ‘longside two old folks like us.
Wish I hadn’t to go up to town to-day. I'd git out
the pony for ye myself.”

“Theo, let me stay; I—I don’t want to go!” whis-
pered Corinne, pressing her cold face against his
sleeve, and panting out the words.

“It’s a bit of aspree ye want,’ rejoined he, dog-
gedly, ‘‘an’ you’re goin’ to git it. Puton the seal-skin,
an’ your red satin frock, and the goold watch an’
chain. T’llbe blowed eff Capting Rossmoyne won’t
think he’s got a little countess alongside.”

She clung to him a moment longer, with a strange
little laugh; but. a sob was folded in the laughter;
then she vanished from the room.

As she stood once more looking upon the wide
marsh, shrouded now like a maiden’s coffin, with
glistening white, and margined by a purple-black
sea, her bosom heaved, and a light sprang into her
eyes.

“Freedom, ah, freedom !”

Her feet were turned toward the Path of Roses;
how sweet they smelled. Heaven, how sweet! Good-
by, coarse tyranny! Good-by, hard endeavor! Theo,
Theo. good-by.”

Ghosts were all around her. By-gone scenes when
she had been the voice of conscience to rough and
lawless men; fierce eyes dim with tears; glad halle-
lujahs of souls washed white. She heeded them not.

Why, this plain black dress she was buttoning with
trembling tingers was her “platform dress,” It was
too loose for her now, the noticed with a dull regret.

Ah, phantom ghosts! the silence was filled with
their taunting laughter. A queen was going to roll
her crown in the dirt.

* * *

* * *

’ *
About eight o’clock of the evening a man ran likea

 

 

racer across the two-mile marsh, to Erling’s Farm,
his arms close to his sides, his coat for further free-
dom, tossed upon some wayside fence.

He ran until his breast seemed filled with fire,
while the icy wind froze the sweat upon his brow,
and the hard snow ereaked under his flying feet;
yet when he came in sight of Pilot Erling’s snug
cottage, whose windows were ablaze with light, he
fell into a dead walk, while low moans came from be-
tween his parted lips.

Three jolly tars had come from afar to visit Toff
that night, and to pay their respects to the bride.
Each man had brought a store of prime Jamaica (in-
nocent of government passport) as an Sapp
gift, and all were prepared to do justice to the oc-
casion by sampling the presents; nor was old Mrs,
Erling backward in lighting up the big brass candle-
sticks, and laying out glasses, sugar, and hot water;
apache to perverse zeal by the thought of Corinne’s
grief.

Honest Toff, however. looked on with secret con-
sternation, and kept slipping out to the gate to see if
his little mentor were coming to rescue him from his
dilemma, “all slick and lady-like,” as he put it to
himself.

He was staring down the white road, his keen eyes
marking every dark speck, when that haggard racer
came out of the barn’s shadow, and to his unspeak-
able astonishinent the pilot recognized the young
parson, Mr. Fane.

He leaned against the fence close to Toff, sobbin
for breath, so that it was terrible to look at hii, an
trying to speak.

“Ts it—Corinne?’ exclaimed the pilot, hoarsely,
while he gripped his arm.

“Keep up—courage !” panted the
holding his side; ‘‘she—she’s gone!’

“Gone—dead? My Corrie!’

And acry broke from Toff’s white lips—a hoarse
ery that brought the three visitors trembling out one
upon another, and all ready to reef the main sheets
tor a squall. And the old woman followed them as
far as the door, and stood peering there, a vision of
Discardia, the heart-divider.

“Erling, be calm! It isn’t that,” gasped the young
fellow, staring piteously at him through blood-shot
eyes. ‘Your wife is well—but——”

“Thank the Lord !””

“But Captain Rossmoyne has—has taken her—away
to Boston.” :

“You liar!” roared the pilot, advancing on him,

“They took tickets at Red Head station,” said Mr.
Fane, never flinching from the tall man’s fist, “but
you could stop them at Lennox if you start at once.”

“I knowed it!” screamed Mrs. Erling; ‘‘she were a
two-faced huzzy, an’ you’re well shut of her, Toff. I
wouldn’t bemean myself fur to think no more of her
ef I was you.”

‘Hear the parson!” said Toff, turning with a wild
laugh to the three comrades; “he says my white
pigeon I were braggin’ about has slipped her cable
an’ sailed off with a d—— navy swell—ha, ha!”

“That’s you, Toff! don’t bemean yourself!’ cried
his mother, pulling at him in her excitement.

“Ain’t ye dreamed them blaspheemies agin my
Corrie ?”’ demanded he, thrusting his ashen pale face
into the minister’s. ‘She ain’t like that, ye know!”
“Tt’s too true, Erling. The station-master saw her.”
“She’s left me with pure an’ gentle words on her
Seat black treachery in her heart fur the
swell!’

“Toff, be a man!
late—come !”

And the minister pulled him impulsively by one
arm, while his mother clung to him by the other,
cackling out in high excited tones:

“Let her go, Toff! let her go !’’

“Yes—by Heaven, she kin go!” shouted he, hurl-
ing his clenched fists heavenward, ‘“‘an’ my blackest
curses follow her! Mates’—he turned with a burst
of harsh laughter to the staring men—‘we’ll hev a
night of it—we’ll drink to sweet liberty—blue ruin
to hippocrites! Hurrah!”

They surrounded him, patting his back, muttering
gruff condolence; rough sea-dogs these, full of hu-
man kindness without a.,spark of divine.

“Let the petticoats go!’ they growled; ‘‘a straight
trip and no return-passage to her !”

Fane’s small, strong hand still grasped like steel
the wretched man’s arm; his voice, quivering with
earnestness, cut through the babel of voices:

“When you were a wild and reckless sinner, she
saved you; now that she is in the midst of a whirl-
pool, will you not do your turn?”

“Oh, my Corrie! Heaven help me—yes!” cried the
man, with a wild sob; and there, in the frozen snow,
in the midst of his staring mates, at the feet of the
bitter old woman who had given him life only to
poison it, he fell on his knees, and sent up a frantic
cry to Heaven for help to save his child-wife.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Fane and the pilot were
speeding over the road to Red Head. station, behind
Toff’s best black mare. Across the wind-blown marsh
and the desolate sea-shore; through the village and
past the parsonage, where Mr. Fane stopped the
sleigh for a moment to run in for an overcoat, and
tell his mother where he was going.

Minutes passed before he returned, only to turn
the horse’s head into the gate, aud say, in a very
strange tone:

“Erling, your journey is done.
mother.”

Toff got out of the sleigh and stumbled blindly into
| the house.

Corinne was lying on a sofa in the parlor before
the fire, with her eyes closed, and her face cold and
white as if she were dead; and Mrs. Fane was chafing
her hands and b:eathing on the benumbed fingers,
which looked also as if they were dead.

Struck to stone, Toff stood and looked at her.

“She must have changed her mind at Lennox and
come back,” said Mrs. Fane, her gentle face full of
quiet thankfulness. “She has walked from the Red
Head station—ten miles—in a state of unnatural ex-
eitement. She just dragged herself to the door, and
when IT opened it, said, ‘{ couldn't do it,’ and fell
senseless as you see her.”

Toff gathered the childish figure up in his arms,
and hid his bronzed face on hers—hid the tears of
joy, and gratitude, and pity that streamed from his
eyes, His white dove had been restored to him; that
was all he ever thought of her wrong to him.

It was long before she revived from the death-like
swoon into which shame, terror, and exhaustion had
thrown her—long before she realized that the arms
which infolded her, and the breast which pillowed
her head so tenderly, were her husband’s. She cow-.
ered from his look, and covered her face.

“Corrie, my dear, ‘‘said the pilot, making a shield
of his great hand for that shamed and crimson cheek,
“‘to-inorrow’s Christmas Day, and I want ye should
be happy. What do ye think I brought ye fur a
Christmas-box from town ?”’

“Theo, Theo, hide me! I am not fit to live!” whis-
pore Corinne, pressing closer to him, as if he were

er only refuge.

“You’re good enough fur old ‘Tough’ Erling,” he
returned, with a laugh, ‘fan’ so that’s enough of that.
I’ve got ye the purtiest organ in town, fur to prac-
tice them Crusader hymns on. The old lady she’s
goin’ to Bill’s fur a spell; you’ll not be so lonesome
with the music.”

That was all Toff ever said.

The next morning they returned home, to find old
Mrs. Erling entertaining her solitude by tearing
down Corinne’s Christinas decorations.

Toff led his pale wife to a chair, and then faced his
astonished mother.

Py ag 2a he said, “have I been a good son to

ou

“The best of sons; I allers said it,” she quavered,
beginning to cower before his smoldering eyes. “All
the rest on ’em hey robbed me an’ shuffled me out’n
their way.”

“And what kind of a mother have you been to
me?” he cried; ‘‘when ye stabbed my heart’s love
with rusty pins when my back was turned, and drove
her most to perdition! She saved me from father’s
fate—a drunkard’s grave—an’ them’s your thanks.
I’ll suffer it no more. Go to Bill’s; it’s his right to
keep ye on the hoinestead.”

“Land’s sake, Toff! would ye send me among them
children, an’ Bill’s wife so fierce I darsn’t open my
mouth?” cried the old woman, with working features?
“T won't say nothin’ to Corinne if she don’t like it.
My soul! I’d ruther die than go to Bill’s.”

But she knew her reign was over.

“Theo,” whispered Corinne, some hours later, when
the exodus had been effected, and they had the house
to themselves, ‘‘you have given me a Christmas gift
that will sweeten every day inthe year; but you
have not yet asked for mine.”

She was sitting before the organ, her slender
fingers on the white keys, a look of timid tenderness
he had never encountered before in her eyes.

“And what’s that, my queen?’ he asked, with a
thrill at his soul.

“My heart,” she answered.

A Cheerful Friend.

If you need something to divert your thoughts, to
give you agreeable subjects for contemplation, make
the NEw YORK WEEKLY a regular visitor at your
house. For three dollars it will come to you, through
sunshine and storm, for a whole year. It improves
upon acquaintance, and will always be welcomed as
a cheerful friend.

young minister,

Come and save her before it’s too

She is with my

Economy.—It is almost every man's privilege, and
it becomes his duty, to live within his means—not up
to, but within them. Wealth does not make the man,
and should never be taken into account in our judg-
ment of men; but competence should always be
secured when it can by the practice of economy and
self-denial to a fairly reasonable extent. It should
be secured not so much for others as to secure for
ourselves the consciousness of independence and the
constant satisfaction which is received from its
acquirement and possession.

Ir is never the opinions of others that displease us,
but the pertinacity they display in obtruding them
upon us. .

 

‘| But debts of gratitude? Ah, Iam not so certain.

‘self-examination, whether

MY CHRISTMAS BELLE,

BY ST. VIVIENNE.

The mistletoe bough is dear.to me;
For under its leaves I first did see

A charming face,

Whose witching grace
Enthralled my heart, ne’er more to be free.

A young girl stood ‘neath the mystic bough,
And I pressed a kiss on her lovely brow.
Was there a spell?
I cannot tell ;
But I loved her then, and I love her now.

In former days this mistletoe plant

Was revered and honored with sacred chant;
And in our clime,
At Christmas time,

‘That it charms us still we all must grant.

What wonéer, then, that I found my fate,
As I stooped to kiss the lovely Kate!

A fettered slave,

My heart I gave;
For freedom to strive ’twas all too late!

Another year came, with its Christmas ball;
The mistletoe hung in my father’s hall,
And ‘neath it a kiss—
Sweet symbol of bliss—
From my lips, once more, on Kate’s brow did fall.

What rapture was mine, as I held her there,
And gazed on her face, so tender and fair—

It was on my bride

I looked with pride,
And vowed to protect her from grief and care.

Many years have passed since I won my bride,
But my Christmas belle is still at my side,
And memories sweet
Of mistletoe meet,
To revive the charms of Christmas tide,

cael

“TP | WERE RICH.”

A CHRISTMAS WISH.

a BY HARKLEY HARKER,

I have often asked myself the question what I
would really do if I were rich.

TI have ten thousand times exclaimed that I would
do this, that, or the other “if I were rich.” But, to
come down to hard, actual facts, I wonder just what
I would do. :

Would I first pay all my debts? Would that be the
first thing to come into my mind? Of course, all
the money debts that harass me, the tradesmen’s
bills, the mortgage interest, and the like, I should
discharge for the sake of my own peace of mind.
7
really now think I would pay them also. But would
I? The priceless kindness of some good friend who
loaned me a five when I had nothing—would I go
search him out and put ten in his hand? Now, I
paid back the five just asI agreed. But the good
that that five did me, can I ever pay that back?
Would I try, among the earliest things I did, if I
were rich? Would I seek out any good soul who
ever did me a favor, and attempt an humble, unos-
tentatious return? Would I feel that I could not
sleep nor rest till all this was done ?

Or, instead, if I were rich, would my first thought
be how to lay out my money to have a good time? -

Tf I were rich, would IT begin to right any of the
“burning wrongs” of which I now often talk? The
oppression of the poor, the insolence of pride, the
corruption of politics, the tempting of boys to do
wena There are ten thousand evils which I hate,
and I often exclaim against them. If I had the
power of money, should I still hate them and take
the trouble to set them right?

Not long ago a young friend of mine was very much
vexed by the tardy service of a certain line of horse-
cars. He wanted to “strangle” the superintendent
of the line, and I know not what other dire punish-
ment was in his heart, sympathizing with allof us
who lived on the route. Presto! He graduated from
college. His father died, and lo! he was the owner
of a majority of the stock in that road. Did he work
these reforms? No; he moved into a more fashion-
able part of the city, became president of the road,
nominally, and has since devoted himself to polo and
lawn-tennis.

If I were rich I should do on alarger scale just

what I donow. Itis not difficult to prophesy what
the effect of wealth would be on you and me. If a
man is mean with a dollar, he would bea million
times meaner with a million dollars. If a man makes
ten cents do a kind deed, he would make ten million
cents do many kind deeds; not quite ten million
times as much, I fear, for the human heart does not
seem to develop in goodness as it does in’ meanness.
If Iam proud and cold on the income I have now,
being rich [ should be all the prouder and colder.
He who is gentle, gracious, and liked by all when he
is poor, is, as a rule, still liked by all because he has
grown a gentle and gracious rich man.
And yet it sometimes happens, also, that wealth
shrivels and pinches a nature that was open and
frank before the money came. We may laugh, but
still there is a real risk. Perhaps gold would not so
affect you and me; let us hopeit would not. But
suppose we look back and see. We now earn $100 per
month. Are we more simple-hearted than when we
earned but $0% We can detect, by a little honest
we are pinching and
shriveling up, or expanding and opening into big-
heartedness. Of course, making all allowances for
our increased expenses, we can yet easily read our
growth noble or mean, as our purse has grown.

Did you ever think of it? In sucha country as
ours nearly all our wealthy men were once sighing
and saying just what weare, “If [wererich.” Inthe
course of time they have their chance to try it. How
do they show results? It must be acurious sensa-
tion to look at an ambrotype of one’s self, a poor, cal-
low, cow-hide-footed lad, seeking employment, with a
sixpence in his pocket; then to look on the magnifi-
cent painting of one’s self, that hangs in the front hall
of one’s country-seat. on a coach, behind four-in-
hand. “That’’s I.” Itis, afterall, the same self. The
seeds of the character are grown into stalk, bud, and
fruit, that’s the only difference. The mean boy
makes the mean man,rich or poor. A man can be
meaner with his tongue in a beggar’s mouth than
with dollars. An re hand is often meaner than
opulence. Hands and feet are wealth. What do we
do with the wealth which we have? The sunlight of
a day is wealth. How do we use it? When has the
sunlight of a day lighted you to run on an errand of
merey? I hope often. But that tells what you
would do with much gold. Ask the millionaire if I
am not right.

Still, the dream hasits charms, If I were rich I
would add something to this world’s rest. I would
take a heavy debt which I knowis kiling a young
son of a bad aead father and let the oppressed go
free. I would pay the debts of a young musician,
the accumulated billsof her schooling for her pro-
fession. I would send a young sculptor whom I know
to Paris. I would bring from Australia a sick son
of his mother, who resides in old Massachusetts, and
the pale, dying boy should cross her threshold once,
more to fall asleep in his mother’s arms. I would

 

 

 

seven years of faithful service of his kind, is to-day
a beggar. I would purchase a farm for a physician
not yet thirty years old, whose health has been
ruined by diphtheria, which he contracted of a little
colored boy, son of the janitor of a great fashionable
apartment house. The whole family died. This hero,
the doctor, was never paid. He barely lives. His
srs are nearly blinded; but he could survive on a
arm.

But again let us eee. Reader, do you know any
of the abuve cases? Not one. These are all little
woes, known only to me, say. But you know just as
many. You, reader, are legion. Just think of it.
What a world this would be if we each began, so far
as we could, from this moment, to lighten at least
one load. Once a millionisa million, “many a mickel
makes a muckel.” Letus try. Let us not wait for
wealth. Weare all able to do some little good. We
shall never pass through this world but once. If we
can do any good, let us do it now, for we shall not
pass this way again. Letus not defer it, for we
move on to-morrow. Let the rich answer for them-
selves. You and I have only to answer for what we
have had in our trust. And if we remember that
most sufferers are small people like ourselves, that
most woes are small woes within our reach and
power, the world can be made wealthy by our little
kindnesses.

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS.

BY KATE THORN.

Another Christmas Day is about to dawn, and the
customary thanks are awaiting the customary pres-
ents, and everybody is prepared to criticise the
Christmas sermons, and compare the weather of this
year with the weather of last year, and we are all
ready to wish all our friends a “Merry Christmas,”
and a good many more of them.

We speak softly of those who are gone, and recall
with tenderness the gracious memory of their sweet
presence; we wonder where we shall be next year at
this time, and we all hope for something better and
more satisfactory as time goes on.

The young people sigh because Christmas comes
but once a year; the old people are sad because it
comes so often.

The man of large family and lean pocket-book
wishes it did not come at all, and the hungry boy,
with his growing appetite, welcomes it as an epoch
of plum pudding, and turkey, with all the “stuffing”
he can eat, and pound cake in unlimited quantities
to tep off with.

The churches hang their walls with graceful ferns
and evergreens; the choir practices for a week be-

forehand on some noted anthem with zigzag quavers
and trills in it, and the good and hard-worked pastor
ehanges pulpits _With a brother in some adjacent
town, and by this arrangement the two manage to
work off their last year’s sermons on the new and
unsuspecting congregation. And who can blame
them? For if it does not require genius to say some-
thing entirely new on the same theme for fifty-two
days in the year—something that somebody else has
not said before—something that will not displease a
good-paying member, something that shall be thor-
oughly within the old orthodox standard—if you
think it does not require genius, then you had better
try to do it, and if you succeed you can name your
own atnipt h

About the time when Christmas puts in an appear-

ance you can safely expect cold weather. Your aunt
from the country will come ona visit and stay all
winter, and every day she will tell you that there is
not money enough in the world to tempt her to live
in the city.
_ The shortest days in the year will be ug ret you, and
it will be dark at 4 P. M., and the gas bills will be
frightful, and the coal-bin will lower with the mer-
cury, and all the coal dealers will be building brown-
stone fronts, and their wives will wear diamonds in
their ears and on their fingers. ;

All creatien will have colds, and the man who has
co acough sirup, and advertised it well, will

esure of a bigger income than the President of
these United States.

Bright colors will flame on the streets as the pretty
girls and the'fashionable women go by to look into
the shop windows, and note the eut prices, and ob-
serve with complacency the numbers of merchants
who are ready to ruin themselves by selling their
merchandise ten per cent. below cost! A stran

 

 

Leniene tay, A which prevails about the time the de-
mand for Christmas and New Year's goods is over.

The merry sleigh—we have always heard it called
the “merry sleigh,” so we thus denominate it—skims
along, if there is snow enough, filled with people who
enjoy having their ears and toes frozen, and their
eyes knocked out with snow-balls; and the horses _
like the fun as they toss their heads and jingle their
bells, and seize the first opportuvity to upset the
whole business into the deepest drift on the read.

The year of 1889 is near its close. It has been @
year of marked unfruitfulness—a year of rain, and
fog, and clouds; a year of disasters and catastrophies
unparalleled. The country has endured fires, floods,
blizzards, cyclones, sugar trusts, and the saints know
what! And forall these let us be at this season of
the year—when giving thanks is in erder—let us be
thankful that it has been no worse.

TO BEGIN THE NEW YEAR.

ANNE ASHORE EW. STORY

Life-like, Vigorous, Artistic, Affecting.

As an indication of the numerous good things in
store for our readers during the year 1890, we shal}
begin the new year with a delightful story from the
accomplished pen of one of the most popular writers
of the NEW YORK WEEKLY’s staff. It bears the ex-
pressive title of

THE TEST OF LOVE;

OR,

THE BEAUTY OF BONACCORDE,

By ANNIE ASHMORE.

Author of “Faithful Forever,” “Jennie Vail’s Mis-
sion,” ‘‘The Lady of Harrow,” ‘‘Waiting
for Him,” “The Bride Elect,” etc. __

This powerful and carefully constructed romance
of the affections is earnest, pathetic, and impres-
sive, graceful in style, and artistic in execution.
From the opening installment, wherein is vividly
pictured the remorse of the light-hearted young hero,

who is charged with

AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME,
the reader’s sympathy is aroused and enchained.
The love scenes are depicted with naturalness, force,
and fervor, and introduce

TWO STRANGE SISTERS,
one the personification of peace, purity, and selfless
affection, and the other the exact reverse, as will be
seen when she is subjected to
THE TEST OF LOVE.

A number of ably drawn characters figure in this
capital story, the interest of which is maintained to
the closing line.

ANNIE ASHMORE’S new story will be begun next

 

build a home foran aged clergyman who, after forty-
’

 

 

 
 

 

etpeatien:

thy,
ao-comecmeenteaae Ae a iil

Cmte ens tenia ie ty ills

-
sts oa

t

 

eA ee pee ne ie pcre ee ae

ayer?

PISS PRA

 

 

 

 

   

   

 

   

 

 

VOL. 45—No, 10.

cass THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

THE MATCH CASE.

 

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

 

Some evenings after Santa Claus
Had finished his dispatches,
A lady fair placed in my hand’
A neat case filled with matches.
Such matches! They were made of wax;
Some fairy hand had done it!
The case was silver, and it had
My monogram upon it.

I seized the treasure eagarly,
And tried in vain to utter

My deep thanks to the donor fair,
But I could only mutter

A commonplace or two, and then
I spoke about the weather ;

And then I stopped, I couldn’t get
My words to hang together.

But now I’ll try to make amends—
Words spoken are but vapor—

And earnest thoughts I’d sooner far
Make legible on paper.

So I’ll express my ardent thanks
In similes erratic,

Hard to be understood, perhaps,
But none the less emphatic.

This world I'll liken to a case—
A vast case filled with matches—
Each when subjected to life’s rubs
A fierce flame quickly catches.
And then it flutters, smokes, and fumes,
Till come its final flashes,
Which quenched, it blisters, blackens,
And resolves itself in ashes.

This is the common fate of all,
But ere you fade and dwindle,
May you while passing through the world
Another flame enkindle—
A flame of sacred, constant love,
Which may be dampened never,
But once alight burn brilliantly,
Forever and forever.

Your neat gift I shall cherish
As a souvenir most precious ;
And not your gift alone I prize—

I feel your friendship gracious.
And every cigar I light
T’ll think upon the giver,
Till I am called upon to cross
Old Charon’s gloomy river.

And when Fate’s magic mirror bright
A match for you discloses,

May he, the loved one, make your path
A bed of sweetest roses.

And may your case be prized as much
As this case I am viewing,

And may you live a hundred years,
Each day your love renewing.

milk ll

This Story Mil Not be Palished in Book-Form.
The Tiger's Head ‘Mystery

THE CRIME OF THE LEAGUE.

By EUGENE T, SAWYER,

Author of “THE MALTESE CROSS,” “THE
BLACK HAND,” “A CLOUDED
CAREER,” Etc.

 

Oat TIGER’S HEAD MYSVERY’” was commenced last
week.

 

CHAPTER VI.
A MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY.

The strange visitor looked commiseratingly at the
detective, and then, with the quiet remark, “I have
come upon important business,’ seated herself in
the only chair in the room.

She was young—not more than twenty—and formed
in nature’s happiest mold; and when she spoke, the
undulating tones of her voice betrayed a slight
Spanish accent.

Of a tall and commanding figure, with ravishing
dark-brown eyes, and a brilliant complexion, in
which the clear, pale beauty of the lily was charm-
ingly blended with the rich carmine of the rose ; with
features exquisitely cut, and a bearing at once grace-
ful and proud, she looked, indeed, to the not unim-
pressionable man before her, a veritable daughter of
the gods.

Her attire was fashionable and artistic, and of an
elegance that betokened wealth and refinement.

Roland Lane looked at her wonderingly and admi-
ringly.

Who could she be? and what relation did she bear
to the case in which he had become such an inter-
ested party ?

He merely made a polite bow when she announced
the purpose of her call.

After looking about her coolly, she drew a deep
breath, and then began:

“How I learned of your presence here is a matter
that must not concern you. I have come to aid you,
and you must look upon me as your friend.”

Lane, with his eyes fixed intently upon her lovely
face, again inclined his head.

“You are in the power of men who will do you no
harm when once they are assured that you mean not
to interfere with the business in which they are en-
gaged. Self-protection and self-interest govern their
actions.”

‘Naturally”—with a suspicion of a sneer.

Then he went on:

“T can have no desire to harm them, if it shall be
made clear and positive to me that they are guiltless
of the death of my friend.”

ce presume you allude to Mr, Ashton ?”’

ot) es,’

Then he added, quickly :

“What did you know of him ?”’

“T?? She bit her lip till the blood came, “I knew
post: I learned his name only after he was

ead.”

“Then you know of the murder, where it occurred,
and the apparent mystery surrounding it?’ he
eagerly interrogated, and watching her narrowly
the while.

“You must have inferred, as I desired that you
should @o, from what I said a moment ago, that I de-
sire to keep secret for the present, at least, the knowl-
edge [ have gained regarding the matter which has
caused your detention here.”

Her tones were cold, and there was 4 warning glit-
ter in her lustrous eyes.

“She is not all angel,’ thought the young man,
‘‘and decidedly, I must be on my guard.”

“The murder is as much a mystery to them,” she
proceeded, as she saw that her words had taken
effect, “as it must be to you. They have no feeling
against you personally. Why shonid they? You are
a stranger to them,and you have nothing in common
with them.”

“T cheerfully admit the proposition,” he sinilingly
rejoined. ‘“ILAave nothing in common with them,”
and with a glance that was full of meaning, “I hope
I may never sink so low as to reach that position, as
to become in the slightest way interested in their
hopes and schemes.”

She blushed, whether with shame, or anger, or
both, he could not make out.

“Tf IT could explain—which, unfortunately, I can-
not’—she rather confusedly returned, ‘‘you might
withdraw the imputation against my motives and
my character which your words and looks seem to
convey.”

“T beg your pardon, if I have wronged you,” he im-
pulsively cried. “But please remember my posi-
tion, the strangeness of it all, your unlooked-for ap-
pearance here, the cruelty of my friend’s death, and
forgive me, if you can.”

“You are pardoned,” she sweetly said, her scarlet
lips parting to reveal a glimpse of the whitest teeth.
‘And now to business, to the proposition which I am
empowered to make. If you will promise, on your
word and honor as a gentleman—nothing more will
be required of you to cement the obligation—that
you will neither inform the police, nor any one else
in San Francisco, of the discoveries made by you
yesterday, you will be released and no harm shall
come to you.”

“And I am not to be bound myself, respecting my
eae actions?”

“Nov

    

 

“And I may make such investigations, and take }

such steps, individually, as 1 may elect?”
“Yes ”?

Lane thought a moment.

No good might result if the police were informed.
With the facts already in his possession, why might
he not act alone? and why might not the chances of
success be as good as if the information were shared
by others.

One other reflection—that of his powerlessness in
the event of his refusal to accede to the demand—
and his decision was made.

“T consent,” he said, firmly. “I will make the
promise that is requested of me. In searching for
the murderer of my friend I will move alone. Single-
handed I will drag him to the doom that avenging
justice has in store for him.”

His eyes shone tierecely, and the beautiful woman,
as she looked at him, shuddered slightly and turned

“You frighten me,” she murmured. “I had no idea
seeing you that you were such a ferocious crea-

ure.’

A forced smile accompanied the words.

Lane did not smile in return, but he regarded her
in a way that disturbed her. ;

“T am very sorry for one thing,’ he gravely re-
marked.

“Yes? And for what?’

She glanced at him in surprise.

“T am sorry,” he went on, “that you can give me
no information that might help me in my search for
the truth.”

“Then you have no clew ?’

He noted her eagerness, and instantly steeled his
heart against her.

“T have not the slightest idea as to the identity of
the assassin,” he returned, his words impelled by a
sense of duty.

“T would it were otherwise,” she said, with eyes
cast down, “but I cannot help you. I am the victim
of circumstances. Some day you may understand.”

She laid considerable stress on the last words, and
ee her eyes watched Lane closely to note the
effect.

“T am sure that some day I shall understand you,”
he slowly rejoined.

She arose to go, holding out her hand to him as she
turned toward the door.

Lane took it, held it a moment, then slightly
pressed it and allowed it to drop by her side.

‘You will be a free man in a few hours,” she said.
“Good-by.”

“One moment,” as she knocked at the door to sum-
mon the Kanaka, ‘‘and one favor. May I not know
the name of thelady who has condescended to in-
terest herself in my behalf?’

She hesitated, frowned, then spoke with some
asperity.

“Yes, you may know my name.
difference, for we shall never meet again.
men Alvarez.”

The door opened the next instant, and she swept

from his sight, leaving hima prey to the most dis-
tracting and disagreeable thoughts.
_ The woman whom Artemus Hoyle had seen pass-
ing along the corridor from the direction of the office,
immediately upon the discovery of the murder, was
named Carmen Alvarez.

The mystery was deepening,

It can make no
It is Car-

 

CHAPTER VII.
A LUCKY ENCOUNTER.

Tt was shortly after noon before Roland Lane ob-
tained his freedom, which was effected through the
agency of the Kanaka, who simply opened the door
and said:

“You go—come along.”

The young man followed his guide with alacrity.

On deck he saw that the craft was a schooner, and
that it was anchored not far from Goat Island.

A boat was lowered, and the Kanaka rowed Lane
to the San Francisco shore, coming to land near the
Market street ferry slips.

When his foot touched the wharf, he looked back

 

 

 

 

 

j

 

‘“WHAT’S YOUR LAY—I MEAN TER SAY, WHAT’S YOUR
BUSINESS ?”? SAID THE WOMAN, SUSPICIOUSLY.

expecting his guide to follow, but that silent native
of the Sandwich Islands was already putting about
for a return to the schooner.

Our hero looked doubtfuily at the fellow for a mo-
ment, then turned on his heel, and walked rapidly
toward the business part of the city.

His revolver and knife—a Mexican meeheti—had
been restored to him before he had left the schooner.

In a deserted alley, he removed the cartridges of
the former, fearing they might have been tampered
with, and in the next block substituted new ones pro-
cured at a gunsmith’s.

He was now ready to make the opening move in
the campaign against the enemy, and he was most
anxious to be again thrown into the company of Miss
Carmen Alvarez.

He had made up his mind that she either knew or
suspected the murderer, and that his fortunes in
some way were bound up in hers.

He thought he perfectly understood the reasons
that had prompted his release.

“They believe—because they have my word—that
I know nothing of the former history or late cares or
projects of the murdered man, and they have come
to the conclusion that I can have no idea of the
motive that cree the murder. Therefore they
have probably said to themselves: ‘This fellow,
operating alone, cannot harm us, and if we can get
his promise to keep what he has found out to him-
self, we are safe. The purpose we are bent upon can
be accomplished if he is released, for he has no clew
to work upon, and, of course, does not even suspect
the deep gaine we are playing.’ We shall see,” he
observed to himself, with a flashing eye. ‘‘We shall
see whether [am such afool as they make me out
to be. If they only knew one thing that is at present
my secret, there would be consternation in their
cainp, and my death-sentence would be speedily pro-
nounced.”

There was a peculiar expression on his manly
countenance as these self-communings ceased, and
his step was firmer as he proceeded on his way.

Twenty minutes’ walk brought him to the building
on Sacramento street which had witnessed the ter-
rible scene of yesterday.

He bcldly ascended the stairs and knocked at the
oftice door of the Mexican Development Company.

There was no response, no movement from within.

He tried the knob, the door opened, and he walked
in, to meet with an unpleasant surprise.

The room was bare, the portable closet had disap-
peared, and with it all its belongings and the body of
the murdered Ashton.

“What does this mean?’ were his bewildered
thoughts. ‘They have my promise, they must have
believed me to be a man of honor, and re. they act
as if they think that Lintend to trick them. Gone,
and left notatrace behind. What would a visit to
the police office amount to now? Who would believe
my story of amurder? I would be laughed at asa
fool, or, perhaps, locked up as a crank.’’

The young man was bitterly disappointed at first,
but his youth, his sanguine temperament, and the
righteousness of the cause upon which he was en-
gaged, soon caused him to recover his usual buoy-
ancy of spirits.

“They propose to make my lone-hand fight as diffi-
cult as possible,” he muttered, and all the antago-
nism in his nature, fortified by adauntless determina-
tion, arose within him.

Before leaving the building, he registered a solemn
eda and the reader shall ere long see how well he

ept it.

From the tragic spot he hastened back to the
wharf, from which he had parted with the Kanaka.

The sky was clear, and Goat Island and its sur-
roundings could be plainly discerned.

But the schooner had left its moorings and gone he
knew not where.

A few inquiries along the water-front served to
elicit the information that the craft, but a short time
before, had spread its sails and passed out of the
Golden Gate.

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

 

In spite of the discoveries and disappointments of

the day, Lane did not believe that the conspirators
had left the Golden City.

“They are trying to hoodwink me,” he thought,
“and believing they have an amateur detective to
deal with, anticipate but little trouble in covering
their tracks. I have a great deal to learn, I will ad-
mit, but I do claim the credit of possessing ordinary
common sense.”

He was standing near the ferry-passage half an
hour later, when the boat from Oakland discharged
its hundreds of passengers from the North and East.

Fate must have brought him to the place, for he
was destined to meet with a most interesting ad-
venture.

The hacks, busses, and street-cars had carried off
all who had not chosen to walk, with the exception
of two ladies, who remained in the waiting-room.

Roland Lane, disguised as a bay sailor, in duek
pants and blouse, and tarpaulin, a heavy beard con-

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PLACING HIS EAR TO THE DOOR, HE WAS ABLE TO
HEAR NEARLY EVERY WORD.

cealing his features, was standing near enough to
the door to hear a portion of their conversation.

“Whatcan have happened, aunt?” said one, in the
sweet, fresh voice of innocent maidenhood. ‘We
telegraphed Mr. Ashton yesterday requesting him to
meet us on the boat’s arrival.”

‘He may be out of town,” suggested the other, in
deeper tones.

“After writing us that he had just arrived from
Mexico and should stay in San Francisco a week or
more ?”’ pouted the first speaker. ‘I don’t believe he
isaway. He has treated us shabbily, because he has
no love for us.”

“How can you speak so of your cousin, Lora? You
have never seen him, and from all reports he is his
father’s son, an honest and noble-minded gentleman.
Something has happened to him. He may be sick,
or——

At that moment aman brushed past Lane, and hur-
riedly entered the waiting-room.

The hero of this tale, whose face was burning,
startled to follow him, but checked himself before he
reached the door.

But he determined not to lose a word of any con-
versation that might follow.

The new-comer approached the ladies, with the
polite inquiry :

( ane you awaiting the arrival of Mr. Frank Ash-
on?’

“Yes, yes,” spoke both at once.

“Important business has detained him, and he has
deputed me to escort you to the hotel where rooms
for you have been engaged.”

The speaker was bright-eyed, dark-complexioned,
and well-dressed.

His voice was light and musical, his smile reassur-
ing, and to the mind of the elder lady, he seemed
every inch a gentleman.

She at once placed herself and niece under his pro-
tection.

Again Roland Lane was on the point of entering
when he heard what passed, but once more he re-
strained himself.

“No, it might be a false move, to spoil all.
be cautious and wait—wait.”

He saw the ladies depart with their escort, who
was unknown to him, and a new and peculiar, but
not unpleasant sensation stole into his heart when
he obtained a full view of the younger lady’s face.

gout trio entered a hack and were driven up Market
street.

Lane, in another vehicle, followed behind.

Luck appeared to have favored him in the most
singular manner.

I must

CHAPTER VIII.
A DANGEROUS CRISIS.

The impression produced upon Roland Lane by the
young lady, whom her aunt had addressed as Lora,
in no way resembled the feeling which had stirred
him upon his introduction in the schooner’s cabin to
the strange-acting and utterly incomprehensible Car-
men Alvarez.

The beauty of the latter had temporarily dazzled
him, but the sensation had soon passed away in the
contemplation of the circumstances which sur-
rounded her and her words and manner in the con-
versation which had had such an important result.

Although cool reason induced a distrust, yet the
aduiration for her physical graces remained; an ad-
wiration, however, that had in it no element of pas-
sionate yearning or affectionate tenderness.

He could regard her as he would a beautiful pic-
ture, and the deeper chords of his sentimental nature
were touched only when the vision of a different
style of loveliness burst upon him at the ferry.

Carmen Alvarez might be as true as steel, her heart
might be untainted by vice, her aspirations might be
high; she might, as she had said, be the victim of
circumstances, and yet a doubt of her true character
remained. On the other hand no doubt of the truth
and loyalty and innocence of the fair Lora could ever
be entertained, he protested, by any intelligent, right-
minded person.

The dark Spanish beauty might be true or false;

 

 

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‘¢ REMEMBER !”” LANE HISSED, ‘‘ ONE WORD AND
YOU ARE A DEAD MAN!’

the fair American was goodness personified, or he
was a poor student of human nature, and his educa-
tion and experience had taught him nothing.

As he rode in the vehicle her image was constantly
before him.

A demi-blonde, above the medium height, graceful
and willowy, with beautifully molded features and a
complexion that rivaled the blush-rose in freshness
and purity ; eyes of blue, dark, luminous, and soulful,
a dainty mouth, formed fer tenderness and love, lips
that held a wealth of charming smiles, and a voice
that was like sweet music,

Such was the picture that his mind recalled, and he
could not help believing that her beauty had as com-
panion graces, modesty guilelessness and goodness.

The hack which held her drove up to one of the
leading hotels in the city not far from the Baldwin
Theater.

The subsequent actions of the stranger, who had
constituted himself the chaperon and guardian of
the ladies, puzzled Lane exceedingly.

 

That pseudo friend of Frank Ashton registered the

names. of Mrs. Catherine Ashton and Miss Lora
Neville, and after seeing them comfortably in pos-
session of the suiteof rooms assigned them, walked
out of the hotel, entered the hack which had brought
him from the ferry, and was rapidly driven off.

What was his little game?

He had deceived the ladies, he had represented that
Ashton was alive, and his purpose was sinister; but
why had he brought them to such a public place,
where they would assuredly be safe from harm, if
harm were intended ?

The young detective lost no valuable timein pon-
dering over this fresh complication, but immediately
took up the pursuit of the villainous stranger.

Fifteen minutes passed and he had the satisfaction
of seeing his quarry enter a lodging-house on Broad-
way, not far from the county jail.

Dismissing his hackman at the next corner, Lane
aera on foot to follow up the advantage he had
gained.

A short reflection and his mind was made up as to
his course of action.

It was extremely unlikely that he had been particu-
larly observed by the stranger when at the ferry;
and it was not probable, in his present disguise, that
Meering or the party who sported the tiger’s head,
would recognize him in the event of a meeting.

Proceeding to the lodging-house—a two-story
wooden structure that had seen better days, and
stood in a shady locality—he opened the door and
pulled the bell-cord in the hall.

A slovenly dressed women of uncertain age, corpu-
lent person, puffy cheeks, and watery eyes, soon ap-
peared,

“[ want to engage a room here,” he said, in a gruff
voice, and giving his trousers a hitch.

“For how long?’

“A week.”

“H’m’” eying him suspiciously, “what’s your lay—I
mean ter say, what’s your business?”

“Tt’s no business of yours, old woman,” he bluntly
returned, at the same time closing one eye in a pecu-
liar manner.

She hesitated, looked at him carefully from head to
foot, and then said:

“You're a bay squeezer, I reckon?”

“T reckon you’re right”—not having the slightest
idea that a bay ‘‘squeezer”’ was a cross between a
wrecker and a ’longshore pirate—‘‘and no recoin-
mendation’s wanted further than that, or I’m dead
out o’ reckonin’.”

“T think you'll do,” she assented. ‘‘But there musn’t
be any funny business. I want to see the color of
your money. Two dollars, and it’s dirt cheap.”

‘ “So the dirt’s cheap?” as if he had misunderstood
er.

The woman laughed boisterously.

“That’s for you to find out, Pony!”

He handed over the money, and was conducted to
a small, ill-smelling bedroom in the second story.

‘*You’re hunting a quiet place, I reckon?” was her
query us she was about to leave him.

“You bet—the shade for me for the next month.”

“T thoughtso. You’re safe here, if you mind your
own business, So long.”

When she had gone Lane left the room and walked
softly along the corridor.

Luck favored him.

Stopping at the door of a room farthest removed
from the front, his heart beat joyfully at the sound
7 pans one of which he had heard but a short time

efore.

Placing his ear to the keyhole he listened, and to
his unbounded delight, was able to hear nearly all
the words that were spoken.

The man he haa followed was speaking.

“T have done my part, as you have heard,” he said.
“Now tell me what you learned from the men on the
Mexican steamer?”

The person addressed answered in a deep, bass
voice:

“T found the second mate, and after pumping him,
Thad no need to hunt further. He knew all about
the pair.”

“Give me the particulars, quick,” in trembling
eagerness.

 

 

 

 

 

THE FALSE ASHTON, PALE AS DEATH, SAT LOOKING
AT THE OPEN DOORWAY,

It was the voice of the stranger of the ferry, the
escort of the lovely Lora.

“Oh, it’s all right,” the man’s companion returned,
“and you needn’t be skeery, not the least mite.
Frank Ashton left the City of Mexico last month,
and traveled overland with a surveying party to
ponaueye on the coast. There he met this man,

ane.”’

“They had never seen each other before ?’

“No. They got acquainted a day or two before the
eteamer sailed for ’Frisco, and occupied the same
state-room coming up.”

“A fine chance to become very confidential,”
grumbled the other.

“A chance, yes; but Ashton never opened up. He
was as dumb as an oyster about his past life.”

“And how did you acquire that information 2?”

“The mate told ne, and he ought to know, for Lane
gave him the straight business the day the steamer
put into the bay. Now, are you satistied ?”

“Yes. Laneis aman of honor, and what he says
can be depended upon.”

“Thank you,” muttered the listener under his
breath, ‘‘and I hope that opinion may never be
changed.”

The conversation now tooka turn that deepened
the interest of the eavesdropper.

‘‘Where is Larry ?” asked he of the bass voice.

“Shadowing Lane, and he’ll stick to him like a
leech. If we have made any mistake about this
friend of Ashton, we’ll soon know it, and then pop
goes his elegant weasel.”

“You don’t say?’ thought the detective, though
the words of the speaker surprised and startled him.

He arrived at a sudden determination.

This ‘‘Larry” might be a foeman worthy of his
steel, might even now be near at hand, having trailed
him to the house.

He must make a move in self-protection.

The opportunity was quickly presented, and in a
singular manner.

The man who had visited the Mexican steamer
arose to leave the room,

Lane rapidly and noiselessly retreated to his own
apartment, and partially closed the door.

As the fellow, who wore a grizzled beard and was
dressed like a ’longshoreman, came opposite the
young man’s hiding-place, the door was suddenly
flung open, and two hands grasped the rascal’s throat
and forced him down upon his knees.

He was taken so completely by surprise as to be
incapable for the mowent of active, intelligent re-
sistance.

He could not ery out on account of the determined
pressure of the fingers about his windpipe.

Exerting all his strength—and Lane was of superb
muscular development—he dragged the captive into
the bedroom,

As soon as he entered, these words came in a stern
whisper from his lips:

“One word outof your mouth, andI will send a
knife through your heart!”

No answer came, and the detective was forced to
take silence for consent.

In atwinkling the fellow was on his back, and
Lane was upon him, with his knees pressed against
the victim’s breast.

At this moment there was heard the sound of foot-
steps ascending the stairs,

Some one was coming.

Perhaps it was Larry.

“Remember!” Lane hissed, ‘one word, one sound
and you are a dead man!”

The footsteps reached the corridor, came toward
the detective’s room.

A dangerous crisis was approaching.

 

CHAPTER IX.
THE MOTIVE OF THE MURDER.

The bright-eyed_ stranger, on leaving “Mrs, Ashton
and Miss Neville, had assured them that Mr. Ashton
would appear within an hour,

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

‘es

 

The elderly lady, who was comely, pleasant-man-
nered, and of middle age, with a trusting disposition
and a strong belief in the goodness of mankind, in
general, noticed a frown on Miss Neville’s face as
oa chaperon departed, and inquired the cause
of it.

“T don’t like that man,” was the answer. “He is
too polite, too smooth-spoken, too auxious to put
himself in a good light before us.”

“Why, Lora, he has deported himself like a perfect
gentleman,” remonstrated her aunt, who had been
very favorably impressed by the stranger’s address.
“And he is a friend of Frank, an intimate friend.
What better recommendation of his character can
you want than that?”

“Frank, the man, may be quite a different sort of
person from Frank, the boy. Remember, Aunt Kate,
that you haven’t seen your nephew since he was a
babe in his mother’s arms. I hope he ts a gentleman,
but I can’t respect him if he owns that man who has
just left us, for a friend.’’

She shut her pretty lips tightly together, and
folded her arms aS much as to say, “That matter is
disposed of; argument will be useless.”

_ But kind Mrs. Ashton could not refrain from put-
ing in a good word for the son of her brother.

“Wait until you have seen my nephew, before you
make up your mind concerning him. I know’—with
an emphasis that left no doubt as to the positiveness
and tenacity of her belief—‘‘that Frank Ashton is
the peer of any young man on the coast in all those
qualities that go to make up the right-thinking, high-
minded gentleman.”

Miss Lora tossed her head, but made no reply.

And yet she was most anxious that this cousin of
hers, whom she had never seen, should make his ap-
pearance.

The young lady was an orphan, and had lived with
her aunt, a widow, for many years in the little city
of Gilroy, in the lovely valley of Santa Clara.

During Frank Ashton’s absence in Mexico, whither
he had gone from his home in Portland, Oregon, some
five years before the opening of tliis story, many let-
ters had passed between him and his aunt.

On his arrival in San Francisco he had written to
Mrs. Ashton, who on reading the letter had at once
telegraphed her intention of coming to the Bay City
to confer with him on important business.

Like Lora, he was an orphan, and it was when he
found that the liabilities of his deceased father’s
estate equaled the assets, that he resolutely set him-
self to work to win a fortune for himself.

Lora Neville sat looking contemplatively at her
aunt for some moments after Mrs. Ashton’s last
speech.

At last she said,in compassionate tones, and with
cheeks that flushed slightly—perhaps with remorse
for having spoken her mind so freely :

“T fervently hope, dear aunt, that Mr. Ashton may
prove to be all that you say he is, or must be.”

“And why so?’ looking at the young lady in mild
surprise.

‘‘Because I want him to be worthy of the good for-
tune that is in store for him.”

She might have said more, but she had searcely
ecased speaking when there came a knock at the
door of the little parlor in which they were sitting.

Mrs. Ashton arose with a tremor of pleasurable ex-
citement, while her niece’s lovely face became pale
and red by turns.

The door was opened, Lora heard the words, ‘My
dear aunt, I ain sure it is,” and then looked up to see
a tall, stylishly attired gentleman, with dark, pierc-
ing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a pale, haughty
countenance.

It was the president of the Mexican Development
Company, he who had intreduced himself to Roland
Lane as Marcus Meering.

A strange fear found lodgmentin the young lady’s
bosom as her clear, honest, penetrating gaze met his.

She was blessed with acute perception, and his
true character was-revealed to her in a glance.

She had been right, after all, in her estimate of
Frank Ashton.

‘And this is my cousin,” he remarked, with a smile
of welcome, as he moved forward with outstretched
hands. “I did not expect that fate had been so kind
to me,” and he leoked the admiration which his lan-
guage conveyed.

With inward shrinking, and half-averted face, she
gave him a limp hand to shake.

“T was down on a petit jury after you wired me,”
he said to Mrs. Ashton after he had seated himself,
“and therefore could not make the connection with-
out being in contempt of court, and liable to fine or
imprisoninent. But I am here at last to find you safe
and sound, and to be confronted with such a charm-
ing picture.”

His eyes were on Lora as he spoke the last words.

Our heroine resented his boldness and his inso-
lence—she gave him credit for the possession of none
of the finer feelings—and he reddened under her in-
dignant glance.

“You must pardon what seems like effrontery in
speaking as I have done on so short an acquaint-
ance,’ he stammered, for bold and unscrupulous
though he was, the virtuous scorn of this lovely
creature abashed him, “but I thought only of our
relationship, the freedom.——”’

“With which you have doubtless been accustomed
in the soviety of ladies?” she interrupted, her lip
curling and her eyebrows lifting.

“Not at all,” reeovering himself and assuming a
demeanor of smiling frankness which ill became
him, ‘but the sympathetic freedom which an almost
brother might assume in the presence of an almost
sister whom he had not seen for years. I hope you
will overlook my forwardness,”’ with an expression
of tender solicitude that sat strangely on his dark,
arrogant features, ‘‘fer I have been so long shut out
of the world of culture and refinement that the sight
ot your——”

He hesitated before the complimentary allusion he
was about to make, but becoming reassured by the
placid aspect of Lora’s countenance, finished the
sentence by praising her ‘“‘sweetness, purity, and in-
telligence.”’

Mrs. Ashton, blind to the moral deficiencies of the
man before her, had been regarding him affection-
ately the while.

She now changed the drift of the conversation,
much to her niece’s relief.

That young lady, now determined to mask her
feelings as much as possible in pursuance of the
praiseworthy plan of seeking, some time in the near
future, for the confirmation of a terrible suspicion
that had seized her, looked with good-natured ex-
pectancy at her aunt, who thus plunged into a sub-
ject that deeply interested her.

“You must be anxious, Frank dear,’ she began,
“to know the object of my coming to San Francisco.
I telegraphed important business, if you will re-
member.”

‘““Yes, [have your telegram here,” and he took it
out of his pocket.

“An unnecessary proceeding,” thought the sus-
picious Lora, and she watched him narrowly while
he remained in the room.

“Being in Mexico, out of the world almost,” said
Mrs. Ashton—the good soul, who was not up with the
times. knew nothing of modern railroad and postal
facilities in the land of the Montezumas, and the ex-
cellent means of inter-comiunication—‘I did not
suppose it likely for you to have heard of the good
news.’

The false Ashton looked at her inquiringly, but
without betraying marked curiosity.

“The lawyer said he had written to you, but for
fear that you might not receive the letter, he com-
municated with me, so as to make sure of the
matter.”

Lora tapped the carpet impatiently at this cireum-
locution,

“The factis,’? Mrs. Ashton proceeded, morerapidly,
her voice exhibiting a pleasurable agitation, ‘‘ a man
who wronged your father-a Colonei Almont—has
made restitution to you, the heir, and the fortune
that you will receive amounts to over a quarter of a
million of dollars.”

“Indeed ! and that is good news, surely.”

He was not unduly excited at the intelligence,
See his eyes kindled when the sum was wen-
tioned.

There was silence for a moment.

Then he said: :

“And if I had died, who would have had the
money %”

“My niece, Lora,” replied Mrs. Ashton.

Meering glanced furtively at the young lady.

Her quick eyes were on the alert, and she’ intuit-
ively guessed what was passing in his mind.

“TI have money enough of my own,” she coldly re-
marked, “and had this fortune of yours become
mine, I would have devoted every dollar of it to
charity.”

“The story connected with Colonel Almont’s action
is ashort one,’ said the aunt. “Mr. Ashton, your
father,’—her eyes fixed kindly on the impostor—
“left his home in Kausas City shortly after the death
of your mother, for a long Continental tour. This
was on the eve of the great real estate boom,
and in order that his property interests might not
suffer, he gave his college friend, Colonel Almont, a
power of attorney to sell, mortgage, reinvest, etc,
The colonel proved faithless to the trust reposed in
him, Certain investments of his own threatened to
turn out badly, and in an evil hour he sold your
father’s real property and appropriated the proceeds
to his own use. Disaster overtook him at a time
when he expected to realize largely on his own ven-
tures, and he fled the country. Mr. Ashton returned
to find himself penniless, and afew years afterward
he died in Portland, Oregon, leaving to you, Frank,
no fortune in money, but instead the heritage of an
honorable and respected name, and——”

“The whole coast, to get rich in,” interrupted the
adventurer, with an attempt at jocularity, made to
show, perhaps, that he was easy in his mind and
believed himself to be master of the situation.

Lora’s contempt for him was intensified at this
remark, He little suspected how fdlse and shallow
he appeared to her,

Mrs. Ashton beamed indulgently at his feeble
pleasantry, and then went on:

“After your father’s death, Colonel Almont, in
China, became a rich man. He died a short time
ago, leaving a will by which property worth over a
quarter of a million of dollars 1s devised to you, or

 

 

 
 

     

 
   

    

 

 
 

   

  
 

  
 

 
   
    
    
  
  
  
    
    
   
  
     
    
  
 
     
 
   
   
   
  
 
 
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
 

  

 
 

acute

 

 

 

 

 

 

to Lora in the event of your death. But what is the
matter, Frank ?” in a tone of intense alarm.

The false Ashton was as pale as death, and his
teeth were chattering.

He was not looking at Lora’s aunt, but beyond her,
toward the open door-way. ;

A woman stood there, a threatening look in her
brilliant eyes.

It was Carmen Alvarez.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

-—o<+—___—_

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

MA X<-
A GRADLE MYSTERY.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of “ That Dowdy,” * Sibyl’s Influence,”
‘**Queen Bess,” ‘‘ The Forsaken Bride,”

** Brownie’s Triumph,” etc.

 

 

{“MAX; A CRADLE MYSTERY,” was commenced in No. 4.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XIII.—(CONTINUED.)

GNES purposely delayed her
return, hoping that young
Abbot would get tired and
go away, but a cloud fell over
her face when she found him
still by the door when she
came out of the building.

He took it for granted that
she would accept his escort,
relieved her of her package,
without asking permission,
and began chatting in his most entertaining style
upon general topics.

It was a very pleasant walk, in spite of Agnes’ re-
pugnance to his companionship at the outset, and
by the time she reached home, she began to think
that, after all, he might make a very agreeable ac-
quaintance.

He left her at her own door, saying, with a bow
and smile, that he was “sorry the distance had been
so short,” and then went his way, well pleased with
the progress he had made in her good graces.

The next morning a lovely bouquet was sent to
Miss Walton, and, in the center of it, Agnes found
acard bearing Herbert Abbot’s name, with “compli-
ments.”

A week later she received another, and a few days
after that Mr. Herbert Abbot himself called.

Agnes thought this was taking the initiative into
his own hands with considerable assurance, since
she had given him no invitation to visit her; but her
innate politeness prompted her to treat him court-
eously, and she could not help admitting to herself
that he was exceedingly entertaining.

Mrs. Walton, whom he exerted himself especially
to please, was very favorably impressed, and, when
he arose to go, herself invited him to call again
whenever he felt so inclined.

During this time Max had also called two or three
times, and Agnes found herself yielding more and
more to the charm of his frank friendliness, until she
began to count with impatience the days when she
did not see him.

One afternoon he brought Mrs. Remington with
him and the fair girl never forgot that interview,
and, years afterward, she recalled, with wonder, the
strange thrill which pervaded her entire frame as
the sweet and gracious woman took her into her
arms and kissed her softly on her lips.

“You will excuse me, dear,” she said, coloring
slightly, as if the act had been the result of some im-
pulse which she could not resist, “but somehow it
seems as if you partly belong tome. I expect it is
because my dear boy rescued you from such danger
that day at Elgin.”

Agnes glanced involuntarily at Max, as his mother
said this, and a flush came quickly into her own
cheeks, for the ‘‘dear boy’s” eyes seemed to tell her
that he, too, felt as if she belonged, or ought to be-
long, to him.

“T certainly feel asif Iowe a great deal of what I
am to you, dear Mrs. Remington,’ Agnes answered,
as she returned the woman’s caress. ‘Just think how
empty this head of mine would have been but for
you,” she concluded, smiling, though her blue eyes
were full of tears.

Mrs. Remington smoothed the shining rings from
her forehead—it was ‘‘such pretty hair,” she thought.

“And now, I expect it is remarkably well filled,”
she replied with an answering smile, ‘‘for I used to
get glowing accounts of your faithful work and its
results, from Mr. Knight, while you were in school.”

“Tam sure it would have been a poor return if I
had not tried to improve my opportunities,’ Agnes
said, gratefully, ‘‘and I am so glad I have seen you
again—so glad that I can tell you how I have appre-
ciated your kindness.” :

“Tam afraid I shall have to run away if you make
too much of it,” Mrs. Remington said, playfully, and
then she changed the subject and the conversation
became more general. ,

it was a delightful visit, and everybody was sorry
when it was ended.

“You will come again?” Agnes pleaded, with a half-
shy, half-eager look, when Mrs. Remington finally
arose to go.

“Yes, indeed, you may be sure that I will. I am
very glad of the invitation, and should have invited
myself, if you had not proffered it,” the matron said,
smilingly. ‘But,’ with sudden thought, “why ecan-
not you come to us for a little while, if Mrs. Walton
san spare you? We havea young friend visiting us,
and it might be pleasant for you to meet her; besides,
I would like to introduce you a little into the society
of Chicago.”

It was a great temptation and Agnes knew that it
would be delightful; but she feared that she ought
not leave her mother, while she also felt that she
eould ill afford to leave her work upon which so
much depended.

Mrs. Walton, however, thought it was an oppor-
tunity not to be neglected, and she at once thanked
Mrs. Remington for her kind invitation, saying,
frankly, that it would be just such a change as
Agnes needed and she would be glad to have her
go. Thus it was arranged that she should go to
spend the coming week in Mrs. Remington’s beauti-
ful home.

zaura Pomeroy was exceedingly angry when the
plan was communicated to her, though, of course,
she betrayed no anger in the presence of either Max
or his mother. She well knew that it would be fatal
to her plans to allow them to read her true char-
acter, or suspect anything of her bitter jealousy of
Agnes.

Max had been very kind and attentive during her
sojourn with them, taking her to see all the points
of interest in and about the city, and acting as her
escort wherever she went, until she had really begun
to hope that she could win his love, while she had
made herself very charming to both him and Mrs.
Remington, completely deceiving them, and they
regarded her as a noble, talented, and beautiful girl.

Several times she had spoken of leaving them and
“going to board in some quiet place until she could
settle upon some plan for the future ;’’ for, she said,
she “did not wish to wear her welcome out or to
impose upon their kindness.” But Mrs. Remington
enjoyed the society of young people, and she would
not listen to the suggestion of her making any
change, at least for the present, and she had in-
vited Agnes to come to them as much upon Laura’s
account as her own. She thought perhaps she was
getting lonely without any friends or companions of
her own age. But could she have read a tithe of
the treachery and corruption of Laura’s nature, she
would have recoiled with horror from introducing
the two girls to each other.

The moment Laura saw Agnes she knew that it
would require all her art and cunning to counteract
her influence upon Max. She realized that she was
just the character to win such people as her hostess
and her son—‘one of your sweet, gentle, lacka-
daisical kind, with no spirit or snap,’ was her con-
temptuous estimate of Agnes upon their first meet-
ing, though she was forced to qualify the latter por-
tion of it later on. :

She took great pains, however, to conceal this con-
tempt and the bitter hatred that took possession of

 

- her, as she watched Max’s greeting of the lovely

girl upon her arrival; for his look, his tone, his man-
ner all betrayed but too plainly to her jealous eye
how his very soul was swayed by the charm of her
presence.

She simulated a friendship, however, that she was
far from feeling; she exerted herself to please and
win the girl she despised; she was brilliant, enter-
taining, afiéctionate; and Agnes was charmed with
her, believing her, in the guilelessness of her own
nature, to be just what she appeared.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
AGNES VISITS MRS. REMINGTON.

When Mr. Archibald was informed that Agnes was
going away on a Visit, a shadow instantly fell over
his face. ‘

His housekeeper and her daughter had now been
with him nearly two months, and, during that time,
he had known more solid comfort and real content
than he had experienced since the home of his child-
hood had been broken up.

But, always taciturn and reserved, he had betrayed
nothing of his satisfaction; he had pretended to take

=

 

no notice of the exquisite neatness that pervaded

every room in the house, the taste and order with

which his table was laid three times a day, or the

NES COHN appetizing fare to which he as often sat
own.

But, in reality, nothing escaped his observation,
while the care and economy which Mrs. Walton ex-
ercised in every department was especially gratify-
ing to him.

He watched and studied Agnes, too, although at
times she imagined that he was entirely oblivious of
her existence; but her fair, bright face at his table,
her sweet, respectful tone whenever she addressed
him, her gracious manner and occasional merry
laugh, all possessed a peculiar charm for this strange
man.

Her kind care and consideration for her mother,
her readiness to wait upon him, whenever the oppor-
tunity offered—and he occasionally had vicious at-
tacks of rheumatism that disabled him for days ata
time—all proved to him that at heart she was really
good and true.

At first he never intrudedinto the rooms that he
had set apart for their own exclusive use—a sort of
bashful reserve, together with his apparent contempt
for the taste and beauty with which they were fur-
nished, prevented him—at least when either Agnes
or her mother were in the house.

He had put a desk and a single chair into the little
room leading out of the dining-room, thus making a
kind of office for himself, and here he sat alone,
when he was at home, busying himself over his
papers and accounts.

But it was bare and comfortless by comparison,
and there were times, when Agnes and Mrs. Walton
were out, that he would stealinto their pretty par-
lor, plant himself upon one end of the soft, springy
sofa, and look around the room with interest and
curiosity, mingled with a quiet sense of enjoyment in
the beauty and refinement of everything.

Two or three times, however, Agnes and her
mother, upon their return, had found their parlor
door pushed as far back asit would go—a thing which
they had always been careful not to do lest the
handle should mar the nicely finished walls, and they
shrewdly suspected that Mr. Archibald had taken
advantage of their absence to enjoy a quiet rest in
one of their easy-chairs. They were of course very
glad to have him do this, though they were secretly
amused to have him do it on the sly in the face of his
avowed contempt for all such luxuries.

Frequently, when Mr. Archibald was sitting by
himeatt in the evening, Agnes would open her piano
and play and sing some of her simple songs, which,
though not artistically rendered perhaps, were never-
theless very sweet and touching, and the lonely ola
man would push aside his books and papers, lean
back in his chair, and listen until she ceased, an ex-
pression of keen enjoyment on his face.

It was not strange then that he looked blank when
he learned of her intended visit to Mrs. Remington.

“When are you coming back ?” he curtly demanded
on the morning of her departure.

‘Mrs. Remington has invited me for a week,”
Agnes answered, coloring at his tone, and wondering
if he were displeased because she were going.

‘‘Hum—that woman is a lady, and her son is a gen-
tleman. You might be in worse company,” was the
laconic rejoinder.

Presently he asked, while he observed her closely:

“How can you leave your work for a whole week ?”

“T don’t feel as if I ought to, really,” Agnes re-
plied, thoughtfully, “but mamma thinks I need the
change, so [have made up my mind to do without
something I wanted and take the rest instead.”

“What was it you wanted?” Mr. Archibald bluntly
asked.

“Oh, only something to gratify my vanity, sir—
some of the ‘folderols’ that you think are all ‘non-
sense,’”’ the young girl replied, with an arch smile.

The old gentleman chuckled over her reply; he
liked her all the better for refusing to name just
what she wanted; for that would have coche to
him hike vaunting her needs and her self-denial.

He went out immediately after breakfast though,
something he was not in the habit of doing, as he
usually spent an hour at his desk, and did not re-
turn until just before Agnes left for Mrs. Reming-
ton’s.

He put a tiny package into her hand, remarking
with some embarrassment:

“Perhaps that is one of the ‘folderols’ you wanted.”

Greatly astonished, Agnes unfolded the tissue

‘| wrapper and found a lovely handkerchief, fine and

sheer as gossamer, with dainty designs embroidered
in the corners.

“Oh, Mr. Archibald !” she exclaimed, coloring with
pleasure, “I never had such a pretty handkerchief in
my lite! You are very kind!”

“Hum—I’m only paying my debts; you toreupa
nice one for me,” the man returned, with assumed in-
difference, but regarding her glowing face with secret
satisfaction.

“Oh, but that was a very inexpensive one—and,
really, you were entirely welcome to it; Iam sorry
you felt under obligations to replace it, and with
such a costly one, too.”

“Well, the surgery was worth something, and I
reckon the Gost of the thing won’t break me,” he re-
sponded, as he turned abruptly away, to escape
further thanks, and without bidding her farewell.

But he missed her, more than he would have
owned, when she had gone; the house seemed alinost
as if some one had died, and he grew strangely rest-
less and discontented during her absence.

Agnes, however, was having a delightful time.

Mrs. Remington, by adroit questioning, discovered
that she had seen but very little of Chicago, although
she had lived there for over a year. and she there-
fore planned to fill the week as full of pleasure as
she possibly could.

It was late in October; the weather was cool and
exhilarating, and the city seemed to have suddenly
awakened to new life and animation, after the return
of people from their summer vacations.

Among other pleasures, Mrs. Remington had ar-
ranged for a reception, with a view to giving both
her young guests a little taste of Chicago society.

Laura was delighted with the prospect, but Agnes
secretly shrank from meeting the gay people who
frequented the circles in which Mrs. Remington
moved, and, more than this, she felt that she had no
suitable costume in which to appear among a bril-
liant and fashionable throng.

Her only experience in society had been the weekly
receptions whieh were heid in the seminary, where
she had completed her education. The preceptress
had argued that her young ladies needed to be in-
structed in society etiquette, as well as in other
things, and every Friday evening she had thrown
open the parlors of the institution to receive the
faculty and pupils.

These receptions were often brilliant affairs, for
there were many daughters of wealthy people con-
nected with the school, and though Agnes had never
taken any active partin them she had been quietly
observant of everything that occurred, and had thus
become well versed in the manners and customs of
social life.

“What shall I do?’ the perplexed girl had asked
herself on the day after her arrival at Mrs. Reming-
ton's, when that lady had confided her plans for the
week to her young guests. “I have nothing fit to
wear at such a reception, but I don’t like to say any-
thing about it, and Iam sure I do not wish to shame
my delightful hostess before her friends—dear Mrs.
Remington! I already love her very much; how
kind and sweet she is under all circumstances! Well,
Iam not going to trouble my head about the matter
to-day, for to-night we are going to hear Nilsson, and
I will not have that pleasure spoiled with vain re-
grets over pretty clothes, I will run home for half
an hour to-morrow and consult mamma over ways
and means,”’

With this decision arrived at, Agnes banished the
subject and gave herself up to the pleasures at hand.

That evening, as she had said, had been set apart
to go to hear Nilsson, and Mrs. Remington, though
she well knew that she would meet a host of fashion-
able friends, wore a simple black silk out of courtesy
to Agnes, whose one really nice costume was of that
material.

Laura, on the contrary, was conspicuous in black
lace, over white silk, and—in defiance of the fact
that she was in mourning—scarlet poppies. A charm-
ing lace hat, trimmed with the same brilliant flowers,
adorned her head, and she was really very handsome
in the tasteful and becoming dress.

But to Max’s admiring and partial eyes, Agnes was
far more lovely in her modest black silk, with the
pretty jabot of white lace and delicate blue ribbons,
which her own fingers had fashioned, and her simple
straw hat trimmed with black velvet and white
roses.

He adroitly managed to arrange his party so that
Agnes would sit between himself and his motlier, and
Laura shot an angry glance at her fair rival, when
she realized that she would have to sit the whole
evening out on the other side of her hostess. She had
dressed for Max’s eye alone; but all her labor had
oe for naught, and the entertainment was spoiled

or her.

It was an evening long to be remembered by Agnes.
She had never heard any of the noted vocalists, and
the first time that glorious song-bird, Christine Nils-
son made her appearance, she sat spell-bound
throughout the beautiful and difficult aria which she
rendered, never once removing her eyes from her ex-
pressive face.

“You like it,”” Max said smilingly, as she drew ina
deep breath of delight when the singer ceased.

He had been covertly watching her every expres-
sion; it was more to him than the music just then.

‘* ‘Tike it!” she repeated. “Oh, Mr. Remington, I
have never listened to anything so perfectly delicht-
ful; you have given me a pleasure that I never before
enjoyed; this is my first opera.”

“Tf it is the first, I sincerely hope it will not be the
last ; it shall not be, if you will allow me to say so.
Thank you for letting me know how thoroughly you
are enjoying it,” Max returned, in a low earnest tone
that brought a deeper tint to her cheek.

“Your kindness emboldens me to ask you to do
something else for me,’ Agnes said, with a quick
glance and smile.

“You may ask me anything,” he replied with an
answering look, that made her eyes droop suddenly.

“Thank you; [ want to go home to-morrow morn-
ing,” she said, with some embarrassment.

 

 

. err wem 7

“Why! you have been with us only two days,
you homesick ?” he cried, in a dismayed tone.

“Oh, no; excuse me, that must have sounded like
an ungracious request,’ Agnes said, laughing and re-
covering her self-possession. ‘‘I only want to see
mamma for afew minutes on a little matter of busi-
ness.”

“Business! Cannot you drop all such care and give
yourself up wholly to pleasure for a Httle while?”
Max asked, regretfully.

“Oh, itis business of which pleasure will be the
outgrowth, I trust,” she responded, with a ripple of
musical laughter.

“Then I shall be very happy to take you home to-
morrow morning,” Max responded, looking greatly
relieved and feeling strangely happy because she had
asked this favor of hiin.

The remainder of the evening passed delightfully,
Max and Agnes growing more friendly and confi-
dential every time the curtain went down, while
Mrs. Remington smiled to see how absorbed they had
become in each other and exerted herself to enter-
tain Laura.

The next morning, about ten o’clock, Max entered
the room where the ladies were sitting, his mother
and Laura engaged upon some fancy work while
Agnes read aloud to them from an entertaining book.

“T beg pardon for interrupting and breaking up
this charming cirele,”’ he remarked, smilingly, ‘‘but
Miss Walton has not yet had a ride behind my famous
black mare, Jet, and I have come to ask her to take a
spin down the Jake-road with me.”

Are

felt that she would not exactly like to have him refer,
before Laura and his mother, to the fact that she had
asked him to take her home.

Agnes shot a grateful glance at him from behind
her book, for she had begun to feel that perhaps it
ae not exactly proper to make such a request of
yin, 3

Mrs. Remington turned to her with a smile, saying:

“Max is very proud of that piece of horseflesh,
Agnes. I hope you are not afraid to ride rapidly.”

“Oh, no; I enjoy speed if I have confidence in the
driver,” the fair girl returned, flushing with pleasure
at the thought of a drive alone with Jet’s master.

“And Max is certainly a good driver; I can trust
you with him. Run away, dear, and get ready; we
are ee you frogn reading,’ Mrs. Remington said,
kindly.

Agnes ran upstairs to don her hat and gloves,
every pulse throbbing with delightful anticipation.

Laura, angry and sullen, made no comment upon
the projected drive, but she had seen the significant
glance that had passed between the two young
people, and her blood was boiling.

“Drive your fast horses, my fine fellow, while you
can,” She muttered, frowning darkly, as, from the
window of her own room, she watched Max and
Agnes drive down the avenue a few moments later.
“TI can see which way the wind is blowing, and I am
afraid I shall have to make use of the other string to
my bow, in order to possess myself of the Remington
fortune.”

Mrs. Walton was delighted by this unexpected visit
from Agnes and Mr. Archibald, who was casting up
accounts when she arrived, jumped up with alacrity
from his desk, and actually followed her into the
parlor to shake hands with her, while he greeted her
escort with nnwonted cordiality.

Max, thinking Agnes might like to see her mother
alone, remarked that he had an errand farther down
town, and would return for her in the course of an
hour, if that would be sufficient time in which to
transact her “business.”

She smiled at his emphasis upon the word, and told
him that she would be ready when he called.

“Mamma, Mrs. Remington is going to give a recep-
tion next Tuesday evening,” Agnes began, as soon as
he was gone, “and I have come home to consult
about a proper costume; what shallI do about a
dress? Oh, by the way,” she interposed, “I have
cards for you both,” and drawing them from her bag
she presented them to her companions,

Mr. Archibald drew his from the envelope, read it
gravely through; then replaced it without a word of
comment.’

“Tt will be outof the question—my going,’ Mrs.
Walton quietly remarked. “I am not able, in the
first place, and, secondly, not properly eqnipped for
any such affair.”

“T wish you were able, mamma,” said Agnes, wist-
fully. ‘I feel guilty to be having such a delightful
time, while you are getting no change at all.”

“Do not allow that to mar your enjoyment in the
least, dear,” returned her mother, smiling. “I am
happier than I have been fora long time, and glad
that you can have this outing.”

“You will come, will you not, Mr. Archibald?’
Agnes asked, turning to that gentleman, who had
been closely watching her, and, judging from the
peculiar expression in his eyes, turning some
weighty question over in his mind.

“Hum—I don’timagine Iam any better equipped
than your mother,” he responded, with a chuckle,
and glancing down at his clothes. “I’m afraid you’d
be ashamed of such an old codger, among such a
fashionable crowd, in that fine house.”

For a moment a feeling of dismay came over Agnes.

His old-fashioned apparel would certainly be very
conspicuous in Mrs. Remington’s elegant rooms, and
among the bon ton of Chicago.

The next instant she looked bravely and stead-
fastly into his eyes.

“Tdo not think I could be ‘ashamed’ of a friend
under any circumstances,” she said, with an ear-
nestness that left no room for doubt of her sincerity.

“Do you consider me a ‘friend? ” he asked.

“Why, certainly I do, Mr. Archibald, and a very
good one, too.”’

“Well—then—I believe I'll come,” he said, but still
watching her closely to see if she would shrink in
on least from the ordeal to which he was subjecting
er.

She did not. She simply said:

‘ eae I may take your acceptance to Mrs. Reming-
on? ;

“T reckon so; I’m not accustomed to rackets of
that kind, and I’m afraid I shall feel like a cat ina
strange garret; but I’ve some curiosity to see a little
of upper-tendem, for once in my life, and so I'll be
on hand next Tuesday night.”

“Tam sure Mrs. Remington will give you a cordial
greeting, and I will try to make you enjoy yourself,
sir,” Agnes responded, smiling, and wondering what
fastidious Miss Pomeroy would say to see such a
specimen of antediluvianism in Mrs. Remington’s
elegant drawing-room, or what that lady herself
would say to having her fashionable reception
termed a “‘racket.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story will not be Published in Book-Form,

HIS LAWFUL WIRE;

OR,
PAUL AUBREY’S SECRET.
By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,

Author of “‘Ida’s Hidden Sin,” ‘‘a Short Life,”
“Fontelroy,” “Princess Alexandra,” etc,

 

 

(“His LAWFUL WIFE” was commenced in No. 8. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER Y.—(CONTINUED.)

The stranger’s features twitched with agony, as if
a poniard was piercing his heart, yet he sprang to
his feet and placed his hand on the landlord’s
mouth. .

“Hush!” he said. ‘Do not create unnecessary
scandal. If she were your own daughter you should
not speak aloud of what has happened. It would be
bad enough to compromise the reputation of an inn-
keeper's daughter; but the daughter of——”

He checked himself on the verge of a revelation.

Ringold uttered a deep groan.

‘‘Whoever you are,” he said, wildly, “if you are
authorized to avenge the poor girl’s wrongs, be mer-
ciful, and shoot me dead! I am the criminal! I
never should have trusted her out of my sight.”

The stranger demanded to know the meaning of
these words.

In broken sentences, interrupted by sobs—for the
old prize-fighter, in his grief and contrition, was like
a child—Ringold related all the particulars of Mar-
say’s stay at the inn, with which the reader is
familiar.

At the conclusion of his story the stranger took
him by the hand.

“You are an honest man,” said he. “You have
done your duty according to your lights; you have
done far more than could have been expected of you.
Had others not been cowardly and derelict, this
would not have happened. My friend,’ he added,
seriously, “it may have chanced to you, as to most
in your sphere, to envy the great. But those only
who live in palaces, and are subjected to the cruel
exigencies of title and station, know that gilded mis-
ery may be as bitter and soul-rending as the misery
of hovels. I, myself, have passed through the fiery
furnace of affliction seven times heated. Rank and
title, so far from alleviating, were the causes of my
suffering. The exigencies of rank and title caused
me to be a wanderer on the face of the earth—a
dweller with Arabs in the desert—a voyager on dis-
tant seas. But enough ofthis. [had hopedimy trials
had ended; they are but beginning. Yet this affair,
though a sad, may not be ashamefulone. You say
this man offered to marry her ?”

 

He delicately put it this way. for he instinctively.

 

 

 

 

 

“He so proposed.”

“And you refused—because——”

“Because I had no right to give my consent to her
marriage while there was a possibility of the appear-
ance of some one who had a legal right to control
her. But Ill go further than that, and say, if she’d
been my own daughter, I wouldn't have let her
marry a doubtful character, least of all a French-
man.”

The stranger reflected a moment, and then said:

“Tf the only objection to this man is a want of
rank and fortune, I shall be the last person to com-
plain. And he may prove a reputable man. If he
can only establish a good character, all is well,
though not, perhaps, for the best. I know the sins of
human nature, yet [cannot think any man with the
Semblance of a gentleman could betray the woman
who had saved his life.’’

This suggestion somewhat calmed Ringold.

“Tt may turn out better than I feared,” he said.

“The first thing to be done is to get on the track
of the fugitives,” said the stranger. “If I could dis-
cover the course they took, I would follow them my-
self. I think you said that unhappy old person spoke
of hearing a carriage ?”

“Miss Larmont?” said Ringold.

“And that is all she knows ?”

“All; and that amounts to nothing,’ answered
Ringold.

He was here interrupted by one of the waiters, who
ee him that a man wanted to speak to him, “par-
tikler.”’

Ringold went into the public room, and found a
stolid-looking man, whom he recognized as one of
the frequenters of the inn, a laborer, but not a
steady one.

This man was the same who had come upon the
post-chaise in the rear of Miss Larmont’s house the
night before.

Hie said that he was passing her house this morn-
ing, on his way to his work, when he found her lying
in her garden in a “swound-like.” He drew a bucket
of water and bathed her face until she revived, when,
from her wild and wailing talk, he gathered what
had happened.

Now this man, stupid and boorish as he was, was
devotedly attached to Jessie, for she had been very
kind to his wife when she was lying ill, and he away
at the ale-house neglecting his family.

The moment he heard of her being missing, he de-
cided that it was not an elopement, but an abduction,
especially since the chief actor was a Frenchman,
whom he hated, like all Englishmen of the lower
class. He had never seen Marsay, but he had heard
of his attentions to Miss Ringold. Of course he made
no doubt that the Frenchman who had given hima
crown to bribe him to silence was Marsay, and that
his vailed companion was the innkeeper’s daughter.
He remembered distinctly that the postilion was
ordered to take the York road. '

While listening to this man’s statement, Ringold
had entirely recovered his self-possession. He told
the man that Marsay had proposed for Jessie, and
had been ordered from the house because he was a
Frenchman, a decision highly approved by his au-
ditor, and he added that he had no doubt they were
married by this time and would soon be back to ask
his forgiveness, when, of course, he would make
matters up, as it couldn’t be helped. But he made
the man promise that he would tell no living soul—
not even his wife—what he had witnessed and what
he knew. He ended by offering him a guinea.

“No, no, Mr. Ringold,” said the man, “I don’t want
no pay for doing of my duty, me and mine is too much
beholden to Miss Jessie already. As for the French-
man’s silver, I won’t even spenditfor ale. I'll give
it to the first beggar I meet.”

With repeated injunctions to silence and with many
thanks, the innkeeper dismissed the informant, an
hastened back to his guest toimpart the tidings he
had heard, adding, that he would follow the track of
the fugitives immediately, leaving the inn to take
care of itself.

“No, my friend,’ replied the gentleman. ‘Let
that be my task. I am well acquainted with the road
and the people onit. Iam well mounted, I can pro-
cure fresh horses, and my servant is a keen and yalu-
able assistant. Besides, if you were to pursue them
it would give rise to scandal and notoriety which
must be avoided at all hazards. On thetheory of a
proposed marriage, I think it unquestionable that
they have gone to Scotland, where alliances are con-
tracted with scarcely any formality. I have strong
hopes of overtaking them before they cross the hor-
der, in which case I shall immediately return here
with Jessie. Then, again, at any time they may re-
turn voluntarily and you must be here to receive
them. Should I fail, I will give you immediate no-
tice if I do not come myself, and you can then decide
what other steps are to be taken. Meanwhile, keep
this affair perfectly quiet, give out that your daugh-
ter has gone to visit some relative in the city, tell
any plausible story, for the circumstances justify it,
and appear ery unconcerned and easy.”’

“That will be a hard matter, sir,’ said Ringold,
“put Pll try. One thing more before we part.”

Going to his private room, he unlocked a small box,
and, taking out aroll of bank-notes, he returned to
his guest. He offered the money to the gentleman.

“What is this ?” asked the latter.

“Yowll find a matter of thirty-four hundred
pounds,” said the innkeeper. ‘Count the money,
sir.”

“What! when you have supported an orphan for
seventeen years?”

“Hasn’t she repaid me a thousand times over?”
asked Ringold, bursting into tears. “Hasn't she
made me proud and happy? Ah! you don't know
the treasure and blessing she was, and I have lost
her, thrown away, betrayed my trust! Take the
money. Nota penny of it belongs to me.”

“Tf [ consent to receive this paltry sum,” said the
gentleman,finally taking the notes,‘‘it will be only to
investit in your name; even then I shall feel myself
your debtor, And now, farewell. Be sure, if you
learn anything, to inform me of it by letter.”

“But I don’t know who to write to or where to di-
rect,” answered Ringold.

“Address the Earl of Strathallan, Strathallan Cas-
tle, Stirling, Scotland,” replied the gentleman.

“What!” exclaimed Ringold. ‘Are you his grace,
the Earl of Strathallan ?”’ x

“Tam that unhappy man,” replied the nobleman.
“Better forme had [ been born a shepherd on my
native mountains.”

He grasped the rough hand of the innkeeper, shook
it warmly, then passed out of the house without an-
other word, mounted his horse and rode off, sharply
followed by his groom at a respectful distance,

“The Earl of Strathallan!”’ thought Ringold, as be
watched his departure. ‘What could have brought
him to my door. Shall I ever know the meaning of
this mystery ?”’

Yes, sir,’

CHAPTER VI.
GOING ASTRAY.

The Earl of Strathallan spared neither himself nor
his horses, but pushed northward, closely followed
by his groom.

It was not long before he learned tidings of the
fugitives; at one inn they had obtained fresh horses,
at another a hasty meal.
away couple has the sympathies of the lower classes,
which are almost invariably against the pursuers,
vet this sympathy requires to be paid for to be
effective. A liberal expenditure of money secures
the retreat of a flying pair, and purchases absolute
discretion, if not active aid, on the part of landlords
and landladies, hostlers, and postboys. The fugi-
tives in the present instance appeared to have been
niggardly in the amount and number of their fees,

and hence the Scottish nobleman had no difficulty ir ~

procuring ample information as to their movements.
Moreover, his unstinted liberality secured for him
superior horses when he found it necessary to re-
mount.

At York he traced the couple to an obscure inn.
They had not passed as man and wife, consequently
the earl hoped to be able to separate them before the
law united them and placed them beyond his reach.
He accordingly pushed on with renewed vigor.

He was within three or four miles of Carlisle, how-
ever, before he came in sight of the post-chaise which
he knew must contain the fugitives. from the minute
description of the vehicle, horses, and postilion,
given him by the landlord of the last inn at which he
had halted.

As he urged his horse to his fleetest gallop, he ex-
pected that the horses of the post-chaise would be
lashed to the top of their speed. To his great sur-
prise, however, the postilion reined them in and
finally brought them toa full stop, allowing him to
come up with the chaise.

“You wish to speak to me?” said a man with a de-
cided French accent, putting his head out of the win-
dow. Theface was swarthy, the features pointed,
the expression mean and cunning, not at all the
countenance of Marsay, who had been described to
him by Ringold as a very handsome man.

oe Iaddressing Mr. Victor Marsay ?” asked the
earl.

“No, sir, that is not my name,” replied the French-
man, with an air of surprise. ‘My name is Dupont,
at your service.”

‘“But you have a lady with you 2?”

“Certainly, sir, my old mother.
any business with her.”

His female companion now lifted the vail from her
face and disclosed the wrinkled features of an old
woman.

“Where are you going in such hot haste?” in-
quired the earl, perfectly confounded by the disap-
pointment he had met with.

“Suppose I ask you where you are going?” replied
the so-called Mr. Dupont, very coolly.

“There is nothing suspicious about my move-
ments,” replied the earl, haughtily. ‘I am going to
my home in Scotland—to Strathallan Castle.”

“Then you are a Scotch milord,’ replied the
Frenchman. ‘You will excuse my mistake sare, but
when I first saw you spurring after me, I took you for
a highwayman, and was getting my pistols ready.”

“And I took you for a gentleman until I saw your
face,” replied the earl. “It was a mutual mistake.”

“Tama stranger,” said the Frenchman, ‘‘as you
can guess by my accent, and yet I know that you
have no right to stop me and question me as you
have done. But Ihave no objection to tell you that

You can’t have

Though, ordinarily, a run- |

VOL. 45—No. 10,

=
Tam going to Edinburgh on business—though my
business is none of yours.”

Tue Earl of Strathallan felt that he was in a false
position. He had indeed no right to question, or au-
thority to arrest this stranger, notwithstanding his
conviction that he was implicated in the elopement
of Jessie Ringold, and could give him valuable infor-
mation, if he chose to do so. Unwilling, however, to
abandon the field without one more effort, he said:

“Tam afraid that you have not been very frank
with me, sir. IT think you could give me important
intelligence eapeene a certain Miss Ringold. If
you can and will do so, lam both able and willing to
reward you liberally. If lam right in my conjectures,
you have an easy way of winning a large sum. If
you will ride on with me tothe County Hotel, Car-
lisle, I will deal with you liberally. I am the Earl of
Strathallan.” s

Mr. Dupont hesitated. For a while his eyes
brightened up and an unpleasant smile disclosed a
double row of white fang-like teeth; but that ex-
pression faded away and he shook his head after a
moment's reflection.

“T don’t know what you mean, milord,” he said. “T
know no Miss Ringold, and I have no information’to

 

give. I’m an honest French tradesman, and I don’t
know why you have stopped me on a public
thoroughfare,”

“Pause—think before you throw away a fortune
perhaps,” urged the earl, who had not failed to ob-
serve the impression his offer had made at first.

But Mr, Dupont repeated impatiently that the earl
was mistaken in his man, mr that he had no in-
formation to impart.

Foiled and disheartened, Strathallan rode on to
Carlisle, whence he immediately despatched a letter
to Ringold, informing him of the result of his ex-
pedition. :

So soon as the nobleman and his servant were out
of sight, Mr. Paul Aubrey, for the Frenchman was
no other than Marsay’s Corsican servant, directed
the postilion to turn round and drive back to the inn,
from which he continued his way to London, first,
however, crossing the country and taking a different
cae from that by which he had pursued his journey
north.

The stratagem originating in his wily brain had
been perfectly successful; it had baffled pursuit and
afforded his master ample time to carry his own pro-
jects into effect. At the first convenient halting
place he turned his accomplice adrift—a worthless
old hag, who was amply rewarded by a guinea, a
handsome traveling-dress and liquor enough to keep
her in a state of semi-intoxication on the journey, for
performing the easy task of keeping her vail down
and her lips closed.

It was true that Aubrey’s fidelity to his colors had
been momentarily shaken by the earl’s offer, yet he
had refused it decidedly, because, in the first place,
he was deeply implicated in Marsay’s schemes, and
in the second he resolved that his employer should
indemnify him for any losses incurred by his ad-
herence to Marsay’s interests. Therefore Mr. Paul
Aubrey, the professional scamp, jogged on to Lon-
don, quite well satisfied with himself and his posi-
tion, taking his time and indulging in every luxury
ha the wayside houses of entertainment afforde

im. :

We must now go back to the real fugitives, whom
the earl had fancied himself pursuing for two days.

They were at first driven to an obscure quarter of
London and entered a narrow street, where the cab
which had brought them from Richmond: halted at a
house, the locality ef which had been minutely de-
scribed by Paul Aubrey before he had started for the

 

 

north. Here Marsay descended, and knocking at the
door, which was opened by a wrinkled old French
woman, inquired for Father Ignatius.

He was immediately shown into a room, where
there sat a man dressed in shabby black, with a dingy
cravat round his neck, apparently occupied in lower-
ing the contents of a green bottle charged with old
Macon wine.

“Have I the honor of addressing the Reverend
Father Ignatius ?” inquired Marsay, with an ironical
smile, as he lifted his hat with exaggerated cere-
mony.

“Yes, my son,” replied the shabby man, “that is, if
you are Monsieur Victor Marsay.”

“That ismy name, reverend sir,’ replied Marsay,
with a sustained air of mock gravity. ‘My servant
Paul has, of course, arranged matters with you.”

“Assuredly, sir,’’ replied the other, ‘‘and I am at
your service.” :

‘“‘Are you quite sure that your reverence is sober ?”’
asked Marsay.

“Partially so,” replied the shabby Frenchman.

“And you know what you have to do 2?”

“Pertectly. hough an humble son of the church, I
am not unmindful of its duties. Indeed I was, when
you disturbed my holy meditations, engaged in run-
ning over the heads of a discourse which I am to-
morrow to preach to some of my fellow-emigrants,
fugitives like myself, from our common country,
where the sons of Belial are rising in rebellion, and
whence, I fear me, all faith, all that is sacred, will
soon be banished.” ; ;

“Please reserve your eloquence for the occasion
you speak of,” answered Marsay, “it is lost on me.”

“jam sorry to perceive, my son, that you are one
of the godless followers of Voltaire. Were I not
pledged, I should hesitate to perform the ceremony.”

“Only play your part as seriously before the lady
as before me, and I shall find no fault with you,”
said Marsay. ‘‘Take your hat and come with me.
You will give the coachman the proper directions ?”"

“Assuredly, my son.” -

They left the house together; the shabby French-
man said a few words to the coachman, and then got
into the cab with Marsay, who presented the Revy-
erend Father Ignatius to his companion.

“Do not picture to yourself, lady,” said the shabby
man, “that you are going to achapel adorned with
all the pomp and luxury with which our church loves
to deck her altars. Here in this strange land our
faith is a scoff and a scorn, and a few poor fugitives
gather together, not amid the splendors of modern
Rome, but rather as men ayd women gathered to-
gether in the earlier days of the church, when the
tombs of the dead and the lairs of wild beasts were
shelters for the faithful.”

“A splendid actor!” thought Marsay to himself.
“How could Paul have discovered such a jewel in
London?” But he whispered in the man’s ear a
French phrase equivalent to “Draw it mild.”

The carriage halted a second time before another
shabby house, and the party alighted. The so-called
Father Ignatius led the way into a basement room,
Which he unlocked himself. The floor was bare, and
the place held only a few wooden benches aud settees.
There was a crucifix on the wall, and a candle was
burning before the image of a saint. :

Here then, in an obscure room, in a filthy quarter
of London, with no witnesses, the shabby man in
black read the marriage ceremony and pronounced
Victor Marsay and Jessie Ringold man and wife.

He then produced a dirty memorandum-book, an
ink-horn, and a pen, and entered the date of the

 

.

 

ceremony and the names of the parties, and requested

their signatures. Afterward he scrawled out what

popes to be a marriage certificate, signed it, and
anded it to Jessie.

‘The porte then left the house, and Marsay handed
his bride into the carriage. He himself drew the
shabby man a few paces aside.

“Bravo!” he cried, slapping him on-his back. “You
are a trump, old fellow! I thought at one time you
were overdoing it, but you kept just within bounds.
Here is your tee; you have richly earned it. That
ne keep you in beef, brandy, and tobacco for a year
w two.”

And he gave the man a well-filled purse.

‘You have more than paid the humble servant of
the church,” replied the man, with undisturbed
gravity. ‘‘May you meet with your reward !”

Marsay laughed and sprang into the carriage,
which was driven through London without again
stopping.

Two days afterward, Mr. and Mrs. Victor Marsay
were registered at the Ship Hotel, Dover.

Marsay explained to his bride the necessity of keep-
ing their marriage secret until he had communicated
with his father, but she insisted on at least making
a confidante of her fatherand imploring his forgive-
ness immediately. Happy as she was im the un-
doubted love of the man on whom she had bestowed
her hand, still her cup of joy would be dashed with
bitterness so long as her poor old father remained
ignorant of her fate. Marsay agreed with her, and
she eae to pen a brief letter to the innkeeper. It
ran thus:

“SHip HOTEL, DOVER, June 30, 1790.
“DEAR FATHER :—I implore your pardon. You had
forbidden your house to one whom I loved better
than my life. Without him I could not live. He
asked me to be his wife. We are wedded, and only
need your forgiveness to be happy. Can you with-
hold it? For Heaven’s sake, restore me your love,
or my happiness will vanish like a dream. We shall
be here for some time to come.
“Your loving—can I say dutiful ?—daughter,
“JESSIE MARSAY.”

She handed this letter to Marsay, for she confided

entirely in him, and he approved of it, promised to
pedishe reg it immediately, and went off to direct and
post it.

But before sealing it, he cut off the upper portion
of the letter, including the words, “Ship Hotel,
Dover,’ and the date, and substituted the words,
“Paris, France,” without adding the date. After
sealing the note and addressing it to J. Ringold, Elm
Tree Inn, near Richmond, England, he inclosed it to
one of his familiars in Paris, directing him to deposit
itin the French post-office. Thus it was that some
days elapsed before it reached its destination, bear-
ing the foreign post stamp. ‘

Jerry Ringold was at first overjoyed at reading it.
Forgive her !—forgive his little Jessie! He had done
so already. She was married and ery: Then came
the sudden shock of doubt. Why had she not given
her address? How could his forgiveness reach her?
Did this omission arise from carelessness or design ?
Was she really married? Was she really happy ?

However, he sat down and with infinite difficulty

managed to acknowledge the receipt of her letter —

and to convey his blessing. Then he directed the
letter to Paris, and posted it himself.
Days passed away, and Jessie got no answer.

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
    
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
 

 

 

 

   
  
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

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VOL. 45—No. 10,

cate THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3e9>

 

 

 

 

 

“Your father is inflexible,” said Marsay.

Jessie sighed, but still hope was not extinguished
in her breast. She went every day to the post-office,
and every day came back: disappointed. Marsay, in
his conscious guilt, feared that she would dispatch a
second letter, and consequently watched her nar-
rowly. But he need have had uo fear. He possessed
her heart, knew all her thoughts, and she contided
to him the simplest actions of her life. 2

“How she loves me!” thought Marsay. “Tf she dis-
covered the truth, it would kill her.” | %

Jerry Ringold waited with equal impatience and
anxiety for an answer to his letter. It came not.
When, day after day and week after week elapsed,
and there were no more tidings of the loved one, he
took a desperate resolution,

“T’m good for naught here,” he thought. “I’m a lost
man without Jessie. I must go and seek her.
daren’t trust another.’ That Frenchiman will be sure
to abuse her after a little while—if she hasn’t a natu-
ral protector.” ; :

So he wrote a line to the earl, telling him of his
plan. Strathallan approved it, and offered him a
large sum of money for his traveling expenses, but
Ringold, proud as an earl himself, refused. Besides,
he had laid up money, and after the sale of the lease,
good-will, furniture, and appointments of the Elm
Tree Inn, found himself in an independent position.

It was a hard matter for the old’ man, who had
vegetated in nearly one spot all his life, to take leave
of his servants, friends, and customers, and their
rough expressions of good-will touched him to the
heart. But then he thought of Jessie, and tore him-
self away.

He went down to London by boat, and without
halting in the city engaged a seat in the Dover mail.
At the first change of horses he got out to get a glass
ofale. One of the outside passengers had alighted
for the same purpose. Ringold looked sharply at
him‘ and recognized his late hostler.

“Why, Joe Maythorn!” said he. ‘Where are you
going?’

“Where be you going?’ responded Joe. “Tell me
that, and I can answer you.”

“Tm going to Paris,” said Ringold.

“That's just where I’m going,” answered Joe.

‘What can you do there, boy ?’ asked Ringold.

“Why, [ean help ina stable, or turn my hand to
most anything,” answered the hostler. “There must
be a call for helpers there, for I take it they has ’osses.
But did you ever know a Frenchman that could look
after an ’oss?”’

‘‘What made you think of going to Paris, Joe?”

“Because I thought you were agoin there, master
—lI’ve a hye—l’s Yorkshire.”

“You're a fool, Joe.”

“Call I what you like, master, but doan’t’ee turn I
adrift. Let me go wi’ you, and I'll serve ye true and
faithful; I doesn’t want no wages. [ll brush yer
clothes and boots—for a lad that can make a’osse’s
coat shine like a new guinea bean’t cast away on a
yard or two 0’ broadcloth or a scrap of leather. Ill
keep ye tidy, and, if these Frenchmen want to come
any games on ye, ’ecod! they’ll have to handle two
ofus. Now, doan’t’ee say nay, but take me along
wi’ you.”’

Ringold was much affected by the rough attach-
ment of his humble follower. As the lion has his
jackall, so has every great man his dependent and

worshiper, and Ringold, landlord of the Elm Tree.

Inn, was the greatest man within the hostler's sphere
of life; so that when this magnate of the river-side
accepted the Yorkshire lad as his valet and traveling
companion, the ex-hostler thought himself promoted
to the seventh heaven.

They arrived in due time at Dover, and it was by
the merest chance that, instead of stopping at the
Ship Hotel, while waiting for a favorable wind and
tide for the packet-boat to start on her voyage across
the channel, they put up at the George and Dragoon.

There was Ringold eating his chop and drinking
his ale within a stone’s throw of the object of his
search, and both were ignorant of each other’s
feet Such are the chances of this troubled

ife.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

en"

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

t= Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticedrunless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers,

 

Rambler, Paterson, N. J.—The fastest recorded time in
iceboat sailing up to December, 1888, is as follows: At
Red Bank, N. J., Jan. 22, 1883, 15 miles, by the Scud, in 20

minutes and 40 seconds; at Poughkeepsie, N. Y., Feb. 6,
1883, 20 miles, by the Haze, in 25 minutes and 48 seconds,
and 24 minutes and 30 seconds; at Red Bank, N.J., Jan.
26, at 25 miles, by the Dreadnought, in 30 minutes and 5
seconds.

Inquisitive Boy, New Orleans, La.—The first balloons
ever experimented with (1783) were filled with heated
air; but hydrogen gas is now usually used. The bag in
which the gas is putis made of silk or muslin, painted
with India-rubber varnish so as to make it air-tight.
The neck is always left open, because the upper air is
thinner than that below, and the pressure being thus
taken off the outside of the bag as the balloon goes higher,
the gas inside swells so that it would burst it if it were

closed. A leng rope which hangs down through the neck
ef the bag within reach of the balloonist who sits in the
car, is fastened to a little door, called the valve, on the in-
side of the top of the bag. When the balloon goes up too
high, the valve is opened, which lets out some of the gas,
and the balloon descends until the valveis again closed.
If the balloon loses too much gas, and goes too low, itis
lightened by emptying the sand out of the bags which
are carried for ballast. Toy balloons are made of tissue
paper, and are easily constructed by cutting the paper
into quarters, and pasting the edges together. The bot-
tom, which is left open, should be pasted over a hook of
very,light wood or wire, and a wire should be stretched
across the middle of it to hold a sponge saturated with
turpentine or alcohol. When this is lighted the air in-
side will soon get heated enough to cause the balloon to
rise, and the longer the sponge continues to burn
the longer the balloon will stay up. Balloonists gen-
erally take with them a kind of large umbrella, called a
parachute, with which to descend in case of accident. It
is made very strong, and when opened wide is upheld by
e ee enabling the occupant to descend to the earth in
safety.

Bessie White, Woodford, Va. — ‘Wright’s Practical
Poultry Keeper,” which we can mail for $2, will prove of
great aid to any one having no previous experience with
poultry, the directions being plain, minute, and practical.
2d. To wash flannels or other woolen articles, have the
suds in readiness by boiling some good white soap in soft
water, but avoid using the suds when boiling; let them

be as hot as the hands will bear when the articles are put
in. The fiannels should not be rubbed with soap, nor
should the material itself be rubbed, as in washing linen,
ete., as rubbing knots the fibers of the wool together, and
hence thicken the fabric and cause a shrinkage in its di-
mensions. Sluce the artieles up and down in plenty of
suds, which afterward squeeze (not wring) out. After
rinsing, squeeze out the water and dry in the open air, if
the weather be such as to admit of the articles drying
quickly ; if not, dry ina warm room, but avoid too close
proximity toa fire. Let any dust or mud be beaten out
or brushed off prior to washing. All flannels should be
soaked before they are made up, first in cold and then in
hot water, in order to prevent any subsequent shrinking.

Kentucky, Catlettsburg.—To make a black sympathetic
ink, use a solution of sugar of lead, which will be turned
black by moistening the paper with sulphide of potas-
sium. If nitrate of siver be used, the writing will be.
come black by dipping the paper in asolution of am-
monia, Chloride of mercury will turn black when wetted

with chloride of tin. A weak infusion of galls is turned
black by sulphate of iron (copperas). Reversing the last
recipe, writing with copperas turns black by moisten-
ing with infusion of galls. The best inks that are de-
veloped by heat are the following: A solution of chloride
or nitro-muriate of cobalt turns green when heated, and
disappears again on cooling. A dilute solution of chloride
of copper becomes a fine yellow at a moderate heat, and
disappears on cooling. A solution of acetate of cobalt
witha little nitrate added to it, turns rose-colored by
heat, and disappears when cold. These last are the best
sympathetic inks for purposes of correspondence, as the
others are more or less indelible when once developed.

W. W. W., Louisville, Ky~The Saviour spoke fre-
quently in parables because of their conformity to the cus-
toms of the East, and as being with the Jews a very
popular mode of conveying truths. Itis unnecessary to
say that parables or fables are found in the literature of

all nations. “The wisdom of the Saviour,” says a writer
on the subject, “is manifest in adopting this mode of in-
struction. If a degree of obscurity attaches to it, even
this is not without its uses; it is just that kind of diffi-
culty which is demanded by human nature for its trial,
exercise, and improvement, It serves to discover who
love the truth and who are indifferent to it; who are wil-
ling to search for it as for hidden treasure and who are
not. It is admirably adapted, also, to excite attention, to
stimulate curiosity, to exercise the judgment, and,
through the medium of imagination, to lodge truth per-
manently inthe heart.” Certainly ‘“The Prodigal Son” is
known and appreciated throughout the Christian world.

Minnie N. 7T., Cedar Rapids, Iowa.—ist. The Irish
potato, so called, was not known in Ireland until it was
carried there from Virginia about three hundred years
ago. 2d. The Chinese used the mariner’s compass in
some form ata very early period. Some affirm that the

magnetized needle was the invention of Flavio Gioja, of
Amalfi, who lived in the early part of the fourteenth cen-
tury. Itis also stated that the compass was brought to
Italy from China by Marco Polo about 1295, but there is
said to be evidence that it was used in France even before
that time. 3d. One of the most remarkable suspension
bridges in Europe is that of Fribourg in Switzerland, with
a span of 870 feet. The Pesth suspension bridge over the
Danube has a center span of 670 feet, and the largest iron-
arch bridge is the Southwark Bridge over the Thames,
Eng. 4th. May 6, 1889.

Mrs. A. C., Lexington, Ky.—Inkerman in Russia is on
the sight of a ruined city. It is at the head of the harbor
of Sebastopol, and stands at the foot of a hill rising
several hundred feet perpendicularly above the vally of

the Tchernaya, crowned by massive walls and remains of !
towers. In the side of the hill are many artificial caves
hewn from the solid rock. They are supposed to have
been made by the persecuted Arians, and were afterward
occupied by Christian cenabites. The monument re-
ferred to on the heights of Inkerman, on the side of the
valley opposite the ruins, marks the battle-field where the
Russians were defeated, Noy. 5, 1854, by the French and
English.
E. C. A., Raleigh, N. C.—ist. Brazil was the only empire |
in the New World. It borders upon all the South Amer-
ican Republics except Chili. It occupies more than
two-fifths of the South American continent. Its popula-
tion in 1883 was 12,333,375. 2d. Several political uprisings
occurred in Brazil from 1841 to 1849. They were directed
against the provincial governments, or against the meas-
ures or ministers of the central government, but none at-
tamed the proportions of a civilwar. 3d. There are
pasture lands in Brazil which are said to be unstirpassed
for cattle raising. They are watered by rivers which
afford an easy highway to all the markets of the country.

L. M. P., Bochester, N. Y.—1st. The upper Schuylkill
Bridge at Philadelphia has a span of 340 feet. It was de-

signed and built by L. Wernwag. The bridge at Havre
de Grace, over the Susquehannah River, is 3,271 feet
long. It is a wooden bridge, but one of the most remark-
ablein the country. It rests upon granite piers. 3d.
Yes; the tendency is toward the substitution of iron and
steel for timber.

Agate, Springfield, Mass.—The Metropolitan Opera
House, in Broadway, between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth
streets, this city, was opened for performances in October,
1883, under the management of Henry Abbey. The ex-
terior is of pressed buff brick, with dressings of terra-
cotta. The building is said to be as thoroughly fireproof
as possible.

 

R&R. W. F., Salem, Mass.—Chastine Cox, the negro who
murdered Mrs. Alonzo G. Hull, inan attempt at burglary
in this city, was arrested in Boston, Oct. 23, 1879. Dr.
Hull, the husband of the murdered woman, was under
suspicion for some time, but the confession of the negro
relieved him of it. Cox was brought to this city, indicted,
tried, and subsequently hanged.

Spojford L., New Haven, Conn.—A book entitled ‘“West
Point,” with full information for those about to enter the
institution, can be furnished for $1.50. If you desire it,
write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency.

Bardolph, Cliff Mine, Pa.—ist. and 2d. Yes. 3d. “Ap-
pleton’s Dictionary of New York and its Vicinty,” with
maps, will cost 30 cents. It contains all the information
necessary to be known concerning the locality named.

Rrownie W., Bordentown, N. J.—The lady who left by
will her house at Beauvoir, Miss., her plantations and
eects property to Jeffersou Davis was Mrs. Sarah

orsey. She died in July, 1879. ;

Ada, Long Branch, N.J.—You will find the narrative of

the life of Isaac in Genesis. Hewas born when his father
vas one hundred years old, and died blind at the age of

Subscriber, Scammanville, Kansas.—Charley Ross was
kidnapped in Philadelphia, July 1, 1874. There is no posi-
tive knowledge of his fate.

A.and 7., Chicago.—The word rain, as a noun, appears
first in the Bible in Genesis; chapter VII., verse 12; asa
verb, in Genesis ; chapter II., verse 5.

W. A., Morrisania.—ist. Address your letters to Street
& Smith, NEW YORK WEEKLY, 25 to 31 Rose street, New
York. 2d. Yes.

Will de S., Matteawan, N. Y.—We,can supply you with
“The Practical Mesmerist’” for 25 cents. |

T. C. H., Paris, Mo.—A translation of Homer’s ‘‘Iliad”
can be furnished for $1.

orem Reader, Glen Lord, Mich.—Not to our knowl-
edge.

Mrs. B., Lynchburg, Va.—Not known by us.

>@e-~<

A Constant Reminder.

The most pleasing gift that you can bestow, to old
or young, at trifling expense, is a year’s subscription
to the NEW YORK WEEKLY. It costs only three dol-
lars, and will greet your friend every week, its col-
umus filled with the best reading matter, to enter-
tain and cheer, and be a constant reminder of the
thoughtful friend-who sent it. ;

a

Items of Interest.

 

The late Rev. J. G. Wood, the eminent naturalist,
was called upon by a neighbor to throw light upon the
mysterious disappearance of the champagne from the
bottles in his cellar, which he fouud nearly empty, though
the corks had apparently not been tampered with. After
some investigation, the observant naturalist declared
that the wine had been extracted by cockroaches, who
had inserted their feelers at the side of the corks. On |
setting a watch in the wine-cellar, Mr. Wood’s solution
of the mystery was confirmed. Some cockroaches were
caught in the suction act; others were seen crawling
away in a half-fuddled condition; and others were lying
about in a state of intoxication.

One pair of gloves forms a full outfit for Gen.
Hooker, a2 Member of Congress from Mississippi, and
Major Powell, Chief of the Geological Survey. Each
fought in the late war, Hooker on the Confederate side,
and Powell with the Union forces. Hooker lost his right*
arm, and Powell the left. They are intimate friends, and
their hands are of the same size. When Major Powell
wants a glove, he buys a pair, and says, “Send the other
one to Hooker.” When Gen. Hooker’s glove gets a little
worn he orders a new pair, and says, ‘“‘Send the other one
to Powell.”

An exhilarating beverage has been invented by a
Boston distiller. Itis the concentrated extract of beans,
and is called bean whisky. A half-pint of it is warranted
to go farther in the production and prolongation of a
spree than a quart of ordinary spirits. Two drinks of it
will make a man happy, contented, and as lazy as a |
prince. The world will seem to him, no matter what his
surroundings, as pleasant as heaven, anda ditch like a |
bed of roses.

Horse-shoe nails are now made by an automatic
machine. Wire is coiled on a reel on the top of the ma-
chine, which cuts off, stamps, points, and heads the nails
without any hand assistance whatever. The receiving
box only contains perfect nails, for if there is any hitch
in the working the machine stops of itself, and points out
by means of an index where the fault occurs. A few mo-
ments only are required to remove the offending nail, and
the machine starts again.

 

An effective way of stopping a runaway horse is
practiced in Russia. Acord with a slip-knot is placed
around the horse’s neck near the neck-strap. To this
slip noose is attached a pair of reins, which may be
thrown over the dashboard ready to be seized at once.
When the horse starts, the extra reins are taken up and
the cord is tightened around the horse’s throat. The
most furious horse, thus choked, stops instantly, and will
not kick or fall.

Circumstantial evidence was wisely interpreted in
alonely spot near Gold Flat, Cal. It was evident that a
buggy had been overturned because the driver had un-
wittingly gone fifteen feet out of the road tostrikea
stump. Parties who visited the scene next morning
found a quantity of candy scattered around on the ground,
with the whip and curtain buttons, and they concluded
that some young fellow had his girlout riding and tried
to show off by driving with one hand.

A statue of Apollo was recently received, and un-
vailed with great ceremony, at a college in Findlay, Ohio.
As the students were unfamiliar with the nude in art, it
was decided t@partially dress Apollo. A tailor was sum-
moned, who made a pair of velvet breeches for the
renowned Greek god, and the figure is now adorned with
them, a monument to the modesty and ingenuity of the
students of Ada College.

A Kansas City boy, recognizing in the seat before
him, in a theater, a young lady to whom his big brother
had paid lover-like attentions months previous, waited |
until the curtain dropped, and then did something which |
made the young lady the cynosure of all eyes. Drawing
her head back, he gave her a sounding kiss on the lips,
and exclaimed, ‘John sent that!”

Here is an example for the idle noblemen of Eu-
rope. The Archduke John of Austria has long been anx-
ious to earn his own living. This he would not be per-
mitted to do while bearing his noble name; but he has
just been allowed by the emperor to assume the humble
name of John Orth. He has secured employment in an
English shipyard.

 

Habitual drunkards in Norway and Sweden are put
in jail and fed entirely on bread and wine. The bread is |
steeped in wine for an hour before it is served. The first
day a man will take it, but before many more he will hate |
the sight of it. After a brief incarceration of this sort,

many detest the odor of wine or liquor, and become total |

abstainers,
A man in Montreal was desirous of joining the Fire

 

 

 

Department, and was measured by the chief, but was not

tall enough to come up to the regulation height. “Sir,”
replied the applicant, as he bowed himself out, “I thought
better of you. I thought you would measure a man from
his head to his heart and not from head to foot, or I should
not have troubled you.”

The minister of a church at Isle au Haut, Me., was
not at all discouraged, on a recent Sabbath, when the only
persons in the church were himself and the sexton. He
went right on with the service, just as if the house was
well filled, and the sexton says his sermon was quite
interesting.

Just as undertaker Chris Miller, of Louisville, Ky.,
was about to prepare the body of Wm. Roberts, a lad of
twelve years, for burial, the supposed corpse turned over
in the bed and asked for a drink of water. The case was
one of temporary suspension of animation.

A remarkable clock has been recently set up in the
reading-room of the municipal library at Rouen, France.
A single winding keeps it running fourteen years and
some odd months. It was consiructed in 1682, underwent
alteration in 1816, and was bought by the city of Rouen
in 1838. °

In Iowa persons who are known to use liquor as a
beverage cannot have their expressive winks answered
by the druggists. The law prevents druggists from serv-
ing liquor to them, even in the form of prescriptions.

A physician in Lawrence, Mass., prescribes cooling
drinks made with ice produced from water after it has
been boiled. Itis said that ice is pure when made with
boiled water.

There are no seats in the Mexican theaters. The
visitors, if they can afford it, bring chairs with them, and
plant them in any desirable vacant place. Chairs are
usually hired at the door, from old women.

A new tooth-pulling machine was tested by arash
dentist in Williamsport, Pa., with the result that the
lower part of his face was shockingly mutilated.

A piece of soap, trickily inserted in a cigar, by a
boy’s comrade, in Albany, N. Y., so sickened the lad who
moked it that he continued ill for two days.

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Suckcess in this life iz like watching for a rat—the
rat iz quite az app tew cum out at the other eend ov
the hole.

Adversity haz the same effektona phool that a
hornet duz on a mule—it sets them tew kiking bak.

One oy the privileges ov old age seems tew be tew
giv advise that noboddy will phollow, and relating
experiences that everboddy distrusts.

An ill-natured old man and an old chawed-up bull
tarrier are just the things tew set side bi side sum-
whare in the sun, and fite flies for amuzement.

Vice in the young fills us with horror—in the old,
with disgust.

Ambishun iz az natral tew the soul ov man az
blood iz tew his boddy. Thare ain’t ashu blakon the
face ov the earth but what beleaves he can “shine
em up” a leetle better than enny one else.

The only thing that we are positively sure ov in
this life seems tew be the only thing that we think
ain’t never a going to happen, and that iz—death.

The grate desire ov mi life iz tew amuze sumboddy.
I would rather be able tew set the multiplikashun
table tew sum lively tune than tew hav bin the
author ov it.

The man who neyer makes enny blunders seldum
makes enny good hits.

Truth iz the only thing thatTime cannot destroy,
and Eternity cannot dispense with.

Life iz short, butif yu notis the way most people
spend their time, yu would suppoze that life waz
everlasting.

The grate advantage ov good breeding iz that it
makes the phools endurable.

MEMORY AND JUDGMENT.

 

 

Montaigne believed that memory is a gift intended
for people who have poor judgment. But memory,
no matter how strong, does not compensate for the
lack of judgment. Memory must of necessity live in
the past, while judgment lives a little in advance of
the present. Memory is a great teacher, but judg-
ment is a greatinventor. Memory, in reverence for
things in a past hallowed by years, often stands in
the way of progress; judgment, regardless of the
past, searches forthe needs of the time that is to
come. But going back to Montaigne’s idea, a strong
memory is not an evidence of weak judgment, nor is
it, as some writers have asserted, a sign of a lack of
literary ability. Macaulay was one of the greatest
prose writers of his day—or of any otherday—and yet
he could, repeat ‘Paradise Lost,” or master a_lan-
guage within afew days. Bacon, who admired Mon-
taigne, thought that an over-cultivation of the mem-
ory, like the over-development of a certain set of
inuscles, is injurious. The exact relationship exist-
ing between the brain and the memory has never
been determined, yet that there is a close relation-
ship is proved by the fact that a failing memory is
one of the first evidences of softening of the brain.
Still, a failing memory is not always proof that the
brain is becoming soft. Some very hard-brained
men lose the faculty of recollection to such a degree
that they actually forget to pay their bills.

 

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by Mrs.

 

Helen Wood.

 

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Small crocheted buttons are again fashionable.
Pointed trimmings are now all the rage.
Red moroceo slippers are fancied for house wear.
English serge is the popular dress material. ;
Almost every costume now has its special style of
corset.

Some dressy gowns have the waist round in front and
pointed behind.

Slight paniers on the hips adorn some of the newest
reception costumes.

Tiny princess bonnets for evening wear are almost
covered with velvet flowers.

Loops of black silk cord make stylish yet inexpensive
trimming for colored woolen dresses.

No darts whatever are visible upon the folded corsages
of new Greek and Empire gowns.

French sateen, which comes in all shades to match
dress goods, is the best material for foundation skirts.

Very elegant jackets are of black velvet, trimmed with
bands of fur, and adorned with a turned-back fur collar.

French toques are made of two shades of velvet, and
have soft crowns raised moderately high in front, in
Normandy style.

Crepon, a soft wool crape, is used for simple evening
gowns for musicales, card parties, fairs, and small social
gatherings.

Fashionable corsages are becoming more and more loose
and easy in effect, if not in reality, by the artistic arrange-
ment of the folds or drapery over the chest.

The Anderson slipper is a new shape for full dress, the
special feature of which is a close strap across the instep,
and this prevents the slipper from gaping at the sides or
slipping off at the heel while the wearer is dancing.

For traveling costumes, modistes are using a rough
though light tweed, with border of fainter shade. A new
tone in terra-cotta has a border in a lighter hue, arranged
as side pieces, forming revers, cuffs, anil covering to the
large button molds which adorn one side of the skirt. All
the fashionable skirts are at present extremely plain, ex-
cept at the back, where all the fullness is gathered.

Lamp and candle shades are as fashionable as ever, as
all handsome rooms are now lighted with alamp. Some
of the handsomest have frames of wire, each rib bound
with a narrow strip of silk, the silk covering put on over
the top, commencing at the edge and gathered toward the
center, where, after the lace is sewed on, it is neatly
finished off with a twisted band and bow of ribbon, or a
ruche of the silk. The fall around the edge is another
strip of silk put on full, while the lace is added in the
same way. Foran ordinary lamp shade, one yard and a
half of silk cut into three strips is required, and four and
a half of lace, but this varies according to the size of the
shade. The usual size of the shade most in use averages
one yard and twelve inches in circumference and five to
six inches in depth, though some are much larger. They
are used both circular and square, as are candle shades.

All shoes for evening or promenade wear are made with
lower heels than last season, while the favorite walking
boot for ladies has the low English heel and the pointed
Piccadilly toe, and is of kid, with high perforated foxings
of patent leather. Heavier shoes are made of English
calf-skin with perforated foxings of calf-skin, and will be
worn later in the season by expert pedestrians who adopt
English styles. The Blucher shoe is a new shape in calf-
skin introduced for those who like a masculine style, and
it has an extremely low heel, is cut low at the ankle, and
is otherwise shaped like a man’s walking shoe. Slippers
for full evening dress are made to order of brocade or
silk to match the gown; or a soft slipper of Suede kid
may be worn in black, gray, tan, or dark red, when the
hosiery usually harmonizes with the slipper in color.
Shoe-dealers who make the. finest foot-wear show gold
slippers finished simply with the tiniest gold buckles,
which are to be worn with black silk stockings. Silver-
gray Suede kid slippers are finished with small buckles
of steel, or huge pompadour buckles,ot antique or bright
silver. The vamp of Suede kid sHppers is still often

braided with lines of the narrowest ribbon matching the

Slipper in color, while a slipper of golden-brown or tan

kid is finished to suit the fancy of the wearer with a steel,
| silver, or gold buckle of the tiniest size, and black patent
leather slippers have a tiny buckle or two gold buttons
as an ornament at the instep.

 

C. T. B., New Brunswick, N. J.—‘st. Wedding invita-
tions do not usually require any answer, a card of con-
gratulations being all that is necessary, unless it be a
home affair, when you should send either acceptanceor re-

grets. The answer should merely state that “Mrs. Brown
has much pleasure in accepting Mrs. Block’s kind invita-
tion for Tuesday evening ;” or ‘‘Mrs. Brown regrets that a
previous engagement will prevent her having the pleas-
ure of accepting Mrs. Block’s kind invitation for ‘Tues-
day evening.” 2d. In answering ‘at home” cards, where
you do not wish to call personally, it is only necessary to
send one of your visiting cards, inclosed in an ordinary
envelope, and sent by special messenger, or, if at a dis-
tance, by mail. 3d. ‘The proper time for an evening call
is between the hours of eight and ten o’clock. 4th. After
a social gathering or reception, it is customary to eallon
the hostess within ten days aiter the event. 5th. When
answering announcement cards, you may write a letter
of congratulations if either of the parties be an intimate
friend, but otherwise, your visiting card, with “congratu-
lations” written above the name, would be sufficient.

Mrs. Lulu R., Bridgeport, Conn.—For dinner and recep-
tion costumes, heavy materials are popular, even for the
dressiest wear, and some of the most elegant toilets have
richly embroidered panels of heavy cloth falling over

satin, silk, and even lace or net skirts. Combinations of
color with black are still liked, yet the fancy for helio-
trope, lilac and similar shades, is constantly on the in-
erease, and the favorite combination of green with old-
rose is varied by using a pale shade of lilac instead. Bro-
cades, faille, velvet, and embroidered satin are all fashion-
able for full-dress occasions, draped with lace or net.

Lottie, Brooklyn, N. Y.—The beret, or student’s cap, is
suitable only for young ladies and misses, and it is made
of cloth, to match the costume, with a deep turban brim,

which fits the head closely, and is covered with fur or
feather trimming. The flat, slightly oval crown is made
of two layers of the cloth, with an interlining of stiff net,
and the edge is wired and bent irregularly, while on top
isa pompon or arosette of ribbon. These caps are very
jaunty and stylish looking, and bid fair to become quite
popular.

Lizzie.—Searf vails of plain or dotted net, three yards in
length, and from three-eighths to half a yard wide, and
sometimes edged with lace, are worn with hats with pro-
jecting brims. They are crossed in the back, and brought
forward and tied in a huge bow under the chin.

Eliza S., Johnsburgh, N. Y.—For ordinary wear, with
toques or round hats, the coiffure is a loose twist of hair
ora coil of braids, though for the open-crowned theater
bonnets a higher arrangement is needed.

Miss Ella O.—We can furnish a very good book of
etiquette for fifty cents. :

 

@, Youcanmakea large sum of money at work
See for us in yourown locality. During the past

es Sete Sa few years,those who have thus worked have
7 x received over Five Millions of dollars for

We their services—more than a barre] of money.

i? We want a few more workers at once. The

work is easy, pleasant, adapted to both
young and old of either sex. You can work
§ all the time orin spare time only. Any one
can do the work after studying our direc-
tions for a day or two. This is the chance of
@ @ lifetime for those who apply at once, Any
i? one anywhere can earn $1 @ per month.
Great workers, under the most favorable
conditions, earn $2@ a day and upwards.
: No class of people in the world are making

so much money, without capital, as those at work for us.
Whatever you have done, or whatever you may do, you should look
into this royal chance. You will find that you can easily make
all that we claim,and more. If you write to us before we secure all
the workers we need, we will lay all beforeyou FREE. Better
write before you rest, and then if you conclude not to go to work,
orif we cannot employ you, no harm ts done. Every one of our work-
ers makes big money. TRUE & CO., Box 29@, Augusta, Maine.

GRATEFUL—COMFORTING.

EPPS'S COCOA.

BREAKFAST.

“By a thorough knowledge of the natural laws
which govern the operations of digestion and nutrition,
and by a careful application of the fine properties of
well-selected Cocoa, Mr. Epps has provided eur
breakfast tables with a delicately flavored beverage
which may save us many heavy doctors’ bills. It is by
the judicious use of such articles of diet that a consti-
tution may be gradually built up until strong enough
to resist every tendency to disease. Hundreds of subtle
maladies are floating around us, ready to attack wher-
ever there is a weak point. We may escape many a
fatal shaft by keeping ourselves well fortified with pure
blood anda properly nourished frame.’—‘‘Civil Service
Gazette.”

Made simply with boiling water or milk.
in half-pound tins, by Grocers, labelled thus:
JAMES EPPS & CO., Homeopathic Chemists,

London, England.

; $7 PER |
A MONTH
SALARY

and expenses paid,
any active man or
fa woman to sell a
mS line of Silver
Plated Ware,
Watches and Jew-
ample only ;camlive athome. We
furnish Team Free, Full particulars and
sample case Free. We mean just what we
say, and do exactly as we agree. Address at once,
Standard Silverware Co., Boston, Mas

  
 

 

Sold only

 

 

  
  
      

ee geacmman 110)
—————

(3 By Pyrite _—
Ag ie elry by s

     
     
  
  
   

    

 
 

 

 

Tutt’s Pil

An invaluable remedy for female irregularaties,
and a positive cure for

SICK HEADACHE

Andall bilious and malarial diseases. Price, 25c.
39 & 41 Park Place, N. Y. Tutt’s Manual free. Mention this paper.

 

 

is the MOST ELEGANT

TOILET SOAP

A wn THEE WORLD. §
Of all Druggists, but beware of imitations.§

    
   

 

== . Ee 8 ae
MRS. MARION WALKER.

T wish to empioy a few ladies onsalary, to takecharge
of my business at their homes. f£ntirely unobjection-
able; light ; very fascinating and healthful; no talk-
E ing required; permanent position; wages $10 perl

week in advance. Good pay for part time. My refer-
ences include some of the best, well known people of
Louisville, Cincinnati, Pittsburg and elsewhere.

Address with stamp MRS. MARION WALKER,

4th and Chestnut Streets, Louisville, Ky.

 

     

 

 

FACIAL BLEMISHES.
The largest Establishment inthe World forthe
Warts, Superfiuous Hair, Birthmarks, Moth,
i Freckles, Wrinkles, Red Nose, Red Veins, Oily
im Skin, Acne, Pimples, Blackheads, Barber’s Itch,
Development, etc. Send 10 cts. for 128-page
book on_all skin imperfections and their treat-
ment. JOHN H,. WOODBURY, D
tologist, 125 West 42d St., New York City, N.Y.
= P. 8.—Use Woodbury’s Facial Soap for the skin and
scalp ; forsale at all druggists, or by mail, 50 cents.
whirling all over the United States, and you will get hun-
dreds of samples, circulars, books, newspapers, magazines,
ete., from those who want agents. You will get lots of good read-
ment. (7 List containing name sent to each person answering.
T. D. CAMPBELL, B 3S, Boyleston, Ind.
COMPLEXION AND FORM
Warranted Sarg and Errgcttve. Mailed sezle@
& $1.00. Illustrated Catalogue, three 2c, stamps, Add,
PEMMA TOILET BAZAR,224 TremontSt,BO8TQ,

treatment of Hair and Scalp, Eczema, Moles,
Bi Scars, Pittings, Powder Marks, Bleaching. Facial
£ » Derma-
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i CEN ** AGENT’s Directory,” which goes
ing free and will b WELL PLEASED with the small invest-
OVELY,
o A E & Beantified andImproved by using
‘ 55
A EMMA TABLETS
8 ILASS

 

AYER’S
CHERRY
PECTORAL.

 
 

THE VOICE, when hoarse and husky
from overstrain or irritation of the vocal
organs, is improved and strengthened by the
use of Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral. * Clergy-
men, Singers, Actors, and Public Speakers
find great relief in the use of this prep-
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relieves Croup and Whooping Cough, and is
indispensable in every household.

Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,

Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5.

 

CINCINNATI
ee Saeed, Breese
eee Rea ee
mon

a
a
a
bes ee
a
o
ce
a
Fe
Te

mae raha
Fae aa eee)

 

 

94 Miles the Shortest. S$ Hours the Quickest.

CINCINNATI TO NEW ORLEANS
Time 27 Hours.
Entire Trains, Baggage Car, Day Cuvaches and Sleepers
run through without change.
110 Miles the Shortest. 7 Hours the Quickest.

CINCINNATI to JACKSONVILLE, FLA
Time 28 Hours.
The Only Line running Through Sleeping Cars.
ONLY LINE FROM CINCINNATI TO

CHATTANOOGA, Tenn., FORT PAYNE, Ala., MERI-
DIAN, Miss., VICKSBURG, Miss., SHREVEPORT, La.
20 Miles the Shortest ee to LEXING-
uy Vs
5Hougs Quickest CINCINNATI to KNOXVILLE. Tenn.
116 Miles the Shortest CINCINNATI to ATLANTA
and AUGUSTA, Ga.

114 Miles the Shortest CINCINNATI to ANNISTON, Ala
26 Miles the Shortest CINCINNATI to BIRMING-

HAM, Ala.
5 Hours Quickest CINCINNATI to MOBILE, Ak.
Direct connections at New Orleans and Shreveport
For TEXAS, MEXICO, and CALIFORNIA.

Trains leave Central Union Depot, Cincinnati, cross-
ing the Famous High Bridge of Kentucky, and rounding
the base of Lookout Mountain.

Pullman Boudoir Sleepers on all Through Trains

Over One Million Acres of Land in Alabama, the
future Great State of the South subject to

pre-emption. Unsurpassed climate.
For Rates, Maps, etc., address
J/C. GAULD, D. G. EDWARDS,

Gen’l Manager. Gen. Pass. & Tkt. Agt.

Cincinnati, O.

BOC ONLY
50m PRINTING OUTFIT >.< —aaareneeaeen

To get Agents and buyers we will, for 60 days only, |iiaaamp 8 EA?
send these two valuable varhiion (OEE EE
B postpaid on receipt of 25c. silver | UMHelee Ney
orstamps. 3 sets 60c., 6 sets |MOBIG iA aon:
1.00. THIS I8 A WONDER. |frearpaersrarynimedte
2 UL OFFER. Outfit used for |f anid

setting up names, printing cards, mark- |B .
; ing linen, books, envelopes, papers,etc.; |=
pay contains 3 alphabets neat type, type holder,

= indelible ink, pad, tweeters, all in neat
ease with Directions, full Catalogue and terms. YOU
can make MONEY at printing or selling outfits.

Agents Wanted. Catalogue Free. Address
INGERSOLL & BRO.,45 Fulton St, N. Y.City

 

BODaCere rere)

  
   

 
 
 

 

    

the most skeptical. Price 50c. and $1.00, of §
S druggists or by mail Tria paekege Freeto any
address. Dr. i. SOHIF F MANN, St. Paul, Minn.B

    
 
 
 

     
 

 

A HOUSEHOLD BLESSING, AND
WOMEN BLESS IFt

For all FemaleComplaints ¥%
and Irreguiarities. By mail
(sealed) 50c. and $1. Trial size,
Send stamp for treatise. .
S. HALL, Jersey City, N.J.

"Ta HAPPY COUPLE

 

 
  
       
 

were married through Heart and Hand. Each
N number contains nearly 800 personals of ladies
a and gentlemen wanting to cormspond for fun or
mA matrimony, Sample copy sealed in plain wrapper,
GY with Cabinet size picture of lady or gentleman ad-
vertiser, 10 ets. silver, Address Heart and Hand,
_ McCormick Block, Chicago, Ill.

SAL ESMEN.MaNTEDAzotst=

our goods by sample tothe wholesale
and retail trade. We are the largest
manufacturersin our line in the world. Liberal salary paid. Perma-
nent position. Money advanced for wages, advertising,ete. Forfull
terms address, Centennial Mfg. Co., Chicago, Ill., or Cincinnati, Oo

»

 

 

GENUINE SILVER PLATING,
Made from Pure Silver Coin.

It gives an instantaneous silver plate to watch cases,
spoons, forks, and all articles of brass, copper or German
silver. Sent, post-paid, for 50cts. per bottle. Address:

F.. A. HAY, W. Chazy, N. Y.

DOUBLE BREECH Biota $6.75

GU RIFLES$ 09 ISTOLS 75¢
All kinds cheaper than elsewhere. See

ourcatalogue. Sent on receipt of stamp.

LEME ti, Oe

WeTCHES, CLOcKs, ETc, POWELL & © INT, Oineinna

well on small investments. MAGIC LANTERNS,
STEREOPTICONS and VIEWS of all grades and
prices, for Public Exhibition and Home Amuse-

ment. Q-7 Send for 180 page Catalogue free.
MCALLISTER, Mfc. Optician, 49 Nassaii Street, New York.

Instant relief. Final cure in 10 days and

P | L ES never returns. Nopurge, <=. salve, no sup-
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Address, TUTTLE & Co., 78 Nassau Street, New York City.

 

 

 

 

IX DOLLARS A DAY AT HOME. No experi-
ence required. Something new. Good thing for Male
or Female Agents. Address, with stamp
Ladies or Gentlemen to intro-

SIWEL PUB. CO., Cincinnati, O.
\WANTE duce our Gloves, Salary $100 month
and expenses. Experience not necessary. Ad-
dress with stamp, Royal Glove Co., Cincinnati, O.

100 Popular Songs, no 2 alike 10c.; 300

for 25c.; 600 for 50c.; 1200 for $1.; 2500

all different for $2. Catalogue Free.
H. J. WEHMAN, 130 Park Row, N. Y.

 

 

 

   
  
 

  

“WANTED -G:9534w
kties easily made at PN
xs home. We use up odd N:
pes. of Silk, Satin or Velvet. Employ on salary

  
      
    
   
   

     

k ow arte, f or piece-work. 19 Neckties free. You make AR
z 5 wae money spare time. Necktie Co., Augusta, Me. 13
SALARY 2953 -WANTED $.953;WANTED $953:+ D

 

COURTSHIP and MARRIAGE, Won-
derful secrets, revelations and discoveries for mar
ried or single, securing health, wealth and happi
ness to all. This handsome book of 160 pages,

mailed for only 10c. Un1on Pus. Co,, Newark,N, J+

PEOPLE! WEIGHT REDUCED
WITHOUT STARVATION DIET.
Treatise and instruction for Six stamps,
E. K. LYNTON, 19 Park Place, N. Y.

We grow heary moustache,
in 20 to 30 days. DYKE’S-
2 or 3 Pkg’s. do it. Pay
ne As proof, and to
Dollar size Pkg’s. for 25.
profit. Stamps taken.

 

 

     
 

is Whiskers, and hair on bald heads,
“g BEARD ELIXIR, the only remedy,
y- No experience
ff} weed frauds, we mail anybody,
4 for 50c. or 12 for$1, We ask no
Smith Mfe. Co. Palatine. lls.

 

Best Remedy for Throat and Lungs. Agente

F R EE Sample DR. X. STONE’S BRORCHIAL WAFERS.
Wanted. STONE MEDICINE CO.,Qniney, Llinois.

 

plete love stories and 100 Popular Songs, 10
cents (silver), Ind. Nov. Co., Boyleston, Ind.

ROAD CA —A $40 Cart for $15. Catalogue
free. Chicago Scale Co., Chicago, Il.

i THRILLING Detective Stories, 16 Com=

 

 

 

5 PER DAY Selling the NICKEL PLATED PIiLe-
LOW SHAM HOLDERS. Sample
and terms, 10 cts. J. R. & J, FERGUSON, Chester, Conn.

to $8a Day. Samples worth *2.15 FREE.
Lines not under horses’ feet. Write Brew.
ster Safety Rein Holder Co., Holly, Mich.

 

 

Morphine Habit Cared in 10

© cy U Wi to 20 days. No pay till cured.
Dr. Stephens, Lebanon, Ohig,

mn TE AN And steady work right at home
15 A DAY for any man or lady. Write

at once. Franklin Co., Richmond, Wa.

 

 

APPLIABLE FINGERBOARD GUIDES,

Viouin Guitar, Banjo & MandolinPlayerssend forthe
AGreat invention. C.A.LOHMAN, 1309 MarketSt.ST.LOUIS, MO.

 

$230 A MONTH. Agents Wanted. 90 best sel.
ing articles in the world. 1 sample Free
Address JAY BRONSON, Detroit, Mich.
SAMPLES FINE CARDS. Send Stamp.
FREE Sion CARD CO. 71 Green, taro FREE

HOTO of your future Husband or Wife FREE !
A Send Stamp for Postage. CLIMAX CO. CHICAGO, ILL.

66 i 393 HOW TO WIN AT CARDS, Send
INTER: cenit Pint Mi ama lee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

«<oixt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

WOL, 46a i

 

CHRISTMAS CHEER.

BY F. P. ASHLAND.

Ring the joy bells gayly,

Toiling hearts rejeice ;
Let no sound of sorrow

Dull the gladdening voice.
Drain the foaming goblet,

Pledge with friend and foe;
Let not malice mingle

With its kindly flow.

Pile the board with plenty,
And thou shalt net lack;
Feed the old and hungry,
God will pay thee back.
In the daily blessing,
In the nightly rest,
He who giveth freely
Ever giveth best.

Light the crackling yule-log,
As in days of old,

Let no needy neighbor
Perish in the cold.

Christmas comes but seldom,
Only once a year;

Let us bid it welcome
With our warmest cheer.

Welcome all who need it,
So shalt thou be fed
With the food that fails not,
With the ‘daily bread.”
They may never pay thee:
Yet their debt shall be
Doubly, trebly rendered
In eternity.

Diary af a Ministers Wife,

NEW SERIES.

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Anthor of “The Diary of a Country Schoolma’am.”

(The “DIARY OF A MINISTER’S WIFE” was commenced
in No. 35. All News Agents supply the back numbers.)

 

 

 

Tuesday, Nov. 20.—The official board met last even-
ing, and both they and Mr. H. were electrified by Mr.
Seymour’s proposition to remove the latter imme-
diately to anew charge. He said the majority of the
board had treated him shamefully, and, he thought,
deserved the punishment of being left without a
preacher, so they could hoard their pennies. There
were some generous, noble-hearted men among them,
and he thanked them sincerely for their kindness in
standing by their pastor, even in the face of public
opinion; he was sorry to grieve them by removing
one they respected and loved, but he could not see
one of his brethren in the ministry abused.

Mr. H. and his friends expostulated with the old
gentleman, who at last yielded so far as to consent to
his remaining until spring, when he should use all
his influence at conference to have him removed to a
city appointment, for which he deemed him well
qualified.

I am surprised at the decided stand Mr. 8. has taken
in the matter, and Mr. H. expressed his fears that
the knowledge of his removal in the spring might
seenen his influence tuis winter. But Mr. 8. reassured
"eee if they don’t rally around and sustain you

better than ever before. They needed a severe lesson,
and I have given it to them.”

***Foolish men may mix and mar,
But wise and sure the issues are,’ ”

repeated Mr. H., in a low voice.

The aged couple left this morning. I was sorry to
part so soon from Mrs. S., for I prize her friendship
much, and should be a better woman with sucha
counselor at hand.

Tuesday, Nov. 27—Dr. Burke called this morning, to
see if Mr. H. would go around and visit Mr. Harper’s
eldest boy, Jaines, who is very sick. He has asked
several times to see Mr. I7., but his parents refused to
send for him, calling in Mr. Day instead, of whom
the child seems afraid.

“The poor boy can live but a few days,” he said,
“and I could not resist his pleading iook when he
asked to see you. You will go, sir?”

“Certainly. I did not know of his illness before,
although I have missed his little patient face from
church a few Sabbaths past. What is the matter
with him ?”’

“He had the hooping-cough, and from sheer neglect
it has run into basty consumption. His mother has
some curious notions about hardening children’s con-
stitutions, so he was sent to school when he ought to
have been nursed and cared for in a warm room;
this iimprudence brought on spasms in school, and he
was carried nome by the frightened teacher. It’s a
perfect shame; but his mother is so taken up with
preparations for the fair that she leaves him almost
entirely to the care of the hired girl, who visits his
chamber when she can most conveniently. If you,
wna‘am, would only take your work, and sit with him
an hour or two, it would cheer him up, as he gets
very lonely.”

So I accompanied Mr. H., taking with me some
light-colored worsteds for a mat. Our ring at the
door was answered by the girl, who said:

“Mrs. Harper is out. I believe the committee for
the fair meets this morning.” y

We asked to see the sick child, and she led the way
up stairs into a small rear chamber heated by the
stove-pipe from the kitchen, and of course filled with
its odors. The little sufferer lay with his face buried
in the pillows. He did not look up at our entrance,
but said, peevishly :

“T don’t want anything to eat, Ann; I’m sick of
toast and water.”

“Look up, James, and see who has come.”

The boy turned a pale, wistful face toward us,
and his eye brightened as he laid his little wasted
hand in that of Mr. H. ;

“IT wanted to see you so much, sir,” he said.

“T did not know of your illness until this morning,”
was the reply, as he drew a chair near the bed, while
I laid aside my things. ;

“Are you going to stay with me, ma’am ?” he asked.

“Yes, if you want me to.”

“Oh, 1 do; I get so lonesome here all alone, and I
cough so sometimes that I think I’m going to die.
Mother says it’s all nonsense for me to feel so, that
I’m only nervous and must get over it; but I can’t;
and Mr. Day says it’s only wicked boys who are
afraid to die,” and his eyes filled with tears.

Mr. H. talked soothingly and kindly to the little
fellow, who asked a good wany questions. Mrs.
Harper's Christianity is of a cold, stern kind, and her
ebildren have been taught a religion of fear; and the
poor boy’s terror at the thought of dying was pitiable
to behold. In soothing accents Mr. H. told him of
the Saviour who loves children, and who would so
gladly receive him ; then sang, ‘‘Jesus loves me, this
I know.”

“They sing that in sabhath-school, but I never felt
it before. Does Jesus love me ?”’

“Tf you are trying to be a good boy.”

“Tam; I’ve tried a great while. My sabbath-school
teacher told me how, and I felt so happy doing it;
but mother and Mr. Day say I haven’t repented
enough; they say I must repent in sackcloth and
ashes. What is that, sir? They say if I ain’t more
sorry for my sins I can’t go to heaven.”

It was a difficult task to disburden the young spirit
of its weight of fear, and lead him to the true light;
but Mr. H. succeeded, and a sweet smile rested upon

 

| the child’s face at the close of the short prayer

offered for him.

In the meantime, T had tried to purify the air of
the room. First hanging up bed quilts to shield the
one I opened windows, and burned a few grains of
coffee.

“Oh, how sweet it smells!’ was his grateful re-
mark when I had finished.

I bathed his face and hands, and smoothed his hair;
then Mr. H. lifted him to the rocking chair, while I
made the tumbled bed ; then we laid him back again.
I learned from the girl that the child had eaten noth-
ing since yesterday noon, and the doctor had said he
might have anything he wanted.

“Could you eat some breakfast now?’ I asked, as
he nestled down into the pillows.

“Tf you would get me some, marm; I’m sick of the
toast and hot water Ann brings me.”

I hurried below stairs, broiled a bit of steak on the
coals, made a little cracker toast and a cup of tea,
arranging it all upon a server, covered with a clean
napkin ; and the boy’s eyes fairly sparkled as I pre-
sented it to him. Mr. H. bolstered him up, and he ate
with a hearty relish, remarking:

“How good it tastes, and this tea is so nice!”

After his repast he fell asleep, and Mr. H. left.
When he awoke [ sat crocheting; and his eyes caught
the gleam of the bright worsted.

“May I feel of them?’ he asked, and I spread them
on the bed before hina, and delightedly he handled
them.

“How pretty and how soft they are; and I love to
see you knit, marm. Is that for the fair?’

Esepet in the affirmative, and with a sigh he
added:

“T shall be glad when this fairis done with. Per-
haps mother will stay with me some then.”

He had one terrible fit of coughing, that seemed as
if it would tear his slender frame asunder, and as I
held him in my arms and felt the convulsive trem-
bling-of his little form, I thought how dreadful it
was for him to suffer thus alone. No wonder he was
afraid, for 1 feared he would die in my arms before
the soothing things I kept administering would take
effect. Then he lay back panting and exhausted on
his pillow. When he could speak, he said :

“Oh, marm, you don’t know how strong I felt with
nt arms about me; it was not so hard to bear

en.

He fell away into a fitful doze, and I watched be-
side him until Mr. Harper came in from the store.
He bent over the little wasted sleeper with some-
thing of sorrow in his features. Then his stern face
relaxed a little, as he turned to me.

“Tam glad that you have been so kind to my boy;
Aun tells me youhave been with him all the morn-
ing. I would not have asked a favor at your hands;
but since it has been offered, I accept it, and thank
you.’

The boy awoke, and, in eager accents, told of the
pleasant morning he had passed.

“Oh, father, I don’t feel the pain here half so bad
now,” and he placed his hand on his side. “I wish
mother would stay with me and lift me so gently.”

“T sincerely wish your mother would stay with you
some, and let that old fair go to destruction; I shall
be glad if it’s ever ended !””

The dinner bell rang, and he courteously invited
me to go down with him, remarking, as we seated
ourselves at table:

“Mrs. Harper is seldom home to dinner nowadays;
she dines where she happens to be making arrange-
ments tor the fair.”’

When I returned up stairs, I carried a cup of tea
and a bit of steak to my patient, who had been
amusing himself with my worsteds during my ab-
sence.

The afternoon passed; I worked, told pleasant
stories, or held the little quivering form during his
paroxysms of coughing.

Mrs. Harper came in about four o’clock, during one
of his spasms, and seemed alarmed.

“Really, I had no idea they were so bad,” she ex-
ola taon as I laid the little gasping form back on the
pillow.

“He must not be left alone any more; I thought
his complaints resulted from mere childish terror,
and meant he should overcome it. I will get a nurse
to-morrow, as I cannot very well spare the time to
attend him myself.”

‘“‘Mrs. Harper, your first duty lies here; your child
is passing away before your eyes, and I beg you to
i aside every other care, and devote yourself to

im.

‘Really you are very eloquent, Mrs. Hardscrabble,
but I feel quite competent to take charge of my own
affairs,’’ she said, in her old cold tone.

“But he needs a mother’s soothing care,’ I sadly
replied, as I rolled up my work.

“How long is it since you turned philanthropist?’
she sarcastically asked.

Thad my bonnet on to leave when James awoke
from the fitful slumber caused by his exhaustion.

“Are you going, marm, and will you come again to-
morrow ?” he asked.

“Tf your nother is willing,” I answered.

“T shall be able to care for him myself,” was her
haughty answer.

_ “Kiss me before you go,” he said, with quivering

lip. ;

I berit over him, the hot tears falling on the little
wasted face as I kissed him twice.

“For shame, James! a great boy like you want to
be kissed,” exclaimed his mother.

TI raised my head indignantly, just as Mr. Day, with
a very sanctimonious face, entered the room. With-
out noticing me, he said:

“Well, sister Harper, how is the rebellious boy to-
night? As the wise man saith: ‘Even a child is
known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and
whether it be right.”

“T wish you would talk to him, brother Day. I fear
he is hardened to all good impressions.”

“We must deal harshly with him then, and thunder
the terrors of the law at his obdurate head, for: ‘The
rod and reproof give wisdom; but a child left to him-
self bringeth his mother to shame.’ ”

bent over the bed and whispered :

“Remember what Mr. Hardscrabble said to you,
and don’t let them frighten you. He will come and
see you again to-morrow,” and with another kiss I
turned away.

I hastened home to clasp my own little one to my
breast, and pray I might never be left to grow cold
and stern to him, but that his memories of mother
and childhood might ever be pleasant and sweet!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
> e~<

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Distant Relationship.

Stranger—“I notice your name is De Million. Are
you related to the wealthy De Millions, of New
York?” ,

Poor but respectable De Million—“T am a—a
tant relation, sir.”

“Indeed! How distant?’

‘Well, sir, as distant as they can keep me, sir.”’

Difference in Brothers.

Mr. Highup—“I don’t see why brother William
doesn’t prosper. He has as good a business as mine,
and an excellent location, but he is constantly hay-
ing reverses. No matter what he attempts, he seems
to blunder.”

Mrs. Highup—“‘But you must remember, my dear,
your brother William has no wife to advise him.”

No Risks Run.

Big Hotel Proprietor—‘Yes, sir, your bill, sir, is
$10. Been here one day exactly.”

Stranger—“I am short of change, but here is a
check for $50, which——”

‘“Um—I don’t like to cash checks for strangers.
How much change have you about you ?”

“Not over seventy-five cents.”

“Well, give me that and we’ll call it square. Can’t
afford to risk losing anything these hard times.”

Why She Did It.

Adorer (after a rebuke by the old lady)—“I didn’t
kiss you. I only pretended I was going to. Why did
you call to your mother?”

Sweet Girl (repentently)—“I—I didn’t know she
was in the house.”

Downing a Lie.

Editor’s Wife—“Pretty condition for you to come
home in—staggering through the streets in broad
daylight.” :

Dilapidated Spouse—“Couldn’t help it, m’dear;
been accused of (hic) bribery.”

“Bribery ?”’

dis-

“Yes, mi’dear; people said I was (hic) bribed to.

oppose pro’bition. Had to show folks I ’posed pro-
*bition m’ own accord.”
Only So, So.

Mrs. A—“Did you have a good time at the sewing
circle ?””

Mrs. B—“‘Oh, only sew, sew.”

Memory Doctor Wanted.
Caller—“‘Are you the memory doctor ?”
Professor—“I am a professor of the science of——”
“Yes, [ know; you fix up memories.” ,

“In common parlance, yes.”

“That’s what Iheard. Well, I want my memory
doctored.”

“That is very easily done. All you have to do is to
adopt my system, and in a little while you will get
so that you can remember anything at all.”

“My stars! That isn’t what I want. I want my

memory fixed so I can’t remember anything. I have
been called as a witness in a boodle trial.”

Ja a Strange Land.
Kindly Old Gentleman (in Chicago)—“‘Pardon me,
but you appear to be in distress. Can [I aid you?’
Young Lady—‘Oh, what a providence i¢ is that I
met you. I am astranger in this great city, and
have lost my way, and I have been hunting for some
one who could speak English.”

The Difference.

Stranger—‘There seems to be a Sunday law in this
town.”

Resident—‘‘Yes, sir. If you want to get shaved,
you will have to wait until Monday.”

Stranger—“Oh, I don’t want to get shaved, I want
to get drunk.”

Resident—‘‘Come with me.”

Necessary Precaution.

Tramp (at kitchen door) — “That cake smells
temptin’.”’

Cook—‘It’s some the cookin’-school young leddies
made—twinty things mixed wid forty things.”

“T wish I had some.”’

“Wull, Oi ll give ye a piece if ye’ll ate it outdours.
Oi don’t want ye to die in th’ house.”

Horrors of Mormonism.

Small Son-—“Ma, what’s Mormons ?”’

Mother—‘‘Um—men who have a good many wives.”

“A good many ?”’

“Yes; thirty or forty sometimes.”

“Ooo! That’s awful.”

“Yes, my son.”

“Just awful. I wouldn’t like to have thirty or
forty mammas to spank me.”

Lack of Stimulus.

Mr. Bouttown—“I thought you said your law part-
ner, Mr. Silvertongue, was such an eloquent pleader.
I stepped into the court-room yesterday to hear him,
but his address to the jury was very cold and com-
monplace.”

Mr. Blackstone—“Yes, if was; but yesterday he
did not get warmed upto his subject. You see he
knew our client was innocent.”

A Farmer’s Life.

City Youth (in the country for a day’s shooting)—
“Ah! How wonderfully bracing this pure country
airis! After all, there is no life so full of solid com-
fort as a farmer's, and I wish I could be one instead
of a pent-up clerk in a great city.”

Farmer Hayseed—‘Think you’d like to be a farmer,
eh? Do you see that bent-backed old fellow over
there grubbin’ stone and buildin’ it into a fence?
Been at it from daylight to dark fer six weeks, and
ain’t half through yet. When that’s done, lots harder
things has got to be attended to. Makin‘ stone fences
is just restin’; ’tain’t work. Well, he’s a farmer.”

City Youth—‘‘That’s strange. Who are those men
near him who do nothing but idle about? Aren’t they
farmers, too ?”’

Farmer Hayseed—‘‘No, indeed. Them’s only hired
men.”

Remarkable Accident.

Miss Upton (to newly arrived rural relative, on
Jersey City ferry)—‘‘Why, aunty; what's the mat-
ter ?”’

Rural Aunty (wildly pointing to big float full of
freight cars)—‘‘Look! Look! A piece of the rail-
road has broke loose, and I ain’t been off of it five
minutes.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

SHE KNEW THE GRIP.—By a quick shot he had just
rescued her from the clutches of a bear.
“What were your thoughts when bruin commenced
to squeeze ?” was his inquiry.
“Oh, Charlie, I thought of you!”
Binghamton Republican.

A MUSICAL SHOE.—Mrs. Bjones—‘Why, how.your
left shoe squeaks! What is the matter with it ?”
Bjones—‘'I think it must be the music 2 i note:
. rt. QUN

JUST A GENTLE Hint.—“It won’t come off my
finger,” murmured the young lady who had been so
rash asto try ona ring which the young man had
bought for his sister. ‘I am afraid that to get yo
ring you will have to take my hand with it.” )

It was a plump, pretty, and pattable hand, too. So
after a little reflection, the young man concluded to
take it, with all the appurtenances thereunto belong-
ing. Terre Haute Express.

SPACE LIMITED.—Mr. Bascom—‘“I notice young
Timothyseed is payn’ consid’able ’tentions to our
*Lizy Jane. Do you s’pose there’s anything between
’em 9”

Mrs. Bascom (who hasn’t forgotten old times)—
“Not much, I guess, when they get to settin’ on the
sofa.”’—Burlington Free Press.

A SCATTERED FAMILY.—‘*Mamma, where were you
born ?”’

‘In Baltimore, dear.”

“And where was papa born?’

“Tn Philadelphia.”

“And I was born in New York ?”

“Yes.”

‘Well, how did we get scattered around ?”

Boston Beacon.

PROBABLY ALL ALIKE.—‘‘Why are you so sad?”
asked one young Pittsburgher of another.

“)’m thinking of Sue Fitzpercy,” was the reply. “I
fear her heart is false.”

“Well, it would not surprise me if itis. I know her
teeth and hair are.’’—Pitisburgh Chronicle.

When the lights are turned low in the parlor, and
the old folks have departed for dreamland, Arabella
takes advantage of the situation and goes to Lap-
land.—Hachange.

‘“T believe your wife’s mother is with you now?’
“Yes, she’s with me, but she’s agin me.”
Boston Gazette.

John—“Elvira, do you love me or is it my money ?”
Elvira—John, [love you both.”—Life.

The canal mule will emulate the example of Gen-
eral Boulanger and go into retirement, but keep on
kicking.—Rochesier Post-Express.

Itis said that it doesn’t take a Northern invalid
very long to get well in Florida. When the first
week’s hotel bill is preseuted he generally says: ‘I
guess I’m well enough to start for home this after-
noon.’’—Lowisville Western Recorder.

It is paradoxical, to say the least, that the higher
classes are the lore classes, and the lower the hire.
Lawrence American.

A Mormon has been committed to jail for contempt
of court in refusing to tell how many wives he had.
Evidently his misery was more than he could con-
fess.— Rochester Post-Express.

The man who is dead in love with himself usually
has no rivals.—Rome Sentinel.

Fogg—“Brown must think a great deal of that
young lady he is waiting on. He actually went to
chureh with her on Sunday.” The Rey. Mr. Textual
—‘Yes, it was my echnrch. I saw him there. But
then he came alone to hear me preach the Sunday
before.” Fogg—“You don't mean it! Then he thinks
a good deal more of her than I had any idea of.”

Boston Transcript.

WOMAN’S POCKET.
Just where it is one never knows—
Beneath the folds it never shows
Above, below, before, behind—
A puzzle to the human mind!
Man never knows his helplessness
Until he tries in woman’s dress
To find the pocket.
San Francisco News Letter.

o> or

MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL.

The clerk whose last place was ‘‘too hard for him,”
hasa poorintroduction toanew sphereof duty. There
is only one spirit that ever achieves a great success—
the man who seeks only how to make himself use-
ful, whose aim is to render himself indispensable to
his employer, whose whole being is animated with

the purpose to fill the largest possible place in the
walk assigned to him, has in the exhibition of that
spirit the guarantee of success. He commands the
situation and will walk in the light of prosperity all
his days. On the other hand, the man who accepts
the unwholesome advice of the demagogue, and
seeks only how little he may do,and how easy he
may render his place and not lose his employment
altogether, is unfit for service; as soon as there is a
supernumerary on the list he becomes disengaged as
least valuable to his employer. The man who is
afraid of doing too much is near of kin to him who
seeks to do nothing, and is begot in the same family;
they are neither of them in the least degree relative
to the man whose willingness to do everything pos-
Sioa brick touch places him at the head of the ac-
tive lis

 

THE CHILDREN’S CHRISTMAS LETTER.

BY FANNY CROSBY.

You are thinking, happy children,

Of the blessed Christmas time,

When your hearts will bound with giadness,
And the bells again will chime.

And the music of your carols,

By a listening angel heard,

Will be carried as an offering

To our Saviour, Christ the Lord.

There’s a secret you are keeping
That you cannot hide from me;

You are guessing what the presents
Of your many friends will be,

And you wonder if dear Santa,
When you all are fast asleep,

Will be sure to fill your stockings,
And his yearly promise keep,

Well, my children, I am thinking
What a pleasure it would be,

If you all were gathered round me,
And your faces I could see.

Oh, the stories I would tell you,
And the pictures I would weave,
From the sunny vales of memory,
For the metry Christmas Eve!

And the best of all, I’d tell you

Of the first glad Christmas morn,
When the shepherds heard the tidings
Of the Infant-Saviour born.

And they joined the mighty chorus
Rolling onward through the sky,

For the angels sang with rapture
“Glory be to God on High!”

Such a gift as our Redeemer

Never blessed the world before,

We should worship Him, dear children,
We should love him more and more.

THE TENANT OF GREENOUGH HOUSE,

A STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS

 

EVES.
BY HERO STRONG.

A very great surprise awaited the good people of
Lightner Hill, a small village in one of our New Eng-
land States, on a bright, frosty Christmas morning,
eight or ten years ago.

The old Greenough House which stood on the cliff
above the village, overlooking the surrounding coun-
try for miles and miles, had found a tenant.

For more than a decade of years it had been vacant,
and the winds of winter had whistled in at its broken
windows, and the suns of summer had warmed to
erimson glory the roses in its weedy gardens—roses
which no hand gathered, and which no loving caré
fostered.

The old house had an evil history, and it had been
placed in the hands of an agent years ago, but no
house-seeker had cared to accept the very liberal terms
offered, for the dark shadow which hung over it had
its depressing influence even on such imaginative
people as those who wanted everything for nothing,
including hot and cold water, and stationary tubs in
the kitchen.

For although this is a very matter-of-fact age, and
nobody living believes in ghosts, still there are few
people who care to live in a house within whose
walls two murders have been committed—and the
old Greenough House enjoyed that somewhat unen-
viable distinction.

The Greenoughs had been a hot-blooded, high-tem-
pers race, and years agone one of them had killed

is bride of a week before the eyes of the man whom
he believed she loved better than she did him; and
then he had slain the lover, and fled from the house
leaving heritage and home behind him, and so far as
known no one had ever looked upon his face again.
He had vanished out of the life which had once
known him, and only the God who had made him,
with the wild unbridled passions which had wrecked
his life, knew what had become of him.

It was on a stormy Christinas night that this dark
deed had been done at the old house, and there were
those among the villagers who were superstitious
enough to assert that every Christmas night the pale
face of Margaret Greenough, the murdered bride,
looked out through the dim and cobwebbed windows
upon the shuddering passer-by, and that far out on
the wild winds of winter there rang a cry—a horrible,
blood-curdling ery for help.

And so the house fellinto ill-repute, and it was fast
going to ruin, when, as has been already said, that
frosty Christmas morning smoke was seen ascending
from its chimneys, and the tall form of a woman with
a scarlet shawl thrown over her pale blue dress,
walked along up and down the broad eastern piazza
in the bright morning sunlight.

The interested neighbors called on the new-comer
before the week was out, but they got little satisfac-
tion for their pains.

A sphinx-faced maid-servant met them at the
door, and to their inquiries for the mistress of the
poure returned to each amd all the same unvarying
reply:

Mrs. Hurlstone presents her thanks for your kind-
ness, and begs to be excused. She sees no company.”

And in spite of all efforts on the part of those who
sought to be neighborly with her, the new tenant of
Greenough house maintained her isolation, and no
one knew if she were wife or widow, orif she were
old or youug. ‘

The winter passed, and then the summer, and still |
the mysterious Mrs. Hurlstone had been seen by no
one.

Martha, the middle-aged servant, did all the
marketing, and an equally staid and quiet man-ser-
vant attended to the duties of the farm and garden.

Early in the month of November, following the
Christmas day on which the tenant of Greenough
House had taken possession, Dr. Westerley was just
closing his office for the night, preparatory to re-
tiring to his bachelor lodgings for the sleep he stood
sorely in need of, for the fall had been unusually
sickly, and the doctor had been in constant request
by night as well as by day, when a tall woman in a
black cloak aicppet quietly in atthe door he was
about to close. r. Westerley was not pleased to see
her, but he turned back into the office, relighted the
lamp, and waited for her to do her errand.

“You are Dr. Westerley, I believe ?”

The doctor bowed, and a slight surprise betrayed
itself in his well controlled face as he recognized the
woman-servant at Greenough House.

“T want you.” she said, briefly, ‘and at once.”

“Where? I beg your pardon, but I must know
where I am going, and whom I am to visit.”

“You are to know nothing,” said the woman,
quietly. ‘Come with me.”

“But I—”

“A life is at stake,” said the woman, “and if may
be in your power to save it. Andif Mrs. Hurlstone
sees fit toexplain anything to you, itis well. but IL
can tell you nothing. And surely you are not
afraid ?”

Dr. Westerley smiled. He wasa grave-faced hand-
some man of thirty-five—wonderfully successful in
his chosen business; a man who enjoyed the confi-
dence of all with whom he came in contact.

He put some few things in a medicine-case, threw
on his great-coat, and followed the woman out into
the damp fog of the night.

It was not far to the house on the hill by the cross
path through the woodland, and the woman led him
on at a sharp pace.

A faint gleam of light showed through the fan-
shaped glass over the door, and in an upper ehamber
two high windows let out a subdued and flickering
light, as if from the unsteady radiance of a fire on
the hearth. ‘

The heavy door swung open noiselessly at their
approach, and the doctor and_ his silent companion
passed into the faintly lighted hall.

A lady had opened the door, and as she turned her
face toward the doctor, he started back involuntarily,
and smothered an exclamation at her exceeding love-
liness of form and feature. §

She was tall and slight, and her age might have
been anywhere between twenty and thirty; her face
was blanched to a snowy whiteness by some un-
known horror. Her large brown eyes—the most
wonderful eyes Dr. Westerley had ever seen—met his
with a world of wild pleading in their depths, and
her small hands clasped themselves nervously to-
gether as she spoke.

“You are the physician ?” ts

Something in the soft, sweet tones of her voice
stirred some half-forgotten memory in the doctor's
heart and carried him back to other days, when a boy
he had rambled over the windy hills and clover
meadows of New Hampshire, and heard, afar off,
through the clear air, the distant peal of the bell in
the old church, beneath the shadow of whose gray
spire the gentle girl he had loved—and lost—lay
buried. :

He bowed courteously.

“T am Dr. Westerley, madam.
render you?”

She lifted her eyes to his face, and seemed to meas-
ure him at a glance. She put out her hand and
touched his.

“T will not ask
in your face whic

What service can I

ae to keep my secret. I see that
assures me that you are an hoa-

 

--netannenwaanct
Will you come

orable man. As such I trust you.
this way ?’

She started to ascend the dim stair-way, and Dr.
Westerley followed her without question. She passed
several closed doors, and paused at length before a
door at the extremity of the passage. This door she
unlocked, and motioned to her companion to enter;
and when he had done so, she followed him, and
closed and bolted the door behind them. :

They stood in a large, low-ceiled room, the win-
dows of which were shrouded in heavy curtains. In
one corner stood an old-fashioned four-pester bed-
stead, with dull red hangings.

The lady swept them back with a touch of her hand,
and showed the ghastly face of a man lying on the
pillow.

He started up nervously, and a red spot of color
leaped into his cheek.

**Have they come, Agnes?’ he eried. “I knew they
would, but you always promised me you would keep
them away !”*

“Be quiet, Edgar,” she said, soothingly. ‘This is
Dr. Westerley; he has come to make you well
again.”

“Does he know? Have you told him?” questioned
the sick man, eagerly.

“She has told me nothing,” said the doctor, grimly,

“and I shall not ask her. Butin the name of hu-
manity I will do what I can for you,”
_ A brief examination showed Doctor Westerley that
it was only a question of time how long this evidently
unquiet spirit was to remain in its earthly tenement,
but his impassive face told nothing.

Nevertheless, the sick man guessed at his con-
clusions.

“You think I shall die?” he asked, eagerly.

Doctor Westerley fell back upon the stereotyped
assurances of his class. Itis never avery pleasant
thing to tell aman hardly in the prime of life that
his hours are numbered. “Really, my dear sir, you
rk not be down-hearted. While there is life we
always——”

“Nonsense!’’ said the patient. “Tell the truth,
can’t you? Iam not an idiot tobe scared by the
thought of dying.”

“You are very ill. Of course it is possible that you
may live many years, but the probability is——”

“Death ?’ said the sick man.

iat you will have it—yes,” said the doctor, reluct-
antly.

“Thank Heaven !” said the patient, earnestly.

Doctor Westerley looked at him with some curi-
osity. In his somewhat extended practice it had
never been his fortune to hear any one thank Heaven
for death in immediate prospect.

The man lying there’so helpless before him Doctor
Westerly saw was comparatively young, and even
now, worn and wasted as he was by disease, his face
showed traces of thought and culture. He had been
avery handsome man, there could be no doubt of
that. Who was he? What was he? Why was he
here? What relation did he bear to the woman who,
pale-faced and anxious, leaned against the heavily
carved foot-board of the bedstead awaiting the doc-
tor’s verdict?

A few skillfully put questions evoived the informa-
tion that he had been ill for a long time; that he had
hac no medical attendance, and that even now it had
been called against his wish.

Mrs. Hurlstone followed the doctor down the
stairs when he had prescribed for the patient, and
paused a moment before she opened the hall-door to
give him egress. Her lips trembled; she made an
effort to speak, and burst into tears.

Doctor Westerley took her hand.

“My dear madam,” he said, ‘“‘let me beg of you no
A es yourself. It may be some time before
—before——’ .

She finished the sentence over which he hesitated.

“Before he dies—you would say; but, oh, itis not
that! You donot know! You cannot guess——”

She stopped abruptly, turned away from him and
fled up the stairs.

The doctor made the best of his way home, and
went to bed. But the fine night’s sleep which he had
so fondly anticipated did not come, and he lay toss-
ing about till the dawn, with the dark eyes, and the
sweet, sad face of the tenant of Greenough House
forever before him.

And it might truly be said thatit was the first
night in his life that Dr. Westerley had been kept
awake by his thoughts of a woman.

For several days he visited the sick man at the
house on the bill, and noted the steady decay of his
feeble vitality. Every day he met the beautiful
woman who nursed his patient so tenderly, and
whom he had learned to love with a wild, mad pas-
sion that astonished him. And still no light was
shed on the any abery which seemed to surround the
strange couple. If they were husband and wife,
brother and sister, friends or enemies, Dr. Westerley
knew not. A cold reserve had fallen between the
doctor and Mrs. Hurlstone; by mutual consent they
avoided being alone together, for Dr. Westerley knew
that he loved her as he had never dreamed of loving,

 

and she—well, is a woman ever mistaken in a man’s
sentiments toward her? y

On Christmas Eve two strange men called at Dr.
Westerley’s office, and demanded aninterview. Dr.
Westerley invited them to step into his private office,
and the elder of the men threw back his outside coat
and showed a detective’s badge on his breast.

“We are police officers from New York,’ he said,
briefly, “and we are in pursuit of Edgar Raynor, the
noted bank robber, who shot his accomplice in St.
Louis more than a year ago, in order to secure the
entire booty of which they had plundered the bank,
of which they were the president and the cashier,
and we have traced him to this place.’

“Well,” said the doctor, inquiringly, ‘what has that
to do with me?’

“We have information that you have been attend-
ing the man in question in the capacity of physician,
and we desire you to state to us his precise physical
eondition. There is a large reward offered for his ap-
prehension alive, and we have worked too hard to
risk anything by precipitate action. Is he in immedi-
ate danger of death ?”’ f

“T have no idea to whom you refer,” said the dog-
t

or.

“Why, to the tenant of the old Greenough House.
Surely you must have guessed that no man who had
nothing to hide away from would be vegetating in
that place.”

“JT decline to answer any questions in regard to any
of my patients,” said the doctor, coldly.

“Ah! then we must proceed without you. Good-
evening, sir.” And the men hastily withdrew.

Dr. Westerley stole out to his stable, and without
stopping fora saddle mounted his best horse and
started for the house on the hill. Criminal, or not,
the sick man and the beautiful woman who cared for
him should have warning of what was coming. But
he had not gone half the distance when his horse
stumbled over a loose stone, fell, and got up dead
lame. He left her there in the road, and hurried for-
ward on foot. As he stepped on to the piazza he saw
that the two policemen were already banging away
at the knocker, and in an instant the door opened
and the grave-faced Martha appeared. They pushed

ast her without ceremony, aud met Mrs. Hurlstone

n the hall.

“Madam,” said the spokesman, “you can doubtless
guess why we are here. We have come to arrest
Edgar Raynor for the murder of Paul Barton, in St.
Louis, eighteen months ago. You have led us a
pretty chase, but we have run you to ground at
ast.

Dr. Westerley stepped involuntarily to the woman’s
side, and, meeting her calm and self-contained eyes,
he saw something new in their peaceful depths. The
trouble and distress he had always noted there were
gone, and in their place there was peace perfect and
entire.

“Very well,” she said, quietly, “you are at liberty
to do your duty. You have earned theright. Come
this way.”

She ascended the stairs, and the three men followed
her. At the door of the sick-room she paused, and
cast an appealing glance at Dr. Westerley. He an-
swered her by stepping forward and drawing her cold
hand inside his arm.

In some vague and unexplained way he knew that
she only needed support and eo and not
the unfortunate fugitive they had come to arrest.

Mrs. Hurlstone stepped into the chamber first. It
was in darkness, save for a gleam from the dying
wood fire on the hearth.

“There,” she said, softly, pointing to the draped
bed inthe corner. “Edgar Raynoris at your mercy.

 

|

|

 

You can claim the reward you worked for,if yuu
like.”

Something in her strange manner seemed to chill
the triumphant ardor of the two officers. They hesi-
tated, and then threw back the bed hangings. And
they saw within the shadow, lying calm and rigid
and beyond their reach, the figure of a dead man.

“What was he to you?” Dr. Westerley asked, under
his breath, as Mrs. Hurlstone grasped his arm.

“He was my husband!’ she replied, and fell life-
less at his feet. ep

And as he raised her up, the joyful tones of the
bells in the old church tower under we hill, ringing
the glad Christmas chimes, floated softly 1m at the
open window.

* * * * *

* *

- Two years later, and on Christmas Day, there was
a quiet wedding in that same old church, and Agnes
Raynor, the mysterious tenant of the old Greenough
House, gave her hand to Dr. Westerley in marriage,
and though she will never cease to remember the
husband of her youth who sinned so hitterly against
her, and against his own better nature, she knows
that in the love of her maturer years she shall find
happiness undisturbed by doubt or fear, until death
shall separate her from the loyal heart which is all
her own.
ee

THE experiences of many observing persons have
satisfied them thatthe chief sources ef family fric-
tion are, on the part of the husband, a domineerin
disposition ; on the part of the wife, frivolity; an
of both together, selfishness or want of considera-
tion. All are the faults of undeveloped natures and
not of marriage, though close association may in-
tensify them. Sometimes these faults are reversed
—itis the husband who lacks depth and character
and the wife who rules with a rod of iron.

° ‘