mere
=
tom,

* 4

vo

 

 

 

 

» $O many steps toward that end.

 

 

      

VoL. XXX,

 

Proprietors.

 

CIN 2,

 

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
P.O. Box 4896 , New York.

Wa

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

 

 

NEW YORK, MAY 31, 1875.

 

1875, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Washington, D.C.

 

Three Dollars Per Year. knoe S. STREET.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

No, 30.

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

 

 

 

 

POCO O

NIGHTS MYSTERY.

 

ll OO

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming,

Author of Wedded, Yet No Wife; A Wonderful Woman; A Mad Mar-
riage; A Terrible Secret, ete.

 

 

[One Night’s Mystery” was commenced last week. Ask an

News Deuier for No. 28, and you will get the opening chapters. | , | Jones more than words, and went humming on her

CHAPTER IY.
‘*SO YOUNG AND SO ENTENDER.”

“Well,” the sweet girlish voice of Sydney Owen-

s0n cried, ‘thave you fallen asleep over Bertie’s pic-
ture, Cyrilla? What do you think of it ?—handsome,
isn’t he ?”
- Cyrilla looked up. She had been critically exam-
ining the well-looking photographed face of Mr.
Bertie Vaughan through her eyeglass, in silence, for
the last three minutes. The dark eyes, brilliant as
Stars, were a trifle short-sighted, black as it is possi-
ble for human eyes to be, and consequently the least
attractive feature in the very attractive face. She
dropped her glass now, and returned the portrait to
its owner,

‘Very handsome, Syd; but—you won’t be offended,
will you ?”

“Oh, dear, no! Why should I? Goon.”

“But rather weak and womanish, rather fickle and
unstable, I should say. Not the sort of man to pin
your . faith to, too securely. Men, with that sort of
mouth, and these pretty, girlish dimples in the chin,
are always weak-minded. You don’t mind my say-
ing this, do you ?”

“Not a bit, poor, dear old Bertie! I think I like
weak-minded men, Cy. If he were stern and digni-
fied, and all that, he might think me silly and frivol-
ous, a8 Lam, I daresay, and try to improve me, and
not let me have my own way. I should hate being
improved, and I — mean to have my own way.
Yes, Cy, I prefer weak-minded men!” :

*‘No you don’t, Sydney. You may think so now,
but you don’t, You want a husband. you can lean
upon, trust,and lookupto. And there are such
men, for I’ve met them—glorious fellows, worth a
woman's giving her life for. That’s the sort of hus-
band for you, cherie, while I-——”

"Yes, Cy.”

“While I want one who will look up to me—not a
Bertie Vaughan exactly. I shouldn’t like a fickle
man, but a husband whom I can rule, who will let
me henpeck him, inshort! I couldn’t love a man I
had to look up to—it’s dreadfully tiresome looking
up. And I wouldn’t live with a man I couldn’t love.
Tt would bore me to have a supreme being for my
lord and master. And I never mean to bore myself.
Those are my principles.” Sydney laughed.

**Mon Dieu! only hear her! One would think she
had all mankind by heart! Have you ever met your
small, gentle, hen-pecked ideal, Cy ?”

Cyrilla Hendrick did not answer at once, but.over
her face a smile broke, a smile so soft, so tender, so
womanly, that for a moment it transformed her.

“Yes, Syd,” she said, softly; ‘tI have met my ideal,
poor, dear little fellow, and loved him well, before I
ever saw you. Ah! those were the best days of my
life, I begin to think; and, like allbest things, they
are gone forever.”

“You can’t tell that. To a girlas handsome as
you are, infinite capabilities lie open, as Carlyle
would say. I predict that you will make a brilliant
match, Cyrilla.”

“T mean to, Sydney. That iswhy Iamhere. Every
accomplishment, every one of my good looks, are
I mean to marry
well—that is, arich man. He may be old as the
everlasting hills, he may be ugly as Caliban, he may
be vulgar, he may be absolutely idiotic, I will twine
roses, like Titania, around his ass’s head, and bow
myself down, and do homage before him, so that he
but possess the bags of ducats. Yes, Syd, my aunt
may design me fora life of drudgery in her bleak
old house—I mean to marry one of the wealthiest
men on this continent before another year ends.”

‘“*And henpeck him afterwards ?”

“By no means, That is my ideal. I won’t henpeck
my wealthy husband. I shallsimply doin all things
as I please. Butif the fortune of war should go
against me, Sydney, and I fail and come to grief, as
Aunt Phil says I shall, I wonder if, under all circum-
stances, I can count upon a friend in you ?”

“Under all circumstances, Cyrilla, through good
report and evil report, for better or for worse, I will
be your true friend always.”

“You vow this, Sydney?” She came closer, the,
black eyes eager, dark, intense earnestness in her
face. “It is no school-girl:promise, made and for-
gotten ina moment? You mean this ?”

“‘With all my heart!’ Sydney exclaimed, carried
away by the moment’s excitement, her fair “flower
Mee i flushing. “Your faithful and firm friend to the
end.’

“Shake hands on that!” Cyrilla said, holding out
her own—and the white, diamond-starred hand, and
the brown. ringless one met, and clasped, for a mo-
ment, firmly and strongly, as the clasp of two men.

“It is a compact between us, Cyrilla Hendrick.
I have a presentiment that one day you will be called
upon to fulfill that promise. There goes the study
dell at last.” |

‘‘And you haven't promised to be my bridesmaid.
Will you, Cy?”

“Of course, If your father will write to Aunt Phil
andask her. I knowshe will be delighted to say yes.
In common with all virtuous people she has the in-
tensest respect for rich and respectable associations.
Apropos of the rich and respectable, we’re asked to
@ small dinner at Mrs. Colonel Delamere’s on Friday
evening—Halloween, you know. Will you go?”

“Only too glad. Who knows—we may see some of
the new officers. You’ve heard that another regi-
ment were quartered at the barracks last week.
The colonel may fetch some of them along.”

“Ah! pigs may fly, but they’re unlikely birds!” is
Miss Hendrick’s more expressive than elegant an-
swer. ‘No such luck, Cyd. Ma’amselle Stephanie,
or Ma’amselle Jeanne, will be along as usual, to play
sheep dog to we lambs—or, worse still, Miss Jones—
and turn to stone any military interloper under fifty,
with one glance of her Gorgon eye.”

The folding doors of the schoolroom flew open and
Miss Jones came in, the four-and-thirty boarders at
her heels. Cyrilla sauntered away to her desk, sing-
ing as she went:

“Oh for Friday night,
Friday at the gloaming,

Oh for Friday night,
Friday’s long a coming.”

“No singing in study hours, Miss Hendrick!” cried

Migs Jones, sharply, with a flash of her pale eves.
Cyrilla smiled—the smile that always galled Miss

 

 

way unheeding:

“Oh for Friday night,
Then my true love’s coming.”

“This is the knave of hearts. YOu are the knave. monsieur !’

ful eye on their charges, and see that the masculine
element was not too dangerous. It was an under-
stood thing, particularly when an invitation came
from Mrs. Colonel Deiamere, that no officer under
half a century was to puf in an appearance:

On this eventful Friday afternoon, then destined
to make an epoch in more than one of their lives,
the young ladies, five in number, with Miss Jones
in the role of guardian angel, set out at four o’clock
down the Rue St. Dominique to Notre Dame street,
where resided Mrs. Colonel Delamere, Miss Hen-
drick and Miss Owenson, as usual, walking arm-in-
arm, a8 usual, also, making avery pretty contrast—
a fact whigh the elder of the two at least very well
knew. Cyrilla wore her one best dress—Aunt Phil’s
Christmas gift, a garnet merino—its rich tints set-
ting off well herricher beauty, a ruffle of thread
lace at throat and wrists; for ornaments, brooch and
earrings of rubies and fine gold. Miss Hendrick had
brought these jewels with her from England, and,
apart from their intrinsic worth and extreme be-
comingness to her brunette face, valued them as
parting gifts from Freddy.”

‘‘He gave them to me with tears in his eyes, and
nearly ruined himself, poor little dear”—Miss Hen-
drick always spoke of this gentleman as though he
were seven years old—‘‘to buy them. As Ma’am-
selle Stephani would say, Fred is as poor as ‘mouses

 

of the church.’ ”

SS

 

 

 

“T will tell you how it was, Cy, in return for your
confidence the other day. When papa was avery
young man, and a middy in the British navy, he was
guilty of some youthful indiscretion—I don’t know
to this day what, but some act that if brought to the
ears of his captain would have disgraced and ruined
him for life. Mr. Vaughan, Bertie’s father, was sec-
ond officer of the ship, and Mr. Vaughan came to
papa’s aid, reseued him from his danger, screened
him—saved him, ina word. Papa could do nothing
then to prove his gratitude, but in his heart his grat-
itude was deep and strong. Years and years after,
when papa had come into a fortune, and was mar-
ried, and I was a baby, histurncame. Mr. Vaughan
died poor, very peer, leaving Bertie friendless and
alone. Papa came forward, sought him out, brought
him here, and adopted him as his son. I was one
year old, and Bertie six, but I believe even then, Cy,
he destined us for each other. He had married
mamma in New York—mamma is American, you
know-—and finally, when his health began to fail, he
came and settled there. The climate agrees with
him, and mamma prefers it. Bertie was at Rugby
at the time, and finally went up to Oxford. I had

ER tn

“Who knows? You will one day inherit Miss Dor-
ner’s fortune, marry vour Fred, and live happy ever
after.”

“Never, Syd! I opened the mysteries a little the
other day, let me open them still more now. I told
you Miss Dorner had agreed to leave her money to
me, on one condition—that I solemnly swear to obey
her in one thing —did I not ?”

*Yes—well ?”

‘‘Well—that one thing is, that I ara never to marry
Fred Carew. Before she signs her will, if Iam not
already married,] am to swear, in the presence of
witnesses, that never, while I live, will I marry poor
little Freddy. If I refuse to take that oath, or if I
break it when taken, I forfeit every dollar. No
more questions, Syd, and get rid of that shocked
face. Here we are at Mrs. Delamere’s.”

 

CHAPTER VY.
‘PART NOW, PART WELL, PART WIDE APART.”

Mrs. Colonel Delamere, a fat, fair, and forty ma-
tron, with the usual comfortable, placid, stall-fed
look, came forward in pearl-gray silk to receive her

 

not seen him for three years before last vacation,
when he came over, and, asI told you girls, gave

me this ring, and informed me he intended to mar- |

ry me next year. Of course papa had told him to
do it, and I am sure if I must marry, I would rather

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“J shall report you to Mademoiselle Chateauroy,
Miss Hendrick!’ Miss Jones angrily cried.

“What! again? Poor Mademoiselle Chateauroy,
to be compelled to listen,” Cyrilla answered, mock-
ingly, taking her seat and her books.

Silence fell. Five-and-thirty girls, bent five-and-
thirty heads, over five-and-thirty books, for the space
of half-an-hour—then the loud ringing of a bell, then
a simultaneous jump of five-and-thirty girls on their
feet, a hustling of books into desks, doors flung wide,
and a marshalling, two deep, Miss Jones at their
head, and in strictest silence, down stairs to the re-
fectory.

The meal was eaten, still in silence—Miss Jones
read aloud some drearily instructive book, then back
tothe school-room—more study—another half-hour’s
recreation, and then to their rooms for the night.
It was one, among Miss Jones’ manifold duties, to go
the rounds of the rooms and removethe lights. The
chamber of Cyrilla Hendrick and her companion
was the very last of the row, but to that room Miss
Jones spitefully went first. Miss Hendrick was
busily writing out to-morrow’s German exercise.

‘“‘What! so soon?” shecriedout. ‘Antoinette look
at your watch. Miss Jones must have made a mis-
take. It’s a good ten minutes yet to nine, and I
haven’t my exercises done.”

‘It’s nine o clock, Miss Hendrick,” Miss Jones re-
torted grimly, seizing the lamp. ‘‘If you are behind
with your exercise it- is your misfortune, not my
fault.”

She paused a moment, lamp in hand, and gazed at
Cyrilla’s indignant face with ill-concealed exultation.

“You made a mistake this afternoon, Miss Hen-
drick. Iam going on Friday night, in charge of you
and the others, to Mrs. Delamere’s.”

Miss Hendrick might be discomfitted, never de-
feated. At amoment’s notice she was ever ready to
do battle with her foe.

‘Are you, Miss Jones? Poor Mrs. Delamere! But
she must expect to pay some penalty if she will ask
school girls. For myself, I don’t mind, but one can’t
help compassionating Mrs. Delamere—with her
natural dislike of canaille, too.”

It was a coarser shaft than even Cyrilla was wont
to wing. A furious look was her answer. Then
armed with the lamp Miss Jones had left the room.

**Mon Dieu! Cyrilla, how impertinent you are!”
the French girl exclaimed. ‘Are you not afraid she
will report you to mademoiselle ?”

“Not a bit afraid, Toinette; the principal amuse-
ment of Miss Jones’ life is reporting me to mademoi-
selle. I don’t know what will become of her when I
leave school at Christmas, and that healthful stimu-
las is taken from her sluggish blood, Now then,
Toinette—to bed, bed!”

As arule, the Demoiselles Chateauroy did not al-
low their pupils to dissipate their minds by accept-
ing invitations from their friends in Petite St.
Jacques.

There were a few exceptions made, however, in
the graduating class by the express desire of pa-
rents and guardians. The girls were to quit the
pensionnat so soon and ‘come out,” that to accept a
few invitations to innoxious tea parties and dinners
could do great harm. But even on these occasions
one of the Demoiselles Chateauroy or one of the un-
der teachers invariably went along to keep a watch-

 

Miss Owenson, in turquoise blue silk, her drop-
ping, sun-bright ringlets, tied back intoa knot of
blue ribbon, falling loosely over her shoulders,
looked by contrast white and pure and fair as a lily.
She wore no adornings, except her shining engage-
ment ring and her chain and locket.

“fF can’t quite realise, Syd,’ Miss Hendrick ob-
served, thoughtfully, *‘that this time next month
you will be, as people phrase it, ‘a respectable mar-
ried woman.’ And only seventeen years old!”

“It does seem absurd, doesn’t it?” Sydney laughed;
‘tit is absurd. I wish poor papa’s crotchet had taken
any other form; but since it has taken this, there is
nothing for it but obedience. I would do much
more unpleasant things than marry Bertie to please
poor, sick, hypochondriacal papa.”

Cyrilla looked at her curiously.

“You are an oddity, Sydney—half child, half wo-
man; I don’t quite understand you. Do you love
this Bertie Vaughan?”

Sydney laughed again, and blushed—that bright,
ane blush that made her pearl-clear face so

ovely.

*‘Love?—love, Cyrilla?’ The girl of seventeen
pronounced the incisive word shyly, as most girls
of seventeen do. ‘Oh, well, that’s another. thing,
you see—something, I fancy, one thinks more of at
seven-and-twenty than at seventeen. Of love, such
as I have read in novels and poetry, I know noth-
ing. Iam not sure I ever want to know. ' As far as
I can make out, love and misery are synonymous.
No, I’m not in love with Bertie—I’m tolerably sure
of that.”

“Nor he with you?”

‘Nor he withme. How could we—only boy and
girl? Since Iwas ten years %ld, and Bertie fifteen,
papa gave us to understand we were to marry some
day, and we never made any objections. I like Ber-
tie better than any boy I ever knew—that is
enough.”

“Enough? Oh, you poor child! You like Bertie—
yes, and some day, when you are ten years older,
the right man (they say there is aright man for all

of us, if we only wait long enough) will appear on |

the scene, and then—and then, Syd, you will wake
up and know what love and marriage mean.”

Once more Sydney laughed aloud—her sweet,
clear, heart-whole laugh.

‘““Cyrilla Hendrick turned sentimental! What shall
Ihear next? Have you been reading French novels
lately, Cy?—that sounds like an extract. Oh, no,
Cyrilla!"—the girl’s face grew suddenly grave—‘'I
am not a bit like one of the heroines of your pet ro-
mances. WhenI am Bertie’s wife I will love him—
yes, love him with my whole heart; and no man in
all this world, though he were avery god among
men, will be to me what he will. Of love, as you
mean it, I know nothing; but that I will be Bertie’s
true and loyal wife, I knowas wellas that I am
walking here.”

Cyrilla smiled—the cynical and most worldly smile,
that often marred the beauty of her Titian-like face.

‘*We will see!” she said, prophetically. ‘*Mean-
time, what a romantic old gentleman your papa must
be! I thought that sort of thing, affiancing people
in their cradles, went out of fashion two or three
centuries ago.”

 

 

 

marry Bertie than any dreadful, strange man. That
is the whole story, Cyrilla, romantic or not, as you
like.”

“Hm !? was Cyrilla’s comment, her black eyes
twinkling; ‘‘what a comfort it must be to your papa
to possess so dutiful a son and daughter. I am cu-
rious to see this docile Mr. Vaughan, and curious,
very curious, Syd, to see how this romantic marriage
turns out.”

“You are welcome,” Miss Owenson answered,
stoutly. ‘It will be a modern case of Darby and
Joan, I feel sure. When we are married and settled
—we are to live at home with papa and mamma, of |
course—you must come and make me a long visit,
and we will lookout together for the ugly, old, idiot-
ic, wealthy Bottom the Weaver, you intend to
marry.”

Miss Hendrick laughed, then sighed impatiently—
that look of dark discontent Sydney had learned to
know long ago, overspreading her face like a cloud.

She glanced up at her, half-wonderingly, half-com-
passionately.

‘‘Cvrilla,” she said, holding the girl’s arm a little
closer, ‘‘what a troubled face you wear !—what a
troubled face you often wear, as though you were
almost sick of your life.”

‘‘Almost!” Cyrilla Hendrick repeated—almost,
Sydney! Why, there never was a time when I was
not sick of my life. Ihave an infinite capacity for
discontent, I think-—for discontent, envy, and all un-
charitableness. I long for freedom, for riches, for
splendor, for the glory of the world, more than words
can ever tell! And drudgery, and poverty, and mean-
ness have been mine since I can recollect. But, as
you say, Syd, I have a handsome face, and the ave-
rage of brains behind #, and it will go hard with
me, if out in the big, wide world I cannot win for
myself a place in the first rank.”

The dark, intense face looked for a moment al-
most fierce in its earnestness.

Sydney Owenson gazed at her in increased won-
der and perplexity. Her own life ran on like some |
clear, shining river; the turbid, restless spirit of her
bolder friend she could by no means understand. In
all things her life sufficed for her, and had from the
beginning; with her niche in the world she was am- |
ply content, This craving, never-satiated longing |
for the unattainable was te her a marvel.

‘We were talking of love a few minutes ago,” she
said, trying perplexedly to work out the puzzle.
‘Are you in love, Cyrilla—with Freddy ?”

Cyrilla laughed—the sweetest, aixiest laugh was
Cyrilla’s—the clouds clearing away as if by magic.

‘‘And if Iam, Sydney, you don’t think, I hope, that
has anything to do with it! Oh, no! If I were queen |
of the universe, and all the best and bravest of man- |
kind knelt before me, I would single out little Fred
Carew and marry him from among them all, and |
care for him as greatly as it isin me to care for any |
one besides myself, and make him most exquisitely |
miserable for the rest of his mortal life, I have no |
doubt. But with my chronic dissatisfaction with my

 

 

lot, Freddy, at present, has nothing to do.” | indifference of a practiced coquette.

‘‘And yet you are fond of him ?”
‘Fond of him? Fond of Fred Carew? Ah! well,
Syd, it’s one of those things that won’t-bear talking

about. We have said good-by, and said it for all |

“It issimple enough after all,” Sydney answered. | time.”

7

| She was for her pains,” Mrs. Delamere answered,

you fetch that shrewish Miss Jones ?
in store for you, girls, but it’s against orders—tiree

| spoil all.”

‘tPoor Miss Jones! she seems to make enemies on
| every hand.
| Cyrilla.

| with them at the mess, and will.bring them over af-

| Sight, madame,” she answered stiffly; ‘‘and to bring

pardoned for becoming sensitive.
| absolutely flashed.

;to the ample grounds in front of the house, and

| and a change in your whole life.

| near, too.

youthful guests. Miss Sydney Owenson, her especial
pet, she kissed with effusion.

“You darling child! how good of you to come so
. early!” she whispered. ‘‘And so weare really going
to lose you for good!”
| ‘Who told you ?” Sydney demanded, opening wide
; her gray eyes. ;

“Mademoiselle Chateauroy—I called yesterday.
Told me you were to be married—a little girl of
| seventeen! My pet, it’s a shame!”
| ‘Ts it?” laughed Sydney; ‘“‘but a little bird has
| whispered through the town that Mrs. Colonei Dela-
| mere ran away and was married at sixteen!”

“So she did, my dear,and a precious simpleton
shrugging her ample shoulders. ‘‘Sydney, why did
Thave a treat

contrab and admirers who are dying to meet my
‘pretty penstonnaires. Miss Jones will be sure to

It is war to the knife between her and
Are you really going to introduce the new
arrivals? J heard the regiment had come. How
nice of you.”

“They will drop in after dimner—the colonel dines

terward. You are to Have parlor croquet, anda
carpet dance, and go home by moonlight. If only
that Miss Jones would not tell !"

“How plaintively you speak of that Miss Jones,”
Sydney laughed. ‘‘Let the most fascinating of your
military herees make love to her, Mrs. Delamere,
give her his arm home, and so seal the dragon's
mouth.”

; Mrs. Delamere looked doubtfully across at Miss
ones.

“Do you think so, pet? But then she is so plain,
poor thing, and not so young as she was ten years
ago, and though they’re all plucky fellows enough,
yet [’'m afraid they’re not equal to it. However, we
will eat drink,and be merry to-night, if we are to
die for it to-morrow.”

All things went on in a most exemplary way for the
next two hours, until the six o’clock dinner ended.
Not a red coat, not evenablack coat, made its ap-
pearance. Games of all kinds, books of all sorts,
had been provided by Mrs. Delamere, the jolliest of
hostesses, for her young friends. They dined to-
gether, waited upon by a solemn, elderly butler, and
even Miss Jones was amused and propitiated by Mrs.
Delamere’s condescending kindness.

“T really want the poor things to enjoy themselves
this evening, my.dear Miss Jones,” she said, confi-
dentially. ‘“‘You must permit them 4a little extra
liberty, and at least one hour more than usual.”

Miss Jones fixed her dull, glimmering eyes upon
the colonel’s lady, scenting danger afar off.

“My orders are, not to allow my pupils out of my

them home positively at nine.
position is worth to disobey.”

**Oh, nonsense! my dear Miss Jones. I will make
it all right with Mademoiselle Chateauroy. Do recol-
lect how little amusement the poor things have, and
remember we were once young ourselves.”

It was the most unfortunate appeal the good lady
could have made. Miss Jones was verging upon the
thirties, a period when any unmarried lady may be
Her leaden eyes.

It is as much as my

‘‘Miss Delamere is very kind, but my orders were
positive, and it is my duty to obey.”
She set her thin lips, and looked across at Cyrilla
Hendrick.
“The military are coming, and I shall spoil your
sport, my lady, if I can,” she thought, vindictively.
Miss Hendrick at the moment was the center of a
circle of laughing, eager faces. They had adjourned

seated under a great scarlet maple, armed with a
pack of cards, Cyrilla was gravely lifting the mystic
vail of futurity.

“T see here, my pretty lady,” she was drawling in
true gipsy tone to Miss Owenson, ‘‘a sudden journey,
Here is a fair man,
who is destined to cause you a great deal of trouble.
Here are tears, a disappointment, a sick bed and—
yes—a death.”

‘“‘Cyrilla!” Sydney cried, her gray eyes flashing in-
dignantly.

‘It is in the cards—look for yourself, and very
Here is a dark man, this king of spades,
who follows you everywhere, and a dark woman,
who is your enemy, and comes between you and the
fair man, and——”

She stopped suddenly—as suddenly as if she had
been shot. For avoice broke in upon them as she
uttered the words.

“T never goin for high stakes, myself,” said the
pleasant, lazy voice; ‘‘say ponies, or monkies. My
exchequer never stands anything higher. My dear
colonel, what a charming scene! a veritable group
from Waltham, and sitting on straw, like Marjory
Daw! These are the young ladies Mrs. Delamere
spoke of, no doubt.”

The speaker raised his eye-glasses. complacently,
and stood surveying the “group from Waltham,” as
though it had been got up for his especial delecta-
tion. He had spoken in an undertone, but in the
clear, crisp, still air, every word had reached the
ears of the fortune-teller. She did not start, she
did not look up, a sudden stillness came over her
from head to foot. Then she lifted her handsome,
high-bred face, and went coolly on.

“The dark lady is in love with the fair gentleman,
and will do her best to part him from you. Whether
she succeeds or not is not in the cards, but I see
here no end of treuble, disappointment, sickness
and tears.”

‘A very dreary prediction for lips so gentle to
pronounce. Fairest fortune teller, will you not spere
my future as well ?”

The gentleman, whose bets never exceeded
‘tyonies or monkeys,” had advanced his glass to his
eye, bowing gracefully, smiling sweetly upon the
flattering group. The seeress lifted her eyes from
the pack, and glanced up at him with the careless
But Sydney
Owenson saw, and Miss Jones saw, that the faint
rich earnation her olive cheeks ever wore had deep-
ened to vivid crimson.

“Certainly,” she answered. with perfect sang
Froid ; ‘cross the sibyl’s palm with silver, my pretty

 

 

 
 

al

Se De ee on oe

 

 

 

 

 

 

gentleman, and tell me which shall it be—past, pres- |

ent, or future ?”

She held out her hand, all present looking on in a |
flutter of expectation, a startled expression upon |

Miss Jones’ vinegar visage, a bland smile upon Col-
onel Delamere’s.

“The future, by all means,” the gentleman an-
swered, making search gravely for the silver coin,
He found a six-pence, and dropped it with a second
Chesterficldian bow into the extendedpalm.. She
shuaffied the cards. ‘*Cut,” she said authoritatively.

The stranger obeyed, military stranger all saw,
though in mufti, Mies Hendrick took up the first
“cut,” and began to read. #

“This is the knaye of hearts—you are the knave,
monsieur! This means water—you have recently
made a long voyage. There ig the queen of spades—
a dark lady whom you are to Meet soon—very soon.
Let me warn monsieur against this young dark lady;
she will cause him endless trouble aud mischief if he
does not cat her acquaintance at once. Here isa
blonde lady, the queen of diamonds, immensely
wealthy. Lkok at all these cards that follow her.
She wiil fall in love with the knave if he sets about
it properly, and may even ultimately marry him.
She will not be young and certainly not pretty, but,
as you see, she has a fortune that is immense, and
that is much botter for the Knave of hearts, and
much more to his taste than youth or pretty looks,
The dark lady is poor, and really will make monsieur
no end of worry whenever she appears. This card
certainly means a wedding. Here it allis—monsieur
turns his back upon the evil-minded dark lady,
marries the queen of diamonds and her money bags,
and lives happy ever after.”

She sprang to her feet, bowed low to the gentle-
man, and turned asif to depart.

“Ha ha, ha !” boomed out the big bass laugh of
the colonel. ‘By Jupiter, that’s good—eh, Carew ?
It she had known you all you're life, by Jove, she
couldn't have hit home better—hey, my boy? Let
me introduce you—Miss Cyrilla Hendrick, Mr. Carew
of the —th Fusiliers.”

“Carew !? The gray eyes of Sydney Owenson
opened in swift, sudden surprise. She glanced at
Cyrilla, strangely startled, but that young lady was
looking as to one she had never seen before—the
gentleman with equal gravity.

Sydney drewa long breath,
not such a very uncommon name.
tainly be two men in the world who bore it.
could only hear his other.

“Freddy, my boy,” cried the eolonel’s cheerful
stentor tones, “there is another. Miss Sydney Owen-
son, Lientenant Carew.”

Freddy! She flashed a glance of amaze and de-
light aeress at her friend, but the face of Cyrilla
Hendrick was beyond her reading. She had turned

artly away, with only the usual, half-indifferent,
alf-disdainful expression on the handsome brunette
face.

“Mr. Carew, Miss Jones,” says genial Colonel
Delamere, and Miss Jones makes a prim, stiffish lit~
tlebow. ‘‘Ma’amselle Marie Antoinette Desereux,
Ma’amselle Angele Garneau.”

Twice more does Mr. Carew bestow his gracetul
court-chamberlain bow and smile onthe bread-and-
butter school-girls, and then he is free.

“Two more coming, Rosebud,” whispers the el-
derly colonel to Sydney; ‘‘two more—good men and
true. Fred Carew and I toddled on ahead. How
does Carew compare with le beau Bertie—eh, little
Pearl ?”

“Mr, Carew is very good-looking indeed, sir; not

. very tall, but that’s a matter of taste,” answers, de-
murely, Miss Owenson, 4

“And a bit-of a dandy—eh, my .dear? Regardez
vous, a3 they say here—the lavender kids, the shiny
boots, the, swell hat, the moss rose in the button-
hole. That coat is one of Poole’s masterpieces; but
I suppose you are not. capable of appreciating Poole’s
chef-@oeuvres. But, with all his Dundrearyism, he’s
one of the best and most honorable little fellows
that ever breathed is my young iriend Fred Carew.”

‘Indeed, sir.”

*Yes, that he is. I've known him since he was
the size of this cigar. May [light it? Thank you,
my dear, Miss Hendrick hit him off to the lite—ha!
hal ‘Rich wite—not pretty—net young—lots of mo-
ney’—ha! ha! ha! Clever girl, very, that handsome,
black-eyed Miss Hendrick. Couldn’t have struck
home more neatly if she had been, his mother.
Hasn’t a stiver but his pay—Carew hasn’t—best con-

. nections going—but no expectations. Terrible flirt,
but no marrying man. However, that’s nothing to

After all, Carew was
There might cer-
If she

you, my dear. Yowre booked. Lucky tellow, that
pours aughan. I’ve heard of him. Ah! you needn’t
lush—if I were only twenty years younger and a

single man. Ah, well! you may laugh if you like,
but Vaughan wouldn’t have it all his own way, Yes,
as I say—as Miss Hendrick said rather—a wife with
fitty thousand down is about Freddy’s figure. The
widow, or the orphan, my dear, doesn’t matter
which, and the money not selfishly tied up in herself
either.”

Thus guilelessly prattled on the colouel, while
Sydney fran tisa and watched her friend with intense
curiosity. At least Colonel Delamere did not dream
that Mr. Carew and Miss Hendrick had ever met be-
fore—no one did except herself. Yes—one other!
Miss Jones’ leaden eyes might be dull, but they were
sharp, and where Cyrilla Hendrick was concerned
hatred had sharpened them to needle points. She
had noticed the first start, the first flush of tell-tale
color; she had seen for one moment an expression
on her foe’s face she had never seen there before.
The fortune-telling, too, had been peculiar. Didshe
mean herself by the ‘dark lady,” Miss Jones won-
dered? Had they ever met before? Had they met
before—in England for example—and was there
some reason for keeping that meeting dark? She
would watch, and wait, and see.

Mr. Carew had joined Miss Hendrick, and walked
away by hérside. For a moment neither spoke—the
young lady looking serenely before her straight into
space, the young gentleman watching her witha
curious smile. He was the first to speak.

“Well, Beauty ?”

“Well, Freddy?” Cyrilla Hendrick’s black eyes
turned from the horizon to his face at last. ‘“‘It is
you—Fred Carew—then, after all. How in the name
of all that is astonishing do you come to be here ?”

“What!? Mr. Carew said, lifting his blonde eye-
brows, *“‘do you mean to tell me, Beauty, you’did not
know I was here?”

“Know you were here! Good Heaven! Fred,
what a preposterous question! Freddy Carew away
from Regent street and Rotten Row! Fred Carew
out of sight of White’s Club House anda Bond street
tailor! No—the human mind refuses to take in such
an antithesis! I would as soon expect to meet the
Czar of Russia in the wilds of Canada as you, Mr.
Carew.”

“Ah!” Freddy said plaintively. ‘‘You can’t feel
sorrier for me, Beauty, than I feel tor myself. But,
the fortune of war, my dear child, however cruel,
must be accepted by a soldier. Still, since it has
brought me to you, I can’t say I regret it.”

**You knew I was here?—from papa, I suppose.”

“Your papais improving the shining hours in
Boulogne, my dear Cyrilla, and has been for the
past year. No; Iknew you were in Canada some-
where, and that knowledge alone made the thought
of my exile endurable, Thad no idea we were to
meet, until this very day, at mess.”

“And then——”

“And then our garrulous friend, the colonel—
‘our old lady,’ the fellows call him—let out the
blissful secret. ‘Capital place, Petite St. Jacques,
Freddy, my boy,’ says Delamere tome. ‘Yes, mon
colonel,’ Il answer. ‘Capital place fora man to go
melancholy mad or cut his throat, I should say.’
‘Not at all,’ retorts my superior officer;. ‘lots of fun

—famous for maple sugar and pretty girls. There's
a whole seraglio of beauties down therein the Rue
Dominique, and you’re to meet two of the prettiest
at. my house this evening—azure-eyed, golden-
haired Sydney—black-eyed, raven-tressed Cyriila.
Take loan my boy, with my blessing—‘you pays
your money, and es takes your choice.’ Need I
tell you, Beauty, I woke up at that—at the soundof
your name? ‘Both beauties, both heiresses, my
boy,’ pursued the doddering old colonel; ‘and an
heiress is just about what you want most, 1 should

ay, Freddy.’ ‘Precisely, sir,’ ] answer; ‘to which
do you advise me to lay seige—belle blonde or bru-
nette?” ‘Well, my little Sydney—Miss Owenson—is
bespoken, ’m sorry to say,’ Delamere answers, ‘so
it must be Miss Hendrick, Eyes like sloes, lips like
chefries, cheeks like roses, and the air of a dutchess.,

Yes, by Jove!’ cries the vagabond old colonel, smack-

ng his lips, ‘the air of an empress. Benedecite, my

son, and go in and win.’ Sol came, Beauty—I
heedn’t tell you how 1 felt, and you met me as
though you had never seen me before. I made
sure you knew all about my being here, and were
on guard.”

“Not I,” Cyrilla answered; ‘‘when your voice
reached me, asI sat here telling fortunes, I was
struck dumb. But oh, dear old fellow! how glad I
am to see you—how good it seems to meet a_ famil-
iar face in this desert of Canada.”

“Miss Hendrick!” peals forth a sharp-accented
voice; and Miss Hendrick wakes up almosi as from a
dream at the too familiar sound, ‘Miss Hendrick,
you are wanted in the drawing room, to sing.”

 

 

'

|

| have often swung myself into the playground. Get

 

 

 

Mr. Carew’s glass goes to his eye;”
turns half round upon her foe, with her usualair of
severe impertinence.

‘‘Couldn’t you take my place this once, my dear
Miss Jones?” (Miss Jones has about as much voice as

iss Hendrick |

  
 
   
 
   
  
  

a consumptive raven.
as it is.” ;

“T must insist upon your returning tothe house,] g

instantly,” cries Miss Jones, in a rising key. ‘‘Mye
orders are, as you Know, mot to let you out of my
sight.” > ai gar

Bhe adyances upon vn Mr. Carew, his glass |
still in his eye, regards her _ | he might some
newly-discovered and wonderfal Specimen of t
British megatherium. ‘a pe

“But, my dear Miss Jones,” he begins, im mo
persuasive accents, with his most winning smile,
‘there igs Teally ho need of all this trouble. Your
natural and affectionate anxiety about Miss Hen-
drick does equal honor to your head and heart,
but, assure you, no harm shall come to her while
she is in my care. I am ready to shield her, if
necessary, with my life.” ‘

‘Mademoiselle Chateauroy’s orders were not to
let any of my pupils out of my sight; more partic-
ularly Miss Cyrilla Hendrick—most particularly
with gentlemen. Ishall obey mademoiselle’s or-.
ders,” is Miss Jones’ grim and crushing reply.

“It’s of no use, Freddy,” Cyrilla says, in an under
tone; ‘‘we must go back and part. I don’t care for
her,” motioning contemptuously toward Miss Jones,
‘nor for Mademoiselle Chateauroy either; but I do
care for Aunt Phil. To offend her means ruin to me;
and the deadliest offense I can give her is to have
anything to say to you. Let us go back, and for
pity’s sake don’t speak to me again until you say
good-night.” =e

‘But, Beauty, this is absurd,”said Fred, as they
turned to retrace their steps; ‘don’t speak to you
again until Isay good night! What ridiculous non-
sense! I have ten thousand things to say to you,
andI mean to saythem in spite of all the gorgon
aunts and grimjduennas on earth. When and where
will you meet me?’

“TJ will not meet you at all, Freddy. I tell you it
is impossible. Iam watched more closely than any
other girl in the school, and all are watched closely
enough, goodness knows. Miss Jones’ basilisk eyes
are upon me this moment, and Miss Jones will faith-
fully report every word and look to-the powers that
be the moment she returns to the pensionnat.”

“Hang Miss Jones!”

**With all my heart,” says Cyrilla, laughing; ‘‘noth-
ing would give me greater pleasure. At the same
time I can’t afford to have my misdeeds reported to
Aunt Phil, and so, sir, let us shake hands and part.”

“Never! Cyrilla, you must meet me, and at once.
Appoint some place and time, here in the town, and
I will be there, whether it be midnight or midday.”

‘Impossible. Iam never permitted to stir outside
the gates alone.”

“Then, by Jove! we shall meet inside the gates. I
will scale the wall this very night, and you steal
down and meet me in the grounds, Cyrilla, for
Heaven’s sake, don’t say no, as Isee you are going
to! It is three years since we met. Have you for-
gotten all that

“I have forgotten nothing, Fred—nothing,” the
girl answered, almost with emotion; “better tor me,
perhaps, if Thad, Yes, I will meet you—at least I

 

will try. I risk more than you dream of, but I wil
risk it. If you can get over the wall of the pension-

nat to-night, I will try to meet you in the grounds.”

“My darling”’—under Miss Jones’ argus eyes Mr.
Carew takes and squeezes Miss Hendrick’s hand—
“are your windows high? Do you run any risk in
coming down?”

“T ran risk enough, as I told you, but not of that
kind. My room is on the second floor, and there is
a tree close to the window, from whose branches I

over the wall about eleven to-night, and, if it be
possible at all, I will meet you. But mind—only
this once, Freddy; not even you will tempt me todo
it again.” i

“You will write to me, though, Beauty, and allow
me to——” a

“No letter comes into or ance out of the pension-
nat that does not pass under Mademoiselle Chateau-
roy’s scrutiny. No, Fred—there can be no writing
and no meeting except this one. Fate is against us,
as it has been from the first. We were nee iota
farther apart when the Allantic rolled between us
than we Will be here together in Canada.” —__

“That remains to be seen,” Fred ew ans

 
 
  

‘““My own opinion is that fate has not brought

to face in this queer, old, world-forgotten town for
nothing. We shall meet—you and me, ’Rilla, loye—
and go on meeting, please Heaven, to the end of the
chapter.”

They had reached the house. Cyrilla went in at
once, while Mr. Carew lingered and allowed Miss
Jones tojoin him. The yellow half-moon was lifting”
her face over the tree-tops, the air was spicy with
aromatic odors from the pine woods. Through the
open windows came the gay strains of ‘La Claire
Fontaine,” the national air of Lower Canada, played
by Miss Sydney Owenson.

‘““Why should we go in just yet, Miss Jones ?” says
Mr. Carew, in his slow, sleepy voice, with his slow,
sleepy smile, “It isa lovely night, a little coldish,
but I perceive you have a shawl across your arm;
allow me to put it on—you may take cold—and per-
mit me to offer you my arm fora walk.” °

He removes the shawl as he speaks, and adjusts it
as tenderly and solicitously about Miss Jones’ angu-
lar shoulders as though it had been Miss Hendrick
herself; then, still smiling, he offers her his arm.

The temptation is great. Miss Jones is nine-and-
twenty, and not even at nineteen was her head ever
turned by the flattering attentions of fickle man;
and Miss Jones, albeit the milk of human kindness
has been somewhat curdled in her vestal breast by a
long course of refractory pupils, is human, very
human.

“Do come!” says Mr. Carew, sweetly. ‘‘It isreally
a sin to spend such a night in-doors. The young la-
dies? Oh, the young ladies are pertectly safe.
There is no one there but the colonel and Mrs. Dela-
mere. The other fellows said they would come, but
they haven’t, as you may perceive. All the better
for me, Miss Jones,” smiles Mr. Carew, drawing her
hand within his arm, ‘‘since it allows me the pleas-
ure of a tete-c-tele stroll with you.”

A flush, an absolute flush, rises-to Miss Jones’ sal-
low cheeks. Yes, since none of those dangerous
military men had come, there could surely be no
harm in a little walk with Mr. Carew. She coughed
a little congh of assent, and meandered away with
her subtle tempter.

“Oh, Cy, look! do look!” cries Sydney Owenson,
springing from the piano. ‘‘Here’s richness! Miss
Jones and Mr. Carew getting up a flirtation in the
moonlight! She nipped yours in the bud, and now
she leads him off captive herself!”

“Haw, haw, haw! Yes, by Jove!’ booms the
colonel; ‘Carew has trotted off Miss Jones! The
wolf spares the lambs, and makes off with the sheep-
dog! Fred Carew turns his back on four of the pret-
tiest girls in Canada, and begins spooning with the
old maid! What a capital joke for the mess-table to-
morrow!”

**A most capital joke,” says Cyrilla Hendrick; but
her black eyes flashed.as they followed the two re-
treating figures. She knows as well as that she
stands there, that he is doing it for her sake, mar-
tyrizing himself to propitiate the dragon, but in her
heart she loves this elegant, soft-spoken dandy so
passionately well, that the bare sight of him flirting
with even poor, plain Miss Jones, is hateful to her.

The lamps are lit in the drawing-room; song, and
music, and games of all kinds go on. An hour
passes, and the truants have not returned.

“You don’t suppose Carew can have eaten her,
Dorothy, my love ?” says the old colonel, with a dia-
bolical grin, to his wife. ‘‘Begad! it they’re not here
in ten minutes, I shatl consider it my duty to goin
search of them.”

They enter as he speaks—Mr. Carew calm,compla-
cent, listless, but not looking more bored than cus-
tomary—Miss Jones with a flush, either of pleasure

 

— air, still glowing frostily on either pippen
cheek.

“Mr. Carew asked me to explain the process of
converting maple sap into maple sugar,” she ex-
plaius elaborately 10 Mrs. Delamere; ‘so we wan-
dered.down by the grove of maples, and really I had
no ideaan hour had passed.”

“Pray don’t apologize, my dear Miss Jones,” an-
swered Mrs, Delamere, demurely. ‘Il am only too
grateful to Mr, Carew if he has helped to make your
visit agreeable. What! going so soon? Oh, surely
not, Miss Jones !”.

But it is past nine, and Miss Jones, conscious of
having swerved from the stern path of rectitude, is
resolute. So the girls flutter up-stairs after wraps,
still giggling in chorus over Miss Jones’ unexpected
flirtations with one of the officers, Miss Hendrick
does not giggle, she smiles scornfully, and trans-
fixes her teacher with her derisive black eyes—a
glance Miss Jones, for once, does not care to meet.

‘‘Begad, Freddy,” says the colonel, when the la-
dies have left the room, “I expected it would be a
case of love at first sight with you this evening, bnt
I didn’t—no, by gad, [didn’t think it would have
| been with the old maid.”

 

 

THE, NEW Y

 
 

“You see I amwell amused |

£0es
| will he offer his at
jas they think it, w : i
} stood thing, and once again draws

{ Phe dune roses tei

 

“Miss Jones isa most intelligent and well-in-
formed
ably, and with ha
her home.”

ralges eyes, ‘I am going to see
ey flutter ‘back ‘as he says it, and he and the

 
 
   
      

   
   

   

e. Good its are spoken while Mr, Carew

draws @n his ov’ and gloves, looking very ele-
rant fd amiable, and a little vibrating thrill of ex-
ectation goes through the’p girls. Towhom

8 arn to Miss Jones

ith the

 

air of its’
his coat sleeve. it, 3
‘ “En avant, mon colonel,” he says
ow.” ao ‘ fe

The colonel gives one arm to his favorite, S8ydn
the other to Cyrilla, anc
French girls come after

 

   

Jarew and Miss Jones
bring up the rear, sauntering slowly in the piercing
white moonlight, Allthe way, along the deathly si-
lent streets, the colonel cracks his ponderous and ra-
ther stupid jokes. Sydney laughs good-naturedly, but
Cyrilla Hendrick’s darkly-handsome face looks so0m-
ber and silent. They reach the gates—Babette, the
portress, is there awaiting them, Universal hand-
shaking and adieus follow. For one second Cyril-
la’s cold fingers lie.in Fred Carew’s close clasp, for
ong second the blue eyes meet the black ones mean-
ingly.

At eleven,” he whispers; ‘‘don’t fail.”

Then the es gates clang upon them, and Ba-
bette, yawning loudly, goes in before into the gray,
gloomy pensionnal. =

. (TQ BE CONTINUED)
wh EE ee een ee

The Widowed Bride
OR; THE |

MYSTERY or GLENHAMP ON.

By Lucy Randall Comfort.

(“Widowed Bride” was commenced in No, 2. Back numbers
ean be obtained from any News Avent iu the United States. ]

CHAPTER XX,—(Continued.)

Lady Glenha:mpton went to her son’s room that night,
after the drawing-room circle had broken up, and the
guests dispersed—perhups she had something mereto say
to him about Miss Cardilf, the Welsh heiress—and tapped
softly at the door.

“Come iul’’ lie called, recklessly.

She pushed open the door, and entered. The lights
were flaring to and fro iu the dranghts from the open
window—the floor was strewn with the disorderly concom-
itants of packiug, while Captain Evelyn sat in an easy-
chair, pale and haggard, directing the actions of Her-
mann, his servant, who knelt before an open valise.

“Ernest!” she exclaimed, slopping short in her amaze-
ment,

“Tg it you, mother? Sit down—there’s room enough
here somewhere,jI suppose," and he pushed a pile of
books from a cushioned chair.

“But what does this mean, Ernest? You are not going
away!’

“Yes, Lam!’ he answered, moodily.

“Where ??? :

“] don’t know—to Jericho, for all I carel Anywhere
away from this place!’

“But Ernest, Miss Cardiff is coming to-morrow!’

“Let her come; she is nothing to me.”

“Ernest,’? exclaimed Lady Glenhampton, beginning to
be serivusly @larmed, ‘‘what is the matter?”

“Pon’t ask me any questions, mother,’ he answered,
with an impatient backward toss of his hair. ‘I’m tired
of Glenhamptou, and | am going away.”’

“Ig not this a sudden resolution, Ernest?”

“All iny resolutions are sudden, mother, I believe,’’ he
answered, with a-mirthless Jaugh.

“Bat what will our ek 9

“What they please—it is quite indifferent to me.’

“What can Tsay to them? Wiat wiil Miss Cardiff sup-
pose? Ol, Ernest, reconsider this mad freak of yours!’?
she pleaded, putting her hand appealingly upon his sh
der. ies +o fe
“It is no freak, mother, but a settled purpose,

i ake What excuses you please—you ne

t for a subterfuge. I am off by to

I train.’ ey Rit) dale Pes
And all Lady Gienhampton’s entreaties were but as idie
air to prevail on him to tig determination, ; be-

 

 

   
  
 
      
  

   

fore the guests at the castle had assembled round the

next morning's break fast- Captain Evelyn was miles

   
 

away, steaming over the iron track of the Northwestern

railway.
ie ER XXI.
eu
; t mas
Tregarvan Rectory were a sifeet of crimson
sunny air was musical with tle lium of gold-belted bees,
aud the humming-birds darted in and out of the foliage
like animated blossoms, Dy ica

Alice Percival was sitting on the doorstep feeding a
vrood of hungry little ducklings, that swarmed fearlessly
around her feet, with crambs of soaked bread, quite un-
conscious of the pretly picture she made, E

“Come here, you little truant,’’ she said, half-aloud, to
one small downy creature, who persisted in running rouud
the edge of the doorstep after au imaginary, fly which
had Jong since made good its escape. ‘You arelike the rest
of the world, too ready to barter substance for shadow.”’

She took the tiny, struggling thing in her gentle hand
as she spoke, and set it down among its brethren. Litule
Agnes Eskett came out at the same moment, ler face full
of beaming importance.

“Miss Percival,” she said, gleefully, ‘‘we are going to
have company.”’

“Are we??? said Alice.
our Latin verbs more perfect to-day than they were ye
terday 2” :

“ND; but don’t you want to know whoiscoming?” said
the little girl.

‘Well, no, 1 am not particularly curious upon the sub-
ject, Agues.”’

“Jus Captain Evelyn.’?

“Captain Evelyn.’ Alice sat up now, and left the nine
yellow little ducklings to quarrel over the bowl of
soaked bread at their leisure. ‘From Glenhampton Cas-
tle???

“Yes,’? assented Agnes, delighted to have succeeded in
attracting her governess’ attention at last. ‘Papa hada
telegram this morning asking him to send to the station
for the noon train. Wouldu’t you like to ride over in the
car, Miss Percival?”

“No; it would be too warm,’ said Alice, her heart
throbbing, nevertheless, at the idea of news from Rena.
“Has Captain Evelyn ever been here before, Agnes?”

“Ol, yes; he used to be papa’s little pupil years ago,
and he often comes to visit us. He's real nice; he knows
iots of games, aud he taught us croquet the Jast time he
was here. Phebe says she’s gving to be his little wife.”

While Agnes was imparting this morsel of news to her
governess Mrs. Eskett wasinthe study hurrying her
husband on his journey to the station to meet ihe expeci-
ed guest.

When, two hours later, the Rey. Mr. Eskett returned to
Tregarvan rectory, accompanied by Captain Evelyn, Mrs,
fEskett received her husband’s former pupil with the sinil-
ing cordiality that seemed inherent in her nature; the
little girls ran to meet hii, each striving which should be
foremost toreccive his Kiss, and it was not until he en-
tered the shady sitling-room that he saw a slight figure,
sitting, as it were, in & background of roses by the open
window—a figure all in white, with bright brown hair
and eyes of the softest violet gray, but nevertheless so
startlingly like Rena Percival that he stopped abruptly.

“On, I forgot,’’ said Mrs. Eskett, advaucing at the same
moment, ‘you have not been introduced to my friend,
Miss Percival. Alice, this is Captain Evelyn!”

“Miss Percival!’? muttered Eruest, contriving to bow,
although he felt as if he wereinadream. Had he fled
resolutely from the presence of one beautiful enct:antress,
only to meet her double in the wild solitudes of the Welsh
hills? A bewildered sensation stole over his brain—the
room swam around him for an instant, while Alice Perci-
val’s lovely face seemed to look at him from misty clouds!
Aud then litle Emily Eskett ran up to him with one of the
downy ducklings in her hand to call his attention to its
marvelous developments of web feet; the fair apparition
glided away, and the Charm was momentarily dispelled.

“Miss Percival,’ he repeated, turning to Mrs. Esketi.
“My sister has a friend staying with her, at the castle, of
that name—they are relatives, I presume,”?

“They are sisters,’ said Mrs, Eskett. “Did your sis-
ter’s friend never tell you that Alice was our governess
here?) :

‘‘Never!’?

“That ig strange, too,? said the rector’s wife. “But
she is a very lovely girl, and we are delighted with her.”

“Tlow long has she been with you?’? asked Captain
Evelyn. ,

“Nearly @ year.’’

Captain Ernest Evelyn had no opportunity to see much
more of Rena’s sister until late in the aiternoon, when she
came out with a basket of roses in her hand, her beautiful
face shaded With a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“They are. Wonderfully alike,’ he thought, as he
watched her light figure move down the garden walk with
a sort of swaying grace. ‘‘ButfRena is a lovely landscape
seen in the glow of sunshine, and this girl is like the same
thing by moonlight! Yet there is a marvellous simi-
larity.”?

As the thoughts passed through his mind, he rose and
advanced courteously toward the girl.

“Let me carry the basket, Miss Percival.’?

“] am only going a little way,’ said Alice, shrinking
and coloring, fur her secluded life at Tregarvan Rectory
had unused her to society.

“But it is too heavy for you to carry even a littie way,”
he rejoined, laughingly. ‘Even roses have weight, and
Isnould judge by the avoirdupois of the basket there is
something more substantial beneath.”

“You are right,” said Alice, laughing, as the pleasant
nonchalance of his manner restored her own ease; “itis
a basket of good things which Mrs, Eskett wishes carried
to old Paul Powis, whois ill with the rheumatism, and
lives just beyond the hill.’

“Do you know, Miss Percival,’’ said Ernest, as he
walked along, “that you are wonderfully lke your
sister!’?

Alice looked up, with a bright smile and a blush.

 

young hae answers Mr. Carew, impertur-

being an under-}
her hand within}
; “We will fol.

ey,
way. The two}

“But are we going to have]

“T was wishing toask you about Rena,” she said. ‘It
is several weeks since | received a letter from her. Isshe
well?’

“Quite well, I believe.”

“And happy ??

“How can any one fail t
universal homage as she
hidden accent
hend, v
Gienhampion Castle as if she were a crowned
Happyt Of course she ishappy!” ~ ¥
“She deserves it,’ said Alice enthusiastically. ey
Bef - not doubt that in the least,” Captain velyn an-
swered, — , 3 ;
“Does she ever speak of inc?” asked Alice, her loying
heart still yearning for some definite, circumstantial news
of Rena, *

“She has told me that she had 4 sister who was ‘Ov-
erness, she never told me that it was at Tregarvan

Rectory.” icin
CHAPTER XXII.
MISS GLIVE’S ROOM,

Miss Georgine Cardiff, the famous heiress, had just
sSauntered into the breakiust-room at Glenhampton Qasile.
She was a large, fair girl, with languid blue eyes, golden
hair, and features too full for beauty. But people told
Georgine she was handsome, and she had somehow fallen
into a habit of believing what people told her. She was
good-natured, after her dull, undemonstrative way, and
one of her most active fancies of late was au enthusiastic
devotion to Rena Percival.

“You are 80 pretly, you see!’? said the heiress. “And
I do so like to look at you. Ina different style from me,
of course—people can’t all be alike—but I somehow think
we seem. to set each other off.’’

he was delighted to see Rena in the breakfast.room as
she entered.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you, darling?’’ she
cried, gleefully. “I always Jike some one to lk to me
when ] eat my breakfast. Who is that riding up to the
door—I can hear the sound of horses’ feet on the gravel?
Perhaps it is Captain Evelyn come back!”

Georgine’s face grew radiant at the rather improbable
idea, for she had been sorely disappointed at the unae-
countable defection of her promised cavalier, but a card
brought to her presently dispelled the i!iusion.

“Tne Marguis of Balfour,’’ she read, and underneath
Were the penciled words, “By leave to deliver a message
to Miss Cardiff, from Mrs. Vyvyan, of the Court.”

“Ask him to come up here,’’ said Georgine, compla-
cently. ‘How do I look, Rena? Is my Sash straight
behind? Oh, do lend me that delicious Jitue blue bow
of yours for my hair, there’s a love! Lord Balfour was
exceedingly polite to me when I was staying with dear
Kate Vyvyan, and I sometimes fancy—it’s a ridiculous
idea, isn’t it, Rena?—that he admires me particularly.
But where are you going, dear???

Georgina stared with wide-open, pale blue eyes at
Miss Percival as she moved toward the door,

“To my own room, Georgine. Lord Balfour’s cali is
not intended for me.’?

“But——’) :

Rena stayed to hear no more, and not until she was
safe in the corridors did she pause to ask herself why
she had fled thus precipitately from the presence of the
min she most respected and esteemed in all tlhe world.
Her heart throbbed convulsively, the color glowed on
her cheek, and even the distant sound of a servant’s
footstep on the stairs made her start.

“TI must see him no more,’ Rena thought. “If he
does not care for me all associations that tend to feed
this inward fever al my heart must be broken off; if he
does—then there will be all the more reason that we
should henceforward be as strangers to each other!’

She stood leaning over the carved balustrade, when a
door close to her opened, and Miss Clive’s tall, dark
solid figure glided out. She started with a slight cry.

“You need not be afraid, Rena Percival,’ said Miss
Clive, with a bitter smile. “I am neither ghost nor
Witch, although I believe some of the people iu Glen-
hampton take me for both the one and the other.”

“T was not afraid,’ Rena answered, “but I never
knew there were any doors beliind those folds of tapes-
iry.

“You are not initiated in all the mysteries of the
castle yet,” Miss Clive rejoined. ‘In all the months you
have sojourned-at Gienhampton, you have never seen
my room.”? ,

“No,’? Miss Percival wered, doubtfully.

“Would you like to see it?”

“If you choose to show it t6 me.” :
Ciive lifted a heavy of tapestry, and opened

” she sald, briefiy, and, with a vivid sensation
: Rena Percival followed her iuto the apart-
ept so secret from the rest of the world.

uddered as she looked round, and well she might,

   

9 appy who receives sach
as she? asked Oaptain Evelyn, with a
 Diltern ‘that Alice failed to compre-

 

i”

  
 

 

   

 

  

for the hangings and draperies of the room were of black
serge, the carpet of black, and the furniture of ebony
wood upholstered in black velvet.

 

“Does it seem gloomy to you?” Miss Ciive asked, watch-
iug Rena’s face with keen, glittering eyes.
“lt seems like a tomb!” the girl answered, involun-

re rs ’ * ¥
“Jt ig a tomb,’ Miss Clive said, in low, tmpressive
tones; ‘‘the tomb of my buried heart and hope. Oh, Rena

of} Percival, you are young as yet, butif you had lived ten

long years of despair, as I have done, you would learn to
wonder what God’s sunshine means, and why. His ven-
geanuce does not come down upon the blood-stained head
of the guilty murderer!’

~ “Do you mean——"”

“i mean but one thing,’? the strange, pale woman in-
terrupted sharply. ‘‘My life has but one signification. I
refer to the murderer of Arthur Hunsworth. Sit down
here, Rena Percival.” :

She drew forward one of the black walnut chairs, and
Rena seated herself, wondering what was coming next,
and half regretting that she had allowed herself to be con-
ductea into this casket of funereal gloom. :

“You Know the story of my bereavement,’? she began,
briefly, as she stood before her guest. ‘‘You have been
told how, upon the very day previous to that appointed
for my wedding, I came suddenly upon the corpse of my
murdered joyer! ltisno secret at Glenhamptou—every-

body must have heard of it!”

“T know it,’? Rena answered. “Blanche Arden has told
it all to me.””

“That is the beginning of the story,’ said Miss Clive,
“The end is yet to come.”

“The end 7’? repeated Rena, questioningly.

“The end comes only upon the day in which I shall
drink the cup of vengeance to the dregs,” said Antonia,
with slow, frightful emphasis. ‘See here.’

With a Key which she drew from her bosom, she unlock-
ed a drawerinu her ebony-wood escritoire, and took out a
small dagger, with red, rusty stains upon its tarnished
blade, and a handle of antique yellow ivory curiously
carved in imitation of aturning serpent, with eyes of em-
erald, While the body of the serpent was covered with fine
hierogiyphic chasings in black, save where the influence
of time had worn them away into comparative smooth
ness.

“What are those stains?’ Rena asked, as she looked
shudderingly at the deadly instrument.

“Blood!) Miss Clive answered in a whisper; “ihe blood
of Arthur Huusworth!’

*How do you Know?’ cried Rena, recoiling as if the
gore were still fresh aud warm upon tie blade,

‘How dol Know that there is a Heaven above us—a
place of departed spirits beyond? I know it, and that is
enough. Moreover, I wili tell you more,’ and again she
lowered her voice to a whisper. “I found this dagger,
days after they had laid him in his bloody grave—found it
deep down in the tangled roots and fern, where I had
searched before with no result. But I was never dis-
couraged. I knew thatifI persevered he would give me
some sign, some token from the silence of the grave.
Every inci of that ground was. gone over again and agaiu
by those whose business it was to probe the mystery to
the bottom. Why wasitleft for me to find this thing by
which the deed was done, when all hope was given over ?
[ tell you the hand of fate was in it!”

She pressed the blade to her Jips ere she Jaid it back in
the drawer.

“You wonder to see me do that,” she said, reading the
unconcealable expression of Rena’s fuce. *‘But you would
notif you knew allit hasbeen tome. lt spoke to me out
of the gloom of mystery—it will yet point out to me the
clear path to vengeance! No one knows of iis existence
Save you and me!”

“But,’? asked Rena, “why do you not consult others?’

“I have consulted others—I consulted them when Ar-
thur Hunsworth’s dead body lay in this house, and twelve
geutiemen of the land in council assenibied, as a Coroner's
inquest, proved to me the utter folly and impotence of
human skill and reason. Do you suppose I will trust my
chances to them again? Never! i don’t know why]
have showed it to you—perhaps because the necessily of
some voice or look of syimpatiy was strong in my soul, I
have acted from an impulse which Icannot explain to
myself. Nor do TI regret it,’? she added, dreamily. |

“Still,? said Rena, following up the chain of thought
that was in her mind, ‘the dagger is but one link in the
evidence!”

“The rest will surely be forthcoming,” said Miss Clive,
with a sort of blind reliance that seemed Jike instinct. “1
am only waiting! The day willcome and the hourin
which my hand shall deal the vengeance which has been
so long in ripening. The world is a world of mysieries,
but the clew to them all willcomein time. Else, why am
i suffered to live on when heart and life, and secret hope
have been dead 80 long?”

She stood there like a Sibyl of old, and Rena Percival
felt a sensation of awe creep slowly through her veins as
siie sat watching her and listening to her slowly spoken
words. Her umshaken faith was contagious in ws in-
fluence. Rena, too, felt herself drawn iuto the current—
She believed, also, that Antonia Clive was not biding her
time in vain. Miss Clive saw the effect her words had
produced and smiled triumphantly. :

‘Miss Percival,’’ said she, ‘I have been studying you
all these months, although you have not known ii. I
think that those who, like me, live secluded from the
world, become adepts in the book of human nature, and
judge by many trifles, to which others wouid scarcely
pause to give a thought, Ihave read your character, and
[like you. Itis not so with Edith Glenhampton.”’

sa said Rena, smiling contemptuously, “she hates
me

“Ahl you have found it out for yourself, then,” said
Miss Clive. ‘Come, I wilknot keep you any longer in this
temple of death.’

“Gienhampton Castle is full of strange, hidden nooks,”
said Rena, as she preceded Miss Ciive outinio the hall.
“*) think its every corner is familiar to me, and then, all of
& sudden, I come across some new mystery. I have never
aaa rooins in Lhe upper part of the Haunted Tower

e

 

 

   

“My sister Blanche Worsiips her; she cen at

 

 

ance of interest lighting up her dull, corpse-like face,
“They are worth seeing. Iremember 28 much as that in
the old times, although Ihave pever been in them since
he died, Some day we will go there together.”

“But Lady Glen always pa the keys in her
own possession,’ Ba)

“We will get them
thing to me,”?

 

    
  
  
   

ng & oad

never refuses any-

   
  
 
    

rany reserve or seclu-
erpose a barrier be-
‘idently increasing ad-
ut premises, Love
nis’s life; nor had he
biasted in the bud

 
  

George Wargran, the quis of Balfour, was one whose
existence had beeu comparatively valueless to him up to
the present time, It was true that he possessed weaith
and rank, Jt was also true that he bore one of the oldest
names in the kingdom, and was heir-apparent to the
noble dukedom of Sf. Burgoyne, with its estates, resi-
dences and hereditary privilegeae bat nese, to a person of
his peculiar temperament, were not sufficient in them-
selves. His lifes a boy and a youth had not been over
pleasant; for, although his mother was one of Nature's
nobiewomen, and one Whom he could love and respect
with all the force of his enthusiastic nature, his other pa-
rent had fallen far short in his estimation of a man’s true
position, The present Duke of St. Burgoyne wag a petty
tyrant—a man of violent passions, jealous suspicion, and
repulsive Inanners. He had hated his son because Lord
Balfour was frank, true and noble—in every respect a
contrast to himself. He disliked his wife because he
never was able to comprehend the loftiness of her nature
as compared to his own; and it was a relief to both the
dachess and her son when Lord St. Burgoyne decided to
accept. a high aiptomatic position at the court of Vienna,
and Jeft England, asit happened, forever. And it was
with the wretchedness of his own patrician home in his
memory that Lord Balfour resolved never to marry, but
to devoie himself entirely for the. rest of their natural
lives to his mother.

Notwithstanding his resolution, he was forced, at last,
to acknowledge to himself that his heart was eaplivated
by the liquid brown eyes, rose-leaf cheeks and bird-like
voice of a girl who had neither descent nor fortune; whe
had set eliquetie, propriety, and truth itself equally at de-
flance, and who occupied a position not even so weil de-
fined as tag of companion to the Lady Blanche Arden,

“Balfour!? said the Duchess of Si. Burgoyne, solemnly,
when her son, who had neyer been able to keep a secret
from her since lie was a years old, frankly confessed to
her the new ideas which had taken possession of his
mina, “I believe you are crazy!”

“You cannot believe it any more sincerely than I do,
mamma,’ owned up the marquis, with a comical uplift-
ing 2 ge eyebrows; ‘but it is a very pleasant sort of tn-
sanity

“Do you really love that girl well enough to make her
your wife?’

‘Yes,’? he ansyrered, gravely, ‘‘I do,”

“Why, then,’? said the duchess, “there’s but one thing
for you Lo do in the matter.”

“To go to Florence, or St. Petersburgh, or the shores of
the Nile, I suppose you will say?” asked Balfour.

“No; to marry her!’

“That is just what I have made up my mind to do,” ob-
served Lord Balfour; “that is, if she will honor me go far
as to accept my offer.”

“She will do that fast enough,” said the duchess, with
that blind confidence in the superior attractions of her
son, as far as those of the opposite sex were concerned,
which we often see in mothers. And, really, in this par-
ticular case, she had some reason for believing in her sor.

“Tam not so sure of that,’ observed the marquis; ‘‘but
if I should be sufficiently fortunate to win her consené,
you will give her a welcome to Balfour’s House?”

“Ot course I willl’? answered the duchess, with hearty
cordiality. ‘The woman who is worthy to be my son’s
wife, is worthy of a place in my heart, also.’?

“You are the dearest old mamma in the world,’ said
Lord Balfour, with a Warm caress.

And thus strengthened in the cause in which he was
already so determined, Lord Balfour set out for Glenhamp-
ton Castle, resolved to strike at least one doughty blow
for the guerdon of Rena Percival’s love. -

The servant whom Lord Balfour metin the hall directed
him atonoe to Miss Percival, Wino was arranging some
flowers in the west drawing-room.

At the unexpecied sound of a man’s footstepon the
threshold, she glanced up and colored deeply as abe ree-
ognized the Marguis of Balfour,

“*} will call Lady Gienhaimpton direcily,”’ she said, drop-
ping a bunch of wax-white orange-bi

ossoms as she re-
durned his greeting. ‘I believe she is in the conserva-
tory.

 
  

Za

Lora Balfour, composedly.

“Lady Blanche is playing croquet~she——"’

“T know it—I saw her asi came in,” answered Lord
Balfour. “It is you that I called to see this morning, Misa
Percival. Will you allow me to bring you a chair?”

Rena perceived but too plainly that there was no outlet

chair Lord Balfonr placed for her with a sort of resigned
desperation, and began nervously io twist the slew of &
hali-blown rosebud between her fingers.

“You seé I am determined not to be evaded any longer,
Miss Percival,” said the young man, calmly; ‘or is it all
my Own imagination, that you have systematically aveid-
ed me of late ??

“It is not your imagination,” said Rena, in @ low tone.

ne may 1 ask if my presence is 80 disagreeable to
you?

“itis mot that.’

“Do you really wish to escape my companionship ?”? he
asked, looking as intently at her as if her fair face were
an enigma which he was determined to read.

“Ves,”

The answer came in a low tone, batit was firmiy
spoken.

“Yet yon assert that it is from no personal dislike or an-
tipathy. Miss Percival, I cannot understand you.’

Rena was silent, but the carmine blood still glowed be-
neath her transparent skin, and he could see that the rose-
bud in her hand trembled as if a south wind had stirred
its creamy petals,

“The truth is,” he said, after a moment's silence, “I am
resolved tocut this Gordian knot of perplexity. Itisa
matter of vital Momeuttv me. Rena, will you think me
presumptuous if I teil you hos necessary you have be-
come 10the happiness of my life?—if I ask you to give
ihe} die its crowning grace aud charm by becoming my
wife

The carmine went and came on Reba’s cheek, and her
eyes glowed wilh a troubled light. .

“Oh, Lord Balfour!’ she said, in broken accents, as he
paused, evidently awaiting herreply, “I have not. de-
served this honor at your hands,”

‘Dear Rena, you deserve & Woman’s nobiest and highest
place}? he answered, his voice thrilling with the earnest-
ness Of his soul. “I know not how or where I have grown
to love you so deeply and passionately, but of this lam
quite certain—the strongest instincts of my whole nature
have gone out toward you, You will be my wife, Rena?’

“No, Lord Balfour.”’

He looked at her in sort of shocked surprise. Evident-
ly this answer was the oue that he had Jeast expected.

“Rena, you do not meanit. You are speaking now
from some momentary pique, s0me impulse which is
leading you falsely. Iwill accept nosuch answer. My
beenany wild rose, my queen, you wil give yourself to
mel’

“Never!”

There was bo mistaking the emphasis of her tone this
time, and to give it additional weight sie lifted her eyes
and fixed them full upon his face. ;

“Have I then allowed myself to be su misied ?” he ex-
claimed, involuntarily clenching his right hand until the
nails cut into the palm like 80 many points of steel.
‘Well, so lesit be. Conceit and mad folly will, sooner or
later, Hud their own Jevel, and I have found mine.”

“T cannot allow you to judge yourself thus harslily,
Lord Balfour,’? said Rena, rousiug herself inte anima-
ion.

“Upon what other ground can J account for the strange
delusion under which I have Jabored ?” he asked, bitterly.
“How, otherwise, could Thave been insane enough to
fancy that you loved me?”?

“IE was no fancy,’ Rena answered, her eyes fixed on
the flower she held, ,

His face grew strangely bright.

“Rena, my heart’s darling, you Go love me, then f”’

“Yes,’? she replied, in strange, hard accents which con-
trasted singularly with the thrilling tenderness of his;
‘Dut I never can marry you?”

“Why novi?

“] had rather you would not press me for reasons, Lord
Balfour.’

“But, Rena, after what you haye already confided to
ine it becomes my right tognestion you further, You
love me, yet you Will not marryme. Whatstrange riddle
is this?” r

“It is because 1 love you that I will not wwarry youl’ she
cried, vehemently. “Oh, Lord Balfour, do you think it
has cost me nothing to decide upon this?) Do you sappose
I am sacrificing my life and my life’a happiness upon the
altar of a mere idle whim??

He looked at her earnestly, i

“Your language grows mors and more inexplicable to
me,’ he said.

“You are almost tempted to think me mad!’ she cried,
springing to her feet and throwing the curis back from
her forehead with ashort laugh. ‘But | am not mad,
Lord Balfeur—any jury of piiysicians could tell you that,
unless peopie goimad with the dull, aching pain at their
hearts,

at rose, and advancing toward her, took both her hands
in his. .

eee you shall tell me why you will not become my
Wwite

“Because you are the Marquis of Buaifour, descended
from a long lune of unsullied ancestry, and I am only poor
littie Rena Percival, with scarcely the heritage of a name,
do you think I will drag you down with me?’

“But, Rena, my jewel, my priceless pearl among wo-
men,’? he muriiured, tenderly, ‘‘l love you, and love
knows no outward ranks nor distinctions.’

“And because you are generous enough to forget the
wide guif of caste that separaies us, do you think I can
be 80 base as to let you throw yourself away on me! Ne,
Lord Balfour, lam not ashamed to own that! do love
you as truly as ever will the high-born woman who is one
cay destined to be the Marchioness of Balfour, bul I never
shall be to you any more than lam new.”

He gazed into ber cheery, sparkling eyes with new ad-
mirathou—it seemed as if he were

 

“Have you not?’ asked Miss Clive, with some appeare

more of the bidden beauly of her soul.

“But I did notcome to see Lady Glennampton,” said

of escape forher this time, Sie) sat down in the light |

earning more and

 

=

   

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

mh
a

 

\ane,

 

 

    

 

 

ay

 

“No woman but yourseif, Rena Percival,’’ lie said»
“shallever be the Marchioness of Balfour, You have.
owned that you love me—What remains for you but to be-
come my wile?"’

* “The poor glow-worm loves the star—the feeble torch
may love the glory of the mid-day sun, but there the pa-
rallel ceases,’? she answered, with a melaucholy smile.
“] did not think ever to have spoken, to mortal ears the
words that have this day pas my lips, but once spekep
they must be forgotten forever, Let me pass, Lord Bal-
four; our interview is over!”

«Renal? lie said, although chivalrously obedient to the
wrords of her behest, he had abandoned bis clasp of her
fce-cold hands, “could you leave me tliusf"’

“One. day you will thank me_ for it,’ she answered,
pausing at the sound of his voice, althougl her touch was
already on the handle of the door.

*“‘Hear me but an instant louger,’? he pleaded, in ac-
cents to which she could net refuse to listen. ‘‘Let us for-
get the pitifal distinctions of birth to which you have
alluded—let us remember only that our two hearts were
created to thrill responsive, each to the other's throbs!
Rena, my love, my darling, to be your husband will be a
greater honor in my eyes that if you were a crowned queen
or the daughter of a line of emperors! My mother is pre-
pared to welcome you asa dear and cherished child of
her own—my own life will be desolate and drear without
youl Once more, Rena, I beg you to seal my fate, anid
tell me that you will be mine?’ ;

“I cannot be your. wife!’’ she uttered, in a low tremb-
ling voice.

“ae this decision entirely irrevocable ?’

“Tt ist

And while he stood there, in the fixed intensity of de-
spair, she vanished from his sigiit.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
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y A new book of 256 pages, showy-
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12-26.

 

 

 

 

oston, Mass,  -26-6eow

 

 

 

 

 

$34 a week or

ASE WANTED.—Men or women,
Write at once to

$100 forfeited, Yonge Saniples free.

 

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ONLY $10 MONTHLY,

A GRAND OPPORTUNITY FOR

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Now being Expended at the

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GARDEN CITY PARK
Those who Desire io Speculaie,

AND TO THOSE

WHO DESIRE CHEAP HOMES,

AT THE VERY

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FOR BACH LOT PUR: HASED.

 

 

We donot deem it necessary to enter into a history of Mr.
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sively commented upon it. We assume that with his acknowl-
edged business tact, sagacity and capital, he has projected a
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first prices. Land near his improvements has increased several
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be benefitted by that immense outlay, it is the industrious and
prudent, who manage to save something of their small income.
We have placed the prices of our Garden City Park upon a basis
of fair value for to-day, and we propose to receive $10 pcr month
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As Mr. Stewart’s operations progress this property will be large-
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home at asmall cost,

 

GUIDE TO PURCHASERS.

Be at Store 355 Third Avenue al 9.30 A. M., to go with our Sales-
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Maps containing full intormation mailed on receipt of stamp for
postage. Persons residing out of this city can select from our Map
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and we will forward a contract for the lot selected. Addr

BENJ. W. HITCHCOCK,
STORE, 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YO}

N. B.—Those who preferto pay in full at once will be allowed
10 Pry discount, and receive warranty deeds immediately.
we

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WANTE AGENTS for the best selling

 

 

 

 

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or Moth Patches,

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argest Stationery Package in the World mailed for
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All sizes. Price Lists low to

 

 

AN ADVENTURER.

A young English nobleman, whose name the London
papers are very careful to suppress, is the theme of a ro-
mantic but truth(al story, with which the press of the
great metropolis has been lately amusing the public. It
appears, that this sciou of one of the proud families ac-
knowledging Victoria as queen, for some time after quit-
ting college, led so fast a life as to be the disgrace of his
family and friends. He fell into exceedingly dissipated
habits, ang with the love of liqror once implanted in his
appetite, he went on from bad to worse, until he was
guilty of some breaches of propriety, and law which sub-
jected him to universal censure. So he fled from Eng-
land, and sailed about the world until he flually reached
Australia, in great destitution,

Here le took service as a shepherd, and for several
years kept sheep for a large farmer, earning a coarse
livelihood, and saving cash enough for an occasional spree
in the city. One day, while rolling up some food in an
English paper to take to the fleld with him, his eye was
caught by an advertisement, stating that his father had
died, and that the title and property had fallen to himself,
also offering a2 reward of £200 for his discovery, , Here
was news—ualmust incredible, but nevertheless it was
true. He dared not returf to England and face those
whom he had so wronged, nor encounter the law which
he had so outraged, but by cunning management he abso-
lutely succeeded in getting the money which was offered
for the discovery of himself!

This shepherd-lord then instituted a series of orgies
until he had drank up, gambled away, and expended upon
vile characters the £200, wheu he once more returned to
his farm duties to recuperate both health and purse, He
is represented to be a hupeless reprobate, and refuses
utterly to leave Australia upon any consideration, prefer-
ing the companionship of the vile and reckless characters

who center there. He draws very regularly upon the
family bunker in London, who pays over the quarterly in-
come of the estate, and the shepherd-lord as regularly
squanders itin a few days or weeks, again to return to

 

 

lis flocks’ upon the farm. What a life for an educated,

 

 

aud nobly born young man to lead!

 

os

BY DAs A HOE

She clang to him with, woman’s love,
Like ivy to the oak;

While on his head with crushing force
Barth's chilling tempest broke,

And when the world looked cold on him,
And blight hung on his name,

She soot).e] his cares with woman's love, |
And bad» him rise again, os ; J

When care had furrowed o’er his brow,
And clouded his young hours,

She wove amidst bis crown of thorns
A wreath of love’s own flowers,

nd never did that wreath decay,

Or one bright floweret wither;

or woman's tears e’er nourished them,
That they wight bloom forever.

Tis ever thus with womans love,
True till life’s streams have passed ¢
And like the vine around the’tree,
It braves them till the last.
pe RO

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing; to
ward making thiscolamn an attractive feature of the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, and they wiil oblige us by sending for publication any-
thing which may be deemed of sutlicient interest for general pe-
rusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in
scholarlystyle; so long as they are pithy, and likely toatford
aimusement, minor defects will be remedied.

Humorous Essays on Animated Nature.
GENUS PROCELLARIA.—The Weathereock.

The Weathercock, though he does not, strictly speak-
ing, form a part of animated nature, is nevertheless a
metal-some bird, and too spry in his movements to be
considered entirely inanimate. The Dons of Natural
Science, fur some reason best known to themselves, have
negiected to classify him, so 1 have assigned him a place
among the Procellaria—a genus of which the Stormy
Petrei, or Mother Cary’s Chicken, is the most notable va-
riety. Ihave done so because, like that restless marine
fowl, he is always as busy as thedevil—ina gale of wind.

There are material points of difference between the
Weaithercock and all other birds, All other birds are 07-
peds. The Weathercock is a uniped. He stands upon
one leg, not like the Crane, the Figurante, and the Fla-
mingo, out of choice, but because it is his only one.
There is another unique characteristic of the species
which must not be overlooked. All the individuals are
of one gender, There are no Weather-hens, Hence tis
Nondescript in Natural! History has no nest, lays no eggs,
never ineubates. Yet it does not die out, but on the con-
trary multiplies; not 80 fast, perhaps, as the barn-door
fowl, but fast enough for practical purposes,

“Birds of a feather flock together,”’ il issaid, but, as arule,
the subject of this essay is not gregarious. In cities he may
sometimes be seen in groups—like the Stork in Hoiland;
but when met will: beyond the bricks, he Is geuerally as
lonely as a Sparrow on the housetop. Percheu, as he fre-
quently is, on the ridge-pole of a barn or other farm
building, one might suppose that the billing and cooing
of the pigeons, and the love songs ef the robins and the
bobolinks, would make him ‘‘feel jike a bird,” and dis-
pose him to conjugate. But, no; he ts of au tron nature,
and deaf to the voice of love. 1n every sense of the phrase,
he stands atone.

Like our Fourth-of-July Eagle, the Weashercock is a
revolutionary fowl, and the way it sometimes ‘swings
round the eircie” is a caution to political Merry-Andrews.
I have studied its habits and movements pretty closely, a!
all seasons, and for many years, and have come to the
conclusion that it is a vane bird, quiet enough when its
surroundings are quiet, but apt to be restless and vacil-
lating when there is ‘trouble in the air.” Hence we
say of the man who never sticks to one point, that he is
as changeable as a Weathercock. The bird is useful in
its way—as a Warning—but woe tohim who adopts it as a
model. Gov. &:

Aunt Turner.

I like toreturn home and find Aunt Turner in the house.
After asking after her health inquire if she has heard
about the latest coal-mine horror.

“My stars! nol’ she exclaims, raising her spectacles
and showing sympathy in every line of her face.

“Fifty-six men buried alive!’ I continue, in 2 sad tone.

“J knew that sunthin’ was going to happen,’’ she re-
plies, leaning back; “I heard a hen trying to crow yester-
day, and I said to myseli right away that some awful thing
was going to transpire. Dearme! How iy heart bleeds
for the widows and orphans of those poor miners!”

After she has had time to recover a little from the
siiock T erg

“Queen Victoria’s death was very sudden, wasn’t it?’

«Queen Victoria dead!’ she exclaims, letting her kuit-
ting fall to the floor. ‘Well, what lid I say to Henry only
yesterday morning when a bird flew into the house?
Says 1 to him: ‘Henry, we're going to hear of a death!’

but I didn’t thing it Wouit come so soon. Poor Victoriat

I wolider if she was prepared? Like enough she hada
quilt on the frames, same’s poor Mrs, Taylor, or had a lot
of carpet-rags in the dye, same’s Mrs, Stevens. You didn’t
hear, did you, whether they had any trouble getting
neighbors to come in and set up with the corpse???

After she gets quieted down | inquire: ;

“Turner is over fifty, ism’t he ?? E

“Yes—going on fifty-five.”

» “Weil, he won’t have to go to war then!”

“War! Is there going to be another war?’

‘Looks like it.’ .

“Well, that explains what those cur'us streaks in the
heavens the other night meant, I saw stars moving
around, streaks of blue flame crossing the face of the
moon, and I clearly made out soldiers marchirg along.
Says I to Henry: ‘Henry, there’s goin’ to be awful doings
soon!’ I didn’t know whether it was war or wiat, but |
was certain that it was sunthin’ awful.”

Waiting a little while Il remark:

“Did you see anything in the paper yesterday about the
death of Robinson Crusoe?” |

“Goodness, no! Is he dead?’

“Fell into a tank of hot lard, and was cooked alive.’”

“Jt makes mefaint to think of it!” she says, as she
hunts around for her snuff-box. “I pity his wife and enil-
dren, and, if he belonged to the Odd Fellows, I hope the
order’ll raise a subscription paper and do the fair thing.
Did he giveayell when he fell into tauk, or did
he say anything when they pulled him out:”

“Yes; he whispered a few words when they pulled him
out. Hewas dying, but he managed to say: ‘Don't let
that old snuff-taker, Mrs. Turner, come to my funerai!’
He tried to say something more, but gasped and died.”

*Well, Mr. Christopher Columbus needn’t bother him-
self about my coming to his funerali’ snaps the old lady.
“The Turners are every inch as good as the Columbuses,
and ean carry their heads just as high!”

She talks with my wife awhile, and then I look up from
the paper and remark:

“It was careless in meto forget that disinfectant again
to-day. With the cholera almost at our doors, we can’t
get ready too soon.”’

“Cholera! Is the cholera coming around here?” she
exclaims. ,

“Didu’t Turner read yon the account of its ravages in
Cincinnati, where thirty thousand people were swept
away in one week?”

“Sakes, no! He’s had the earache for a week, and prob-
ably forgot it. So we've got to have a choiera seige, eli?
Weil, I’ve feit it. in the air for these four weeks; and only
the other. night I said to Henry: ‘Henry, there seems to
be sumthin’ wrong withthe air.? Weill, lve heard that
onions would keep the cholara away, aud I’m going home
and put one in my pocket, Thirty thousand folks died in
one week! Dear me, what a chance there was for the
living to go to funerais!? M. QuaD.

Scientific Advertising.

Mr. Sooner attributes all his business success to his lib-
eralily in advertising, and his advice is: “‘Avail yourself
of every opportunity to publish your business.”’? He had
six lively agents constantly employed in perambulating
the streets with an arm-load of his notices and @ paste-
pot, watching for opportunities to turn up. Ifa crowd
collected in the street, one of these ever alert agents
would be on hand to distribute slips... If an execution
was to be performed, one of these irrepressibles was on
hand to paper the scaffold and adjacent walls.

Atfunerals, Mr. Sooner would have an agent by to
thrust tracts, headed ‘Molasses down to 13 cents” into the
mourning carriages. At country fairs these handbills
would be clandestinely clapped on the backs of old pea-
nut women, vending their wares at the corners, At
country taverns the hats: of the guests would be. lined
with posters while the owners were alidinner.

In pubiic places and spots of resort inthe vicinity,
these advertisements might be seen ar every turn. A ro-
mantic pair, gazing dreamily into “The Suicide’s Weil”
would be startled to observe just above them on the pic-
turesque rocks, the announcement that “Mr. Sooner’s
dried apples were warranted not to swell in water.’? Or,
wandering through the delightful “Emerald Aisle,’? one
night be shocked in reading on a tree “Prime sausages
and scrapple always on hand at Sooner's.’’

On the very pinnacle of ‘“‘Chimmey Rocks’? Mr. Sooners
enterprize had caused to be placed the inscription: “Go
to Sooner’s for sap-sago.’? Directly over the “Mammoth
Cascade” appeared “The biggest squashes at Sooner’s.”’

One day a man fell from a scaffolding and broke his
head, A shutter had scarcely been rigged up to remove
the injured man before it was ornamented with Mr. Soon-
e1's notices. ,

A menagerie came to town, rand the elephant majesii-
cally strode along bearing an immense placard on eaci
rib. If aman was unfortunate enough to become: intoxt-
cated, one of Mr, Sooner’s men was on hand to cover hin
with bills.

In this way Mr. Sooner’s business grew up, and with u
his advertisements increased. The agents: became more
efficient aud more experienced in gelling up novelties,

Mr. Sooner’s mother died in the course of time, and as
the hearse bore the remains solemnly to tlie grave, one of
the ever-watchful agents bounced out and plastered one
of Mr. Sooner’s bills on the coffin, announcing “The
Cheapest groceries and summer provisions at Souner’s,”?

If a blind man would be standing» bare-headed in the
street, piteously exhibiting a placard, ‘Help the B.ind.”?
it was immediately made. to serve the purpose of Mr
Sooner by having one of +his notices pastedoverit. A
one-armed blind boy playing anorgan on the corner Col-

  
 

 

 

spicuously presented to eT ee a card bearing the |
touching information that ‘-Mr. Sooner desired the patron-
age of the public.”> An old woman who sat on the ledge
of Centre Square was dolefully drawing linked music
from an nccordeon ornamented with Mr. Sooner’s busi-
ness prospecis, In fine, Mr. Sooner was an enterprising
man, and he Jost no opportunity in announcing to his
friends and the public. generally that the secret of his
prosperity was iu advertising freely. Jim J. Jams,
The Silver Quarter.

The following incident goes to show that the most posi-
tive men are liable to doubt. I wasin Turneryilie, N. J.,
and stepped into the bar-room of mine inn to procure a
cigar. A happy thought struck me, as lsaw quite a party
hanging round the room, it being severely coid out, and
Such people, something like flies, going to the warm
places. As I took the cigar, I threw a good silver quarter
on thecounter. The sound immediately attracted general
attention, the crowd regarding it as though it were a note
of musie long unheard. The clerk took up the quarter,
smiled, looked at me, aud then, irresolutely, turew the
money down.

“Don’t you take that sort ef money ?”? I asked.

*Weill—yes—I don’t know—I s’pose 80,” he replied, bud
did not take It up, looking toward the party that liad
now gathered round.

“Isu’t it good 7" I queried.

“Ye-e-e-es, I guess so,”’ he replied.

One after another then stepped forward, each one biting
and ringing it.

“That's a good quarter, fast enough,’ suid one, taking
a bite at it and slamming it on the counter, stepping back
to make room for the next.

“Couldn’t be a better one,” said another, going throug):

he same movement. This till they had all done.

“Now, gentlemen," said I, ‘my object in offering this
quarter was to show how litile we are able to judge o1
coin that is liable to be alloyed, and that so nicely that
even experts are deceived, Now this quarter seems to
the eye and ear lo be genuine, and yet how many of you
Will back your opinion of its genuineness by giving me
twenty-five cents for it ??

Up they came again for a second trial, and with the
same result, the remark being repeated, but with less
confidence:

“That’s a good quarter, fast enough.”

No one made an offer.

“Well, gentlemen,” said I, “I don’t blame you for not
risking your good money for spurious, at par, but is there
one among your who will give me ten cents, in currency,
for it?”

I held it Out to them, but I could not get a bid.

A DRUMMER,
A Wiiddie.

Our friend, the sensitive man, writes us the following
as the result of his own experience:

‘Passing through a public office where many young Ja-
dies were employed, one of them accosted hun with a
perplexed air:

‘*s] have,’ said she, Just had aconundrum given me to
guess. Will you aid mein auswering it?

*¢*Certainly,’ replied I, with the gallant y that thirty-
five winters have failed to chill; ‘propound it.’

‘**Whatis the brightest idea in the world ?

“J looked into her eyes intently. They were dark and
beautiful. ,

‘““T should say,’ said I, ust at this moment, that it was
your eye, deary

«Though her eyes were bright, she failed to see it for a
moment, but when it broke upon her she said I must be
joking, I was such acreatur! But ste smiled.”

Brevities.

Music.—‘Ah, you don’t Know what muthical enthn-
thiathum ithi? said a music-mad miss to Tom Hood.
“Excuse me, madame,’’ replied the wit, ‘‘but I do; musi-
cal enthusiasm is like turtie soup, for every quart of real
there are ninety-nine gallons of mock and Calves head in
proportion.”?

CASH IN HAND.—‘Time is money.” Of course it is,
else how could you spendit, Our devil says if tinie is
really money he wishes some one would give him change
for three months!

SCANDALOUS.—Mrs. Smithers says that when a man
breaks his heart it is all the Same as when a lobster breaks
one of his claws—another sprouts immediately and grows
inils place.

AN INFERENCE.—When & man has a headache, and
says “‘iv’s tle saimon,’? you may safely conclude that he
has been ‘drinking like a fish.”

WOMEN SAILORS.—Wonien are very seldom sailors, and
yet they command smacks very frequently.

REASONABLE,—‘‘Wiiy don’t you give uS @ }iltle Greek
and Latin occasionally ?? asked a country deacon of the
new minister. “Why, do you understand those Jan-
guages?’ ‘No; but we pay for the best, and ought to
have it!”

Goop NEws.—The bank where the wild thyme grows
has declared a dividend of ten “scents” to the sharel

LOVE ARITHMETIC.—After introduction 4 compliments
make 1 blush; 8 blushes make 1 tender look; 4 tender
looks make 1 rambie by moonlight; 2 rambles make 1 pro-
posal; 2 proposais (110 papa) make 1 wedding. We are
assured by a blne-eyed angel that this is reliable.

To P. P. ContTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are accepted:
Concerning Dumps;’ ‘He Did It;’ ‘The Last Struggle;’ ‘Burly
Ben;’ ‘An Excited Newsboy ;’ ‘Beauty and Pluck;’ ‘An Irreverent
Deacon.’.... .The following are respectful'y declined: ‘A Valu-
able Invention;? ‘Swimming on the Deck;’ ‘Chupp’s Chimney ;’

7 ‘Root and Risk ;’ ‘A Touching Incident;’ ‘Jonathan
3? ‘Lost and Found ;’ ‘Oysters,’ ‘Giving a City’—old.”
>o +

FISHING FOR COMPLIMENTS.—Those who questioned
Pauline Darrell in the hope of receiving an unmer-
ited compliment, were generally disappointed, Un-
like most young ladies of the present day, when
her sentiments were desired, they were expressed
without fear or favor, and she made it a rule to tell
the truth, regardless of the opinions of her acquaint-
ances. As Pauline could not conceal her feelings,
like the ‘“‘accomplished” young ladies of the day,
she was not born to shine in society. But for all
that she figures as a rough but brilliant diamond in
the story of ‘‘LovE WoRKS WONDERS,” commenced
this week.

Lea

tt

To CORRESPONDENTS.

Sas GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—

WwW. H. Davis.—ist. The Croton aqueduct, from Croton Dam to
Harlem river, is nearly thirty-three miles long, or about forty
and a half miles to the reservoir at Fitth avenue and Fortieth
street. It was completed in 1842, having been something over
five years in building, ata total cost of over $12,000,000. From
the dam to Harlem river it is built of stone, brick and cement.
It is sixievet nine inches wide at the bottom, seven feet five
inches at t..e springing of the arch, and eight feet five and a half
inches high. The water isconveyed across High Bridge and at
other points where the aqueduct is above the ievel in iron pipes,
the musonry being resumed at intervening sections. Below the
reseryoirs the water is distributed through the city in iron pipes,
the connections between the upper and lower reservoirs bemg
ofthe same material, At the dam, where the water enters the
aqueduct, the level of the water has been raised forty feet by the
construction of adam, making the source one hundred and
sixty-six feet aboye mean tide, 2d. Raisins are dried grapes, and
prunes dried plums. The former are mostly imported trom
Spanish ports on the Mediterranean, and the latter trom France
and Germany. 3d. Your argument will not hold good, as the
warmest days during the past few vears have been in the latter
part of June and first of July.

Hattie K.—l. If your sister can prove by competent witnesses
that the man she claims as her husband stated that they were
married, and that she lived with him as his wife, his subsequent
statements will not relleve him of the responsibility, 2d. If a di-
yorce is procured fraudulently, the case will be re-opened on ap-
plication to the court, and the decree set aside.

DL. W.—State more explicitly what kind of a work is desired,
and we will tell you whether it can be furnished.

Cayuga Chief.—-The quickest trip. between New York and
Queenstown is 7 days, 20 hours and 9 minutes, made by the Bal-
tie, of the White Star line,

M. C. Stwait.—Your size would not be an objection, but in many
cases an advantage, Select a play in which the characters ure
within your conception and powers of portrayal.

Sportsman.—Cartridge cases of the kind described are difficult
to get, and cost $1.25 per hundred, The old cases are useless.
The gun costs from $45 to $150.

Taffy Candy.—I\st. Peddlers’ licenses are governed by State
jaws. There is no such thing as a United States license. 2d. See
“Knowledge Box.’’

G. R. R.—A letter addressed to the editor of the paper will
reach its destination. :

Ventriloquist.—lst. We know nothing of the first-named | arty ;
the other is reliable. 2d. You may ascertain by testing it.

Cc. P, Dargan.—Ist. Mrs. Partington isan imaginary old lady
whose anyings are written up by B. P. Shillebar. 2d. None. 3d.
See “Knowledge Box.”

L. J. U.—We know nothing of the scheme,
any, fairly conducted lotteries.

J. R. H.—The papers coutaining “Nick Whiffles’’ will cost $1.08.

Anneke Jars.—We have not heard very recently of the Anneke
Jans suit. Whether it has been dropped we do not know.

Vaurhall.—The question is one which will have to be decided
in acourt of law. Weare of opinion that the note is legal, and
that the rate of interest of the State in which the money was
borrowed must be paid.

Reader:—Consult a European guide-book. We have no lists
of railways, with the distances and iares between: the points
named,

Workingman.—We have no advice to offer in the matter of your
investment. No person should buy real estate, or anything else,
for that matter, without first knowing from personal ebserva-
tion, whether it is likely to prove a profitable speculation. For
all we know to the contrary, the property is what it is claimed
to be.
es K., A. D. Ordway, S. P. J.—We do not wish to purchase any
MSS. ’

Admiral Dot.—It is the hight of absurdity to say that this or
that man is the greatest statesman or the greatestorator—in fact,
tosay that any man has no peer, No man ever lived but bad
and has his equals, if the same advantages were possessed for
the development and the opportunities afforded for the exercise
of their talents.

Dane and Minnehaha.—We presume the concern is reliable,
but investments in Jotteries ot all Kinds are unadvisable.

Joke R.—There are four gentlemen living who huve filled the
office ot Vice President—Johnu C. Breckinridge, Hannibal Haim-
lin, Schuyler Colfax, and Andrew Johnson, The latter Ig also
the only living ex-President.

Chas, E. Scott.—1st. The photographs will cost 25 cents each
24, None.

UM. HW. C.—Paris covers an area of 18,315 acres, or a trifle over
twenty-eight and a half square miles, and has a population ot

>) 06

There are few, uJ

E. W. K. §.—It is impossible to say when the Brooklyn bridge
Will be completed.

J. W. Southard.—Additional names may be added to your for
mer lists at-club rates.

Ink Slinger.—"“A Mad Marriage’? was commenced in No. 39,
Vol. XXIX, and concluded in No. 11 of the present volame, The
papers will cost $1.50.

A. A, Stewart.—ihe gentleman is connected with Barnum’s
traveling hippodrome,

E. Oqden.—ist.. Gen. WaT. Sherman holds the office of general,
the rank heretofore hekt only by Preaikient Grant. 2d. Henry
Clay was bort: in Hanover county, near Richmond, Virginia, and
diced in Washington, D. C., June 29, 1852,

 

 

ego
SO ntine

 

 

 

3

Walter Varian.—ist. Fanchette the Fawn’? will cost 66 cents,
d. See ‘Knowledge Box,.”*

M. M.—We suggest that you try a short trip on a coasting ves-
sel,as an experiment. You will probably find “alife on the
ocean wave’ is not what it seems to you at present.

Silvia and W. T. Diekman.—\We shall not publish the story In
book form. We cannot, at thig writing, say iu what number it
will be completed.

W. B. H.—The twenty-five and fifty-ccnt and $50 gold coins are
issued from the San Francisco mint.

The following MSS. have been accepted:

9g

  

‘To G. T.,? “Had I

the Gifts of Song.”........ The following will appear in the Jam-
moth Monthly Reader: *Love’s First Kiss.”......-. The following

are respectfully declined: “Over the Precinvice,” ‘The Black
Hunter,” “From the Town of Ards,” ‘The “Wake-Snake’s Vic-
tory,’ “Why My Head is Gray,” ‘tA Miraculous Escape,” “Two
Summer Nights,” “My Birds," ‘“Lookiug Back,” “The Lover’s
Dream,” “The Saddle and Bivouac,”._ “The Sleeping entre,
“Which Did She Love Best?” ‘‘Viva’s Ring,” “To Shelby W.,”
“To the Memory of Cora,’ “Unknown,” “The Dying Girl's
Vision,” “Christmas Revery,” “To K. 8,” “Sketch of a Bygone
Hour,” “A Man’s Views,” “An Hoar With a Lunatic,” “Ethel
Morland’s Chore”?

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS.

in response to the queries of our correspondents who send no
addresses, we give the prices at which the following articles may
be procured through the New YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing Acen-
ey? Smiti’s “Treatise on Land Surveying in Theory and Prac-
tice,” $3; Life of Kit Carson, $160; “Handbook ot Oil Paintin
‘or Amateurs,” $2;. “Handbook for Locomotive Engineers an
Machinists,"’ $2; gold snuff-box, oval shape, $75 to $100; ‘“‘Paint-
er, Gilder and Varnisher,” $1 50; Warn’s “Sheet Metal Worker,”
$3; Hallock’s “Marriage Guide,’ $1; tinfoil, $4 to $10 per pound;
metallic capsules for bottles, with corks, $5 per 100; *‘With Fate
Against Him,” by Amanda Douglas, $150; Edgar \. Poe’s com-
plete works, $2 25; “The Lost Cau $150; Book of Alphabets,
for sign painters, $3; lop-eared rab to $10 per pair; Rab-
bit Fancier, 30 cents; West’s Grand Edition on coxts and vesta,
for the use of tailors and cutters, $10; do, ou pants, $5; Pilgrim’s
Progress, $1 50,

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

A Sudseriber.—It would be impolite and ungentkemantly to join
in conversation or pleasure of any kind with friends you should
meet at a place of amusement without introducing the lady you
had with you, if you knew that she was not acquainted with
them.

Queenie.—Iist. Unless you can return the young man's love we
do not think it is right to allow him to visit you asalover, 2d,
You write a very pretty and plain hand, quite good enough for
a copyist. 3d, Shingling the hair is considered beneficial, as it
strengthens it and causesitto come in thicker. 4th. You can
exchunge your musicif you know the place where it was pur-
chased. We do not know of any place where they would take
itif bought at another store without quite a sacrifice to you. 5th.
To your question who was the original composer of ‘Home,
Sweet Home,’ see No. 29

Nellie C. ¥.—\st. We do not recommend young ladies, while
attending school, to receive visits from young gentlemen. We
think it is apt to take their mind from their studies. However,
in your case there seems to be some wisdom, As your friends
are from good families and well educated, they may prove of
benefit to you, as you do not receive either of them as a lover,
2d. You are not too particular as regards familiarity from young
men, They willesteem you the more higlily for your conduct,
3d. The “Manual of Etiquette” we can recommend as contain-
ing many useful hin's, Price 75 cen‘s,

H. M. Sumpter.—Uuder the circumstances we do not know
how you can act differently than you have done, You do not say
that you are engaged, or that you have any desireto be. If the
rumor comes from the family and you do not wish people to be
under the impression that you are engaged, then we would ad-
yise you not visit the family so attentively. On the other hand,
if you wish to marry one of the sisters, then ask the one you
prefer, and» ~~ince people that you are in earnest

 

    

 

  

 

OUR KNOWLEDGE. Box.

QUESTIONS ANSWEKED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
S. R.—1. Mix’a little fresh lemon juice with the glycerine. 2. If
you refer to neckties, blue or gray will become you...... SA. GC,
and Pen.—For MUCILAGE see No. 17 of volume 30.... Violin, Maker.
—l. VIOLIN VARNISH.—Gum sandarac, four ounces, seed-lac, 2
ounces, mastro, Benjamin, in tears, each 1 ounce, pounded glass,
4 ounces, Venice turpentine, 2 ounces, pure alcohol, 32 ounces.
2 Noive.. B. W. £.—YO DYE WHITK GLOVES.—To dye white
vloves a beautiful purple, boil four ounces of logwood and two
ounces of roche alum in three pints of soft water till half-wasted.
Steam and let stand till cold. Let the gloves be nicely mended,
then witha brush rub the dye over them, and when dry repeat
it. Twice is sufficient, unless the color is to be very dark; when
dry rub off the Joose dye witha coarse cloth; beat up the white
ofan egg, and with aspongerub it over the leather. The dye
will stain the hands, but wetting them with vinegar before wash-
ing them will take it off.... .7om Smith.—Use blue ointment....
Spring Fever.—REMEDY YOR CORNS.—A correspondent writes
“T used to be very much annoyed by those painful excrescences
called corns, on the toes and feet, until I was told a very simple
and effectnal remedy for them by some person. It was to bathe
the feet in tepid water tosoften them; then ro them off very
closely with a sbarp knife; then rubon well green peach-tree
leaves; when, after continuing the rubbirg once or twice a day,
the corns will entirely disappear, and not return, hout the
cause whici: first occasioned them. I have otten tried the rem-
edy, aud never yet found it to fail, It seems to be the prussic
acid in the peach-tree leaves that takes them away. A good corn
salve could, no doubt, be made for winter use, by bruising the
peach leaves when green, then boil them in water till the
strength 1s extracted; then take out the leaves, strain the water
off the sediment, and add a sufficient quantity of rosin, beeswax,
tallow and lar@oilto make it soft enough, and simmer down
without burning untill the water isevaporated. Soften and pre-
pare the corn-as before directed, spread it on a small piece of
cambric or linen, and apply, putting on the sock or stocking
carefully, so as not torub itoff. Keep applying till the corn dis-
appears.”..........005- S. W.—See No. 22 ot volume 30........ sees
A, B. A.—TO REPRODUCE WooD ENGRAVINGS,—It ig common to
reproduce wood engravings by transferring the impression from
the paper to. wooden block and re-engraving. The paper is
moistened with 2 solution of caustic alkaliin alcohol, to soften
the ink; and the impression is transferred to the face of the
wooden block by pressure..,.B.—TO REMOVE WARTS.—Many re-
cipes have been given in our columns for the removal of warts,
but a very excellent one is said to be the following: Grate some
horseradish into new milk, and after it has stood for a few hours
apply with a linen rag... appy Beis Year.—l. We have no other
recipe we can recommend. 2. No. 3. and 4. We cannot tell you.
....King Philippe.—Write to the New YORK WEEKLY Purchas-
ing Agency..... Semper Idem.—No recipe. No......... eeeeceses +e
Paulina Lyle.—1. To MAKE BROWN BREAD.—Take equal quantities
of Indian meal and rye flour, scald the meal, and, when luke-
warm, add the fiour, adding one-half pint of good yeast to four
quarts of the mixture, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a cup of
molasses, kneading the mixture well. This kind of bread should
be softer than wheat flour bread. All the water added after
scalding the meal should be lukewarm. When it has risen well,
put it to bake in a brick oven or stove—the former siiould be hot-
ter than for fleur bread; if a stove oven, it should be steamed two
hours; then bake an hour or more; when done, it 1s a dark
brown. The best article for baking this kind of bread in is brown
eurthenware—say panseight or ten inches in hight, and diameter
about the same. Grease or butter the pans; putin the mixture;
then dip your hand in cold water and smooth the loaf; after
tlus, slash the loaf both ways with a knife quite deep. Some let
it rise a little before they put it to bake. Many people prefer this
bread made of one-third rye flour instead of one-half. When it
is difficult to get rye, Wheat flour will answer asa substitute. It
adds very much to the richness and flavor of this kind of bread
tu letit remain in the oven overnight, 2. If you follow these
instructions carefully, you may rely upon having as good brown
bread as ever was made........ T. B.—See No. 26 of vol. 36....... *
Harry B.—No recipe thut we can vouch for..... . Duck Shooter,—
We cannot aid you..,.....Sycamore, Amateur Painter, Anxious
Blonde, Harry, Nick Whiffles, S. C. Portland, T. J. Kj Hopeless,
Walter Varian, Taffy Candy, Big Leo.—Your letters have been
received, and will be answered as soon as possible,

 

MEDICAL DEPARIMENT.

H. E. N., Knight Templar, E T.—See No. 22 ef volume 80.

Constant Reader, Boston.—l. Brandeth’s pills are said to be
made of ten grains ct the extract of may-apple, thirty grains of
poke-berry juice, ten grains of satfron, ten grxins of pewdered
imuy-appie root, fifteen grains of powdered cloves, and three
drops of oiloef peppermint, Make into thirty piils with powder-
ed licorice root. 2 Keating’s cough lozenges are said to be cem-
posed of lactucarium or lettuce opium, two drams, ipecacnanha
one dram, squills, three-quarters of a dram, extract of licorice,
two draims, sugar, six ounces. Make intoa mass with mucilage
of tragacanth, and divide into twenty-grain lozenges,

Unfortunate Sufferer.—The person referred to is not recognized
by the medical traternity asa regular practitioner, but we have
heard him we!l spoken of. We are not responsible for the ad-
vertisements which appearin the paper. Read'No. 22 in an
swer to “T. R, Y.”’

J. C. 0.—They are certainly not good signs, and are net com-
mon with persons ot good habits. Read No. 22 of volume 3Q

M.—Sponey GuMs.—For spongy gums, a xolution of aluin ap-
plied to them will be proper, or a mixture of equal parts of tinc-
ture of myrrh, catechu, anu Peravian bark.

B. M. N.—THE ItcH.—UVse plenty of castile soap and water, and
afterward apply freely iodide of sulphur ointment. Also take a
mild aperient oecasionally.

Edward Temple.—We auswered your questions by mail, bat the
letter failed to reach you. If you so desire, we will re-inclose it
to your address,

Leopoki, L. V., In Earnest, A Sufferer, Midnight Marriage,
Scrub Onk, @. T. E., C. P, D., Anxious Jim.—Your lettere have
been received, and will be answered as sooa as possible.

Mot peee ARE eet SEs iN
BEAUTIFUL, spirited and strikingly original, This
is the character of the heroine of “LoygE, Works

Wonp»rs,” Pauline Darrell, who scorned:to tell a
fib, and therefore made enemies because she could
not conceal her likes and dislikes,

 

 

 

 

 

ScoviLL’s BLOOD AND LiveR Syrup.—Scrofyla,
Rheumatism, Pimpies, Gout, and Kiduey Disorders, and alPdis-
tempers which affect the external portions of the body indicate
an unclean condition of the venous fluid. SCOVILL’s BLOOD AND
LIVER SYRUP inay be relied upon as a swift and certain remedy.
The concentrated extracts of Sarsapariila, Stillingia, and other
invaluable antiseptic and alterative plants and herbs form the
basis of this powerful remedy. Price $1 per bottle,

 

EpEY’s CaRBOLIC TROCHES.—Among the various
remedies for coughs, none enjoy a higher reputation than EpDEY’s
CARBOLIC TROCHES. This fact places them above the ordinary
list ot medicinal preparations, For Coughs, Oolds, Asthma, and
as a disinfectant and preventive against contagious diseases they
are a specific, Invaluable to Singers and public speakers. Sold
everywhere. Price 25 cents per box.

THe GREAT AMERICAN CONSUMPTION REMEDY.—
Dr. Wo. TIALL’s BALSAM FOR THK LUNGS cures the worst cases
of Coughs, Colds, and all the diseases ot the Lungs, Throat and
Chest. For Whooping Cough and Croup it is a certain specific,
The most obstinate cases surely yield to Hall’s Balsam, when
used perseveringly. Staucds at the head of ali cough preparations,
Sold everywhere. Price $1 per bottte.

Dr. Mortt’s Liver PrLus.—It is easy enongh to
make a pill, but tomake agood pill, ah! that’s the difficulty.
Tere are cheap, Harsh, drastic pills, that are of even less value
than a dose of salts. But a good medicine, like Dr. Mort's LIVER
PILLS, which penetrates to the seat of disease, is a desideratum
indeed. Wilt positively cure all diseases of the liver. Sold every-
where. Price 25,cents per box.

 

About Bitrers,—At certain periods of life a tonic
is a necessity; but there is danger. in using stimulants that injare
the organs of digestion white giving temporary relief. To obviate
this and present to the public a tonic free from Alcoholic potson,
Dr. GREEN prepared the OXYGENATED BITTERS, 0 sure Cure for
Dyspepsia and ail kindred complaints. Sold everywhere, Price
$1 per bottle.

HENRY'S CARBOLIC SaLvE.+This article is 50 well
known that it is only mecessary to caution the public against
imitations. Romember that it requires a particular proportion
and a careful admixture of the Garbolic acid wiih other ingre-
dients to prodace a salve that may be relied apon, The genuine
only guaranteed. See that it Dears ihe fuc-simile signature and
private oe eerie. of John F. Heury. Sold everywhero,
Price 25 cents per Dex.

TowNsLEY’s TOOTHACHE ANODYNE,

 

A sure cure

 

  

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ODD mea eee

NEW YORK; MAY 31, 1875.

eee

 

RIOPOPOPOIOI_-_O aa OLLOOeOeODOlOlLlOLlOOOoOowrnaeaervve™»”

Terms to Subscribers :

 

One month (postagefree) 25c. | One Year—1 copy (postage Jree).$3
Two months............. 5Oe. - 2 CODIOS, .. 000.050 c0nf 5
Three months... vee 100. =e GPP R Sisko cca 10
Four months,.......... $1 00. 96.2 Dy RRR MS es ot ane 20

 

Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will

be entitled to a Ninth Copy FREE. Getters-up of Clubs can after-
ward add single copies at $2 50 each,

IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure &
draft on New York, or a Post-Ofice Money Order, it possible.
Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but al-
ways in @ REGISTERED letter. The registration fee has been re-
duced to eight cents, and the present registration system has been
found by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro-
tection against losses by mail. All Postmasiers are obliged to
register letters whenever requested to do so.

 

In addressing letters to STREET & SMITH, donot omit our Box
Number. By a recent order of the Post-oftice Department this is
absolutely necessary, to ensure the prompt delivery of letters.

ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors.
25, 27 2Dand 31 Rose St.. N.Y. P.O. Box 4896

NEXT WEEK

A Romantic and Brilliant Story
By the Author of “Ten Old Maids.”

In Number 81 of the NEw YORK WEEKLY will be com-
menced a delightful story, entitled

Working for Wages,
By Mrs. Julie P. Smith.

it is very life-like in incident and characterization; the
plot is simpie, but its naturalness renders it fascinating;
while every chapter teems with lively and sparkling con-
versations. Gems of polished wit flash out frequently
throughout the entire story, and with an aptness that adds
to their pungency. Weare confident that our readers
will express their unqualified admiration of JULIE P.
SMITH’S new story, WORKING FOR WAGES.

 

 

 

 

THE FORTUNE OF WAR.

Tne Parisian press is publishing from day to day
sketches of the late Franco-Prussian war, some of the in-
oidents of which are very tragic in their character, some
touchingly pathetic, and others extremely ludicrous. One
of these incidents, new before us, we condense and trans-
ate for the gratification of our readers, During the war
& peasant of Alsace, named Gondel, went out to his work
and left his wife and daughter at home quite unprotected.
He had not been long absent when five Prussian soldiers
-arrived at the cottage and demanded something to eat.
They were not‘abusive, except that they must have food,
and that at once. The mother and daughter thought it
best to comply with the demand as the easiest way of
getting rid of the intruders,

So the mother went one way in search of wood to cook
with, and the daughter another to bring some water.
Just then the father, with his pitch-fork upon his sheulder,
returned home and entered his cottage. He saw neither
wife nor daughter, but there sat the five Prussian soldiers
smoking at their ease, and awaiting the advent of the meal
which they haddemanded. An uncontrolable frenzy seized
upon the peasant, and rushing upon the soldiers with his
pitchfork, he drove them intoacorner. They were like
mere children before the enraged Gondel. Their swords
were of little use under the circumstances, and the pea-
sant killed-one after another with his rude but effective
weapon, until four of the Prussians lay dead upon the
cottage floor. Thefifth, seeing the fate of his companions,
by a desperate effort, reached the door and escaped, but
not without several severe wounds.

Ali this while the mother and daughter were absent,
the events having occurred in a very few moments; but
they now returned to be horrified at the sight they be-
held. The floor running with blood and the four corpses
upon it. An hour later the fifth soldier returned with a
detachment of his comrades. They seized and bound the
peasant and carried him away, with the dead bodies, to
headquarters. -Gondel was found guilty of the murder of
four soldiers by court martial, and was condemned to die
by hanging. On the day subsequent to that of the fight
in his cottage he was executed. The wife and daugiiter,
with sympathisers, have left the sequestered province to
live still upon French territory.

——_>8<+____—_-

INFLUENCE OF IMAGINATION.

“We have before spoken in our columns of the power of
ithe imagination in the simulation of disease, but it is a
«curious subject and one daily receiving exemplification.
‘The-instance of a soldier in the French service, condemn-
-ed to die, and who was handed over to the surgeons as a
diving subject, is recalled to us at this moment. The man
who was enjoying perfect health was placed in a hospital,
and told that all the patients about him were suffering with
smallpox. This was not true. There was no such dis-
ease in the institution, and yetit is a well-authenticated
fact. that the condemned soldier was soon taken violently
sick and actually displayed all the symptoms of the sup-
posed disease. He was removed from the hospital unde-
ceived, got well:immediately, and was consigned to prison
to suffer the punishment awarded to him by the court.

A similar illustration, moch nearer home, has lately oc-
ed in Indfanapolis. A youus man in that city went into a
drug store, with a dolorous countenance, and with a deep
sigh asked for, fifty cents’ worth of strychoine. Thedrug-
gist observed his mood, and quietly seemed to fill his order
ja good faith, but in reality gave him a harmless potion,
which the young fellow swallowed with a theatrical flour-
ish, exclaiming as he did so, that his affections had been
‘blighted and he “nad taken the poison to get even.”? He
would not live to be so used. Life was a blank and so on.
‘The.druggist teld him there were not fifteen minutes life
in him, and that he was already beginning to fade about
theeyes! At this information the youth sank to the floor,
and.the perspiration streamed from his forehead. He was
becoming very sick, bodily and mentally, and actually ap-
peared to be dying.

At this juncture the medicine-man himself became
alarmed at the effect of the dose, and examined the jar
from which he had taken the potion. It was sugar of
milk, sure enough, perfectly harmless, and yet it was pro-
ducing spasms! What wastobe done? Asa last resort
tthe disconsolate youth was informed that he had taken
0 poison, but in place ef it a harmless dose, a bushel of
which would not kill. This information puta stop to the
dyiug business in short meter. The patient revived in-

stantly, got up and waiked out of the store with a round
oath, declaring that he would yet be eyen with the worla
at large and somebody in particular. A physician present
said that unless he had been undeceived the youth would
have died in a quarter of an hour!

 

 

—

Card from Mrs. Fleming.

BROOKLYN, May, 4, 1875.
To the Public,—In answer to numerous inquiries,
I wish to say I write only for the NEw YORK WEEKLY,
and have written only for the NEw YORK WEEKLY
for the past four years. Serials bearing my name,
published in other journals, are serials written some
twelve years ago, at the beginning of my literary

career. Very truly,
May AGNES FLEMING.
OS

THE author of “THROWN ON THE WORLD” has anew
story begun in this number of the NEw York WEEK-
LY. Itisa quiet, but delightful story, and should
be read by everybody. Intense interest is certain

to attend the perusal of ‘Love WoRKS WONDERs.”

 

 

 

A CLERGYMAN IN LOVE.

The well-known Bishop Summer died the other day in
England, at the good old age of eighty-four, leaving an
immense fortune behind him. And now becomes public
a bit of romance connected with his life and early experi-
ence, which, until his death, was known only to his family
circle, and which, adhering to facts, we will tell to our
readers. It wasin the year1815 that a young English
clergyman named Summer was traveling in Switzerland,
asthe tutor of a son and heir of Lord Conyngham. In
their travels they met a young and very beautiful Swiss
girl, with whom the pupil fell desperately in love, nor
could it be wondered at that he did, since the youthful
charms of the girl, who was very poor, were famous all
over the canton. The young girl was pleased with the
English youth and seemed to return his affections. She
wag sixteen and he was nineteen.

The watchful tutor wrote to the parents the facts of the
case, and told them that he feared their son would form a
mesalliance unless immediate and effective measures
were adopted to prevent it. The father and mother were
thrown into a state of great alarm, and wrote to Mr. Sum-
mer, saying: ‘Break off the match at any cost. Scruple
at nothing. Make love to the young lady yourself and
marry her, if you can dono better! If you can do that, we
will promise to use all our influence to advance your in-
teresis, and will certainly push you high up on the eccle-
siastical ladder.” This wasa most unscrupulous resort,
but the parents were in earnest, the tutor was poor; he
looked at the very beautiful Swiss girl. Young and love-
ly. He made up his mind to “goin and win.’ Being
five years older than his pupil, he understood the human
heart better, and by delicate attentions and a few attrac-
tive presents, combined with tender compliments and
oaths of love, he completely ‘‘cut out”? his youthful rival,
aud one fine morning induced the beautiful Swiss to
marry him.

Of course, the heir of Lord Conyngham found his young
love’s dream dispelled, and returned to his parents in dis-
gust, telling them what atrick that fellow Summer had
played him, with one of the loveliest girls that was ever
born. A liberal remittance from his pupil's parents en-
abled the young clergyman to fit out his bride very hand-
somely, and together they passed a year of travel upon
the continent, after which Mr. Summer returned with his
beautiful Swiss to the British Isle, and his own home,
there to reeeive the reward of his “littl game.”
Lord and Lady Conyngham were as good as their
word, indeed they were very grateful and fully appre-
ciated the implicit carrying out of their special directions.
Of course young Summer made a virtue of his conduct.
The danger was imminent to their son, nothing but the
pressing character of the circumstances would have in-
duced him to marry, and so forth, and so forth; though
he was all the while secretly delighted with his young
companion, and only too happyat the possession of a
wife thus thrust upon him.

His noble patrons kept faith with their son’s tutor. They
introduced him at court; the prince regent made him his
chaplain; fortune was favorable, preferment followed pre-
ferment, aided as he was by Lord and Lady Conyngham.
At last, in 1827, he was made Bishop of Winchester, which
see he held for more than forty years. His domestic life
was one of uninterrupted happiness, and the beautiful
Swiss proved to be anoble woman. Their sons were all
well provided for with rich benefices, and his sons-in-law
were equally well ‘taken care of. It was a very gooG
thing pecuniarily to bea bishopin England a few years
ago, and it is a good thing to-day. It used to mean great
wealth, it signifies ample fortune still; but Bishop Sum-
mer has gone now, and left all his worldly goods behind
him.

 

THE WRONG MAN HUNG.

BY LAWRENCE LESLIE.

 

In the year 1823 a young man named William Harlow,
residing near Kent, Eugiland, while on the way to visit
his relatives, applied to a public house in Deal for a night’s
lodging. The house was crowded, and he was told it
would be impossible to furnish him with a bea.

He was much fatigued, however, with his journey, be-
sides suffering from indisposition, and expressed his wil-
lingness to accept almost any accommodation rather than
be compelled to proceed.

The landlady then informed kim that if he wouid share
a bed with her nephew, ayoung sailor, he could be ac-
commodated. The proposition was gladly accepted, and
about ten o’clock the two young men retired, and svon
fell asleep.

About two o’clock in the morning the complaint, which
we have already referred to, compelled young Harlow to
rise, and he woke his companion and inquired the way of
egress. He was directed to pass through the kitchen, but
asthe lifter of the latch was broken, his companion
handed him his knife to aid him in raising the latch and
making his way out.

Young Harlow returned In about half-an-hour, but was
surprised to find his companion gone. Supposing him
only temporarily absent, he went tosleep. He awoke at
an early hour, saw nothing of his bed-fellow, and being
anxious to continue his journey, ang having settled with
the hostess the night previous, he dressed and left the
house without waking any of the inmates. After he had
gone a mile or more he remembered that he had brought
away the stranger’s knife, which had been given him to
lift the latch.

In the morning the landlady was surprised that her
nephew did not appear sooner at breakfast, as he expect-
ed to sail early, and she finally went to call him. She was
greatly alarmed to find him gone, and especially to dis-
cover that the bed was saturated with blood. The stains
were traced from the bedroom, througk the house, and
along the street, terminating at the dock.

The alarm was given, a thorough search instituted, but
no information concerning him could be obtained. The
police took the matter in hand, and soon came to the con-
clusion that the man had been murdered by the stranger
who had slept with him that night, and his body carried
from the house and thrown into the sea from the dock.
Of course the arrest of the suspected party was ordered.

He was soon traced, captured, and charged with the
crime. Of course he denied all knowledge of it, but, upon
being searched, the knife oi the missing man was found
in his possession. A rare silver coin was likewise found
in his pocket, which the landlady identified as having be-
longed to her nephew, and swore positively that she had
examined it only the night before his disappearance,

Blood was alsofound upon the clothes of the accused,
his shirt particularly being stained to a degree not to be
expected {rom any trivial injury to himself.

Young Harlow explained’ his possession of the knife in
the manner already described; but the coin and the marks
of blood he could notaccount for. His inability to do
this, his confusion when he attempted it, the fact of his
leaving the public house at such an unseasonable hour,
and in such a stealthy manner, all confirmed the impres-
sion of his guilt.

During the trial these facts were presented, and the
theory set forth that young Harlow, supposing that his
bedfellow was in the possession of a considerable sum
of money, had stabbed him during the night, robbed
him, carried his body out of the house, and down to the
dock, where it was thrown into the sea. The blood in
the bed, on the floor of the bed-room, and scattered along
the street to the dock, the blood on the clethes of the
accused, and the identified articles found in his posses-
sion, rendered any other conclusion impossible. It was
in vain that young Harlow asserted his innocence, and
called witnesses to prove his previous good character.
He was convicted, and sentenced to be hung.

Before the day-of the execulion the aunt of the miss-
es received the following letter written from

alta:

“DEAR AUNT: You was doubtless surprised at my sud-
den departure from your house. It was as unexpected
to me as to you; but circumstances hurried me away
against my will. If you find that coin of mine, give it
to Mary to remember her cousin by, I think I left it at
your house.

_ “I fell from_the rigging a few weeks ago, and broke my
right arm. This is the reason I employ a shipmate to
write you this letter. Good-by, GEORGE.”?

This letter was immediately placed in the hands of the
authorities. It wus claimed by Harlow’s friends that it
clearly established his innocence, by showing the man
he Was charged with murdering to be still alive. On the
otherhand the authenticity of the letter was denied. It
was notin the missing man’s handwriting, and the
excuse Offered for this was one which any man of ordi-
nary intelligence could frame. The reference to the coin
—which, being found with Harlow, was one of the strong:
est evidences of his guilt—was likewise looked upon as a
clumsy atlempt to explain away that most damaging
circumstance.

In short, it was believed that the letter was a forgery,
perpetrated by some of Harlow’s friends with the hope
of saving him from the just punishment of his crime.
Owing to the belief that the offense of forgery had been
added to that of murder, the feeling against the condemn-
ed man was greatly strengthened, and the execution was
ordered to proceed.

At the scaffold the doomed man bore himself with great
fortitude. He made a brief speech, avowing his inno-
cence, yet admitting that the array of circumstances
against him, some of which even he could not explain,
fully justified the judgment of the law. He, however,
again asserted his utter ignorance of the crime, and com-
wave his soul to his Maker, the drop fell, and soon all

8 over.

 

   

Nearly sixteen years after these events, when the mem-
ory of the murder, the trial, qnd the execution had nearly
faded from the public mind, agmiddie-aged, weather-stain-
ed sailor came to Deal, and made inquiries for the lady who
kept the public house in whicg the occurrences we have
before narrated took place.

She had removed to a neighboring town, and thither
the stranger followed her.- Ou presenting himself at her
door she was horror-stricken to recognize in him her long-
absent nephew, for whose murder young Harlow had
been executed so long before.

He was not less surprised when informed of the un-
happy fate of his bed-fellow on that fatal night.

The next day they both returned to Deal, and notified
the magistrate of the singular circumstance; and as the
story spread it everywhere excited the greatest interest.

The story, as told by the missing man, Was that on the
fatal night he retired with his companion, young Harlow,
and was awakened in the night by his inquiries respect-
ing the manner of reaching the out-house. He gave him
the necessary directions, and also his knife to aid him in
opening the door. He had been bled that day, of which
fact his aunt was ignorant, and he discovered that the
baudage had worked off, and the blood was again flowing.
He was somewhat alarmed, and, dressing himseii, started
for an apothecary. On the way he accidentally met a few

of his shipmates, who were about returning to the ves- |

sel, and he was persuaded to accompany them, when the
surgeon would give his wound the attention it required.
He intended to return to the house the next day, but un-
expected orders for sailing were received, and he had no
opportunity, or carelessly neglecting it, failed to notify his
friends of the cause of his sudden disappearance. Buta
few weeks after, being disabled himself by a fall, he em-
ployed a shipmate to write, informing his friends of his
safety. This was the letter which we have given above,
but which the authorities believed a forgery. The coin he
missed, and, supposing he had lost it somewhere about
Lhe house, where it would be found, he desired it to be
given to his cousin, as she had lately expressed a desire
to have it. He could account for its being in Harlow’s
possession only by supposing that it had become fastened
between the blades of the Knife when he gave itto him,
which was doubtless the fact. The blood found on Har-
low’s clothes he got on from the bed, which had become
saturated from his companion’s previous bleeding, while
the traces of blood found outside and down to the dock
were caused by the dripping of his wound as he hunted
for an apothecary and followed his comrades to their boat,
which was lying at the pier.

Every suspicious circumstance was thus explained, and
the innocence of the unfortunate man proved beyond a
doubt. It was too late, however, to be of any avail. It
could not bring the unhappy victim from a felon’s grave,
and restore to life and happiness his family, who, over-
whelmed with sorrow and shame, had died or scattered,
no one knew where until only afew very remote relatives
were left to rejoice over the undeniable proofs of their
kinsman’s innocence.

———— > © 4

THE difficulty of making love to an unsympathiz-
ing girl is vividly and ludicrously portrayed in the
story of “Love Works WonpDERS,” -which is begun
this week.

STORY OF AN UGLY GIRL.

BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY.

 

 

 

Mentone forms the frontier town between France and
Italy, andin many parts looksas oid inits quaint and
rusty architecture as the Jofty mountains which hem it in
to the very verge of the Mediterranean. Like Nice, from
which it is separated only by Monaco, it is a great resort
for invalids from all parts of Europe, which circumstance
has created 2 demand for modern dwelling-houses and
hotels.

A fine addition has thus been made to the ancient town,
and visitors from abroad add an element of life and pros-
perity during the winter months, I+ is half-French, half-
Italian, and the language, manners and customs, and
general surroundings, are those of both nationalities.
Just at the verge of Mentone, where the long railroad
bridge, or viaduct, spans a vast chasm, forming the con-
necting link between the two countries, the Alps com-
mence to pile themselves up ina most amazing fashion
among the clouds, where their peaks are lost to view ex-
cept in the clearest weatlier. Ps

itis in this frontler town of Mentone that our story
opens, and whiere we will ask the reader to follow us,

There residedinthe town a family named Delorme,
which at the opening of our sketch consisted of a rich old
father and a daughter, Victorine, aged twenty-four years.
The parent was 2 man wiio had amassed his large prop-
erty by long years of self-abnegation and labor, and now
in his old age exhibited such dislike to part with any
portion of it as to entitle him to the name of miser.

His daughter, Victorine, was 80 ugly in features that
we hesitate to de&cribe her. It is enough to say that chil-
dren would cover their faces when they met her and run
away crying with actual fright. In her figure and per-
sonal appearance generally, Victorine was well enough
until you came to look her in the face, then you were pret-
ty sure to realize an involuntary shudder. Nature had
not dealt kindly with her; she wag simply hideous.

And yet Victorine had not been Without suito
tradesmen and others, who presumed thassie would re-
ceive a wedding portion commensurate with her father’s
known wealth. This, however, wasa@ mistake. Those
who, mastering their sense of aversion, made love to the
Ugly Girl of Mentone, as she was Called, and finally pro-
posed, were met by the old miser as follows:

“Take her; yes, sir, 28 8001 as you please; but no dowry.
I won’t give her a sou.”’

‘“‘Mademoiselle will have her ‘dot,’ of course,’ the ad-
venturer would suggest.

“I tell you, not one sou,”? reiterated the miser.

And 80 the several advances had ended; Victorine,
however, Was Dot at all disconcertéd. She declared that
her time would come by-and-by, and that there was time
enough.

“But the years are passing,’ suggested her old family
nurse, who was maid of all work in the Delorme house-
hold, and who really had some regard for her ugly mis-
tress.

“No hurry, no hurry,’ replied Victorine.

‘“‘You know you are not handsome,‘ continued the old
servant. :

“Yes, Babette—I know that; but with good dress, and
good manners, and pretty jewelry, I shall pass.’’

“You think. fine feathers make fine birds,’ said
Babette.

““Exactly.”?

“Poor child, you will be disappointed.”’

“Do not worry, my good Babette. I shall marry in due
season, and I shall marry only a nice husband—handsome,
witty, attractive. You will see.’’

Even Babette could not but laugh at her mistress’s pre-
tentions when she looked into her shockingly ugly face.
But Victorine held her head higher than ever, and hér
nose seemed to have taken an extra degree of propensity
as to turning up. It was of the most retrousse form, while
every day her chin, as if taking lessons of her nose, adopt-
ed more and more the same characteristic. Her eyes, one
of which was set very low, the other very high, bulged out
awkwardly, while her high and receding forehead was
lumpy and red.

The proverbial experience of all misers was the lot of
the old man Delorme, of Mentone.

He suddeniy died, quite unprepared in 4 business or a
moral sense, and leit, of course, all his money to his
daughter. Victorine went through the usual ceremonies
over her father’s remains; but as soon as he was fairly
buried, she called Babette, and told her that they would
have a regular house-cleaning and repairing.

‘Affairs have been neglected too long,’’ she said.

“That is true,’? replied the servant,

‘So carpenters, painters, and cabinet-makers were duly
summoned, and the house by degrees assumed quite an
improved appearance, After matters had been completed
in the way of repairs, Victorine patiently awaited and
hoped that suitors would by-and-by appear. But the fact
was she had grown more ugly than ever, and it seemed as
though nothing less than the necessity of choosing be-
tween suicide or marriage would induce any one to ap-
proach her with proposals, notwithstanding her three
oo thousand francs, that being the sum left by her

father.

Victorine purchased fine dresses and handsome jewel-
ry, 8he took music lessons, she gadded about the prom-
enades of Mentone in gay feathers; but no suitors ap-
peared, and, sad to tell, she was already twenty-eight
7 . —_ still or ~~ _ pee or

ut where was that wit nandsome, attract:
band?’ Babette asked. r - neieipus otha

“Time enough,’ replied Victorine.

One night, at about one o’clock, the neighbors of Victo-
rine heard the discharge of a pistol and several succeed-
ing shots, and every one-rushed to doors and windows to
see what it meant. It was soon seen that a man was de-
scending {from Victorine’s room by the spout, and that
she had fired after him and called out vociferously:

“Stop him! stop him!’ .

A night guardian, brought to the spot by the discharge
of fire-arms and the vigorous shouts of Mademoiselie De-
lorme, seized the culprit before he could make good his
escape, and carried him away triumphantly to prison.

The story was in everybody’s mouth in twenty-four
hours. A Villain, intent doubtless upon robbery, nad
forced an entrance into Vigsorine’s chamber in the middle
of the night, when his movements awakened her from
a sound sleep. She sprang up, seized a loaded pistoi,
which her father had always Kept in a drawer near at
hand, and shot the robber, so that he could not make his
escape.

She became aheroine at once.

The story was magnified, and appeared in a)) the papers
even as far as Paris, where, with the usual license, the
penny-a-liners added any amount of romantic fiction to
the story, Making out Victorine a perfect Venus for beauty
and attractiveness. So lauditory of her were some of
these descriptions that even she blushed when she read
them. People came from far and near to see her. Indeed,
Victorine ‘‘awoke one morning to find herself famous.”

In the meantime the wretch who had been arrested and
incarcerated in prison was brought up for trial.

“Who are you?” asked the judge.

“Justin Lavalle,”? was the answer.

**Your business ?”?

“Cabinet maker.’
duaet you work on the late repairs at the Delorme man-

“T did.”

“And then conceived the idea of robbing the house ?’”

“No, monsieur, Lam no robber!”

“Why this midnight visit then?”
“An! monsieur——”

“Well, confess the truth.”

“I was impelled by the mad ardor of my love!’

‘Love ?”?

‘Yes, monsieur, I was desperately in love with Victorine
Delorme!”’

The lady wagin court, though vailed, and the jndge
turning toward where she sat, addressed her:

“Do you think the prisoner stole anything?”

‘I do not,’? she replied.

‘And that he tells the truth now ?? asked the judge, re-
garding her ugly features doubtfully.

“] fear it is so,” she answered, with assumed modesty.

“Do you desire to proceed against him ?”?

‘Monsieur, if I might do so, I would intercede for his
discharge. He has seen the folly of his estempiet

This led to great surprise and high approval. Herygen-
erosity and candor were lauded to the shies. After pro-
per admonition, the prisoner was finally discharged. The
account of his brief trial and forgiveness was fuel added
to the flame that already burned in the public mind touch-
ing Victorine Delorme! What fascination to rob a man of
his senses thus. Those who had always thought her so
ugly began to talk about her improved looks.

“Brave lady.’?

“Not so bad looking either.’’

“Generous, to forgive the chap.”’

‘Most women wouldn't dare to shoot a burglar.””

“Poor fellow, he couldn’t help it. He was dead in love
with her. He was crazy.’? ?

Such were the remarks of the crowd outside the court-
— when the prisoner was discharged on that famous
day.

In the meantime the newspapers still teemed with
praises.of the brave heroine, and strangers, especially
young Englishmen, came to Mentone solely to see
Victorine Delorme. They sought to be introduced, and
in such numbers that it became a favor to find it possible
to grasp her hand. She was a heroine, and rich! That
was enough. One of the Englishmen proposed at once,
but Victorine said she must take time to consider.

; Men are like sheep, when one goes aliead the flock will
oilow.

Another, and another proposed. Victorine was the
rage of the hour.

She played her cards well. Finally she selected the one
most remarkable for his good looks, and as she secretly
found out, for his wealth alse, and on him she deigned to
smile. He was encouraged, and at last accepted, Ali
Mentone was in an uproar, the ugly Victorine had made
the best match of the season. The women turned green
with envy and jealousy, but all to no effect, for the grand
ceremony took place at the English church, and was after-
ward ratified at the Catholic cathedral, as Victorine De-
lorme was a Romanist.

In the meantime the cabinet maker, Lavalle, prospered
and was happy!

It was never publicly announced, but the knowing ones
discovered before the close of the year that the midnight
visit of the cabinet maker, and the repulse with a pistol,
was all prearranged between Lavalle and Victorine for
her own purposes!

>-e~<—____

A SPLENDID StorY.—This must be the unanimous
verdict in respect to ‘‘LovE WORKS WONDERS,” our
new story, commenced this week,

CONDOR-KILLING.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

 

»

 

 

When I was in Chili as a newspaper correspondent, in
1866, in company with several friends, I was invited by
Senor Vicenza, a wealthy Santiagueno, to visit his hacien-
da at Paso Portillo, a grand defile of the Andes, about
sixty miles east of Santiago.

We formed a lively party, including a number of ladies,
and, beside myself, another American, whom [ shall de-
nominate Sanders. The ride from the capital to Paso Por-
tillo, which was accomplished on horseback, was a diffi-
cult one, but the magnificent scenery through which we
passed more than compensated for the inconveniences of
the journey.

Santiago itself may be said to be almost at the foot of
the Cordilleras, so near do their towering, snow-covered
summits appear from any eminence of observation, but it
was only after threading the Jower spurs that we came to
appreciate the stupendous grandeur of the central range.

Tupungato—the tallest peak, except Aconcagua, which
was also visible—towered before us, partially covered
with snow and belted with light clouds, and emitting
from its apex a constant spiral of volcanic smoke. We
werethe more impressed with its hight by noticing the
flight of the great birds of prey—to which even that of
the eagie is insignificant—as they soared upward and up-
ward, without reaching more than half the eievation of
the kingly mountain, which made a background for their
sweeping forms.

We passed through ravines walled in by tremendous
cliffs, and marked the great rents and upheavals of the
terrible terramote or earthquake. We heard the thunder
of the distant avalanche, and the roar of cataracts. Now
and then we met or overlook herds of pack-mules and
lamas on their way to and from the vast ridges, which
looked so inaccessible, with their wild-eyed, savage-look-
bing drivers snapping their long whips and screaming in
their-rears. Otherwise, and but for the liveliness of our
party, the journey would have been lonely enough, owing
to the singular dearth of animal life in those mountain
solitudes; but when, a few hours before sunset, we
reached the elegant hacienda of our host, we were amply
repaid for the fatigue of our sixty miles’ ride.

he hacienda was situated in a most lovely valley, green
and pleasing with fields of waving grain, and, with its
numerous out-buildings and peon-huts of adobe, present-
ed almost the appearance of a little town. A religious
festival was to be celebrated on the following day, and
the peons were already preparing for it.

“They are going to have a buil-fight to-morrow,’’ said
Senor Vicenza, turning to my companion and myself;
“and after that, I think I shall show you some novel
sport.

‘What may that be ?*? I asked.

“T will show you how we kill condors.’”?

“Condors!?

Even as we spoke we could see two or three specks in
the sky, which, they told us, were these gigantic birds.

“Condors!’’ exclaimed Sanders; “I didn’t Know that
you could get near enough to shoot them, and, moreover,
Was not aware that they were good to eat.””

“We don’t kill them for food, but for amusement,” said
Senor Vicenza, laughing; ‘and we do not shoot, but catch
them,

We entered the hacienda, and spent a delightful eve-
ning. There was a piano and a guitar, upon both of
which the ladies of our party were proficients, as, iudeed,
are most of the educated ladies of Santiago; and we also
had dancing.

Sounds of rude music also throbbed incessantly from the
little houses adjoining, wherein the hardy peons, with
reed “‘dark-eyed senoritas,’’? anticipated the coming fes-
tival.

After coffee, on the following morning, Senor Vicenza
proposed a visit to the bull-fight. I had before witnessed
one of these contemptible and inhuman exhibitions in
Lima, and accepted the invitation with only assumed
alacrity; but the rest of the party, especially the ladies,
responded delightedly; and, indeed, an incident occurred
at this bull-fight which made it memorable to me.

The large corral, or staked inclogure, in Which the fight
was to take placé, covered a level space of nearly three
acres, and was already surrounded by the peous, male
and female, the latter decked out in their brightest colors,
and some of them appearing very pretty. hen we took
the rude seats which had been prepared for us, overlook-
ing the corral, a number of mounted fellows were already
galloping about upon their small, well-trained, wiry steeds,
while two bulls, a red one and a black one, were snorting
and bellowing menacingly within a smaller inclosure in
one corner of the corral.

The fighters were allon horseback, and were armed
with lassos, lances and cuchillos, or long, thin knives—
“ @ formidable array for one poor bovine to encounter.

t last, amid great clamor, a signal was given, and tle
red bull was released from his pen.

He sprang into the arena with a furious roar, and made
at the horsemen with lowered horns and flashing eyes.
But, nevertheless, this animal proved to be un collon (a
coward), and, despite his preliminary ferocity, his death
was simple slaughter. The riders easily avoided his hesi-
tating assaults, wheeled around him on their swift steeds,
launched their lassos unerringly, and, after tantalizing
him for some time, stabbed him to death in the most in-
i manner, amid the delighted shouts of the spec-

ators,

When the black bull was unloosed, however, the valiant
fighters encountered a different sort of customer. So
sudden and terrific was his charge that one horse was
disemboweled, and his rider—a stout young fellow—tossed
aloft, and instantly Killed, before the other men could re-
cover from their surprise.

[turned away with horror and disgust, but, to my
amazement, none of my own party—excepting Sanders—
appeared particularly disturbed by the tragedy; and, as
itappeared that the young man who was slain was a
comparative stranger, even the peon spectators mani-
fested scarcely any emotion at his death.

After much maneuvering on the part of the horsemen,
the black bull, though game to the last, was dispatched
in much the same manner as the other.

I was so sad and indignant with what I had witnessed
that I felt inclined to return to the hacienda alone, but the
assurance of Senor Vicenza that the condor sport would
commence presently induced me to conquer my aversion.

The body of the young man was removed to one of the
huts, and the carcasses of the bulls were dragged away,
but that of the disemboweled steed was suffered to re-
main where it had fallen.

‘What is that for, senor?” I inquired of my host.

“Bait for condors,”’ was the laconic reply.

‘ZT cannot understand how you can ‘catch’? condors,”?
said Sanders, ‘Even ui ihey do.come down here, surely
such high-soaring birds can eastiy fly over this fence.”

“But the condor,” said Senor Vicenza, smiling, “is a
much higher soarer upon an empty stomach than after
enjoying a hearty meal of carrion.”

Both Sanders and I scanned the sky around and could
see no birds. The vast pinnacles of the Cordilleras ap-
peared to have the airy solitudes all to themselves, and
we concluded that it would be a poor day for condors.

“I suppose,” said Sanders, who was possessed of a
quaint humor in his way, ‘‘! suppose the majestic vulpines
have scented some dead bodies on the other side of the
Sierras, and are now having a feast-day in Buenos Ayres
or Paraguay.’’

“Do not doubt that they will come,” said our host.

 

| noted heroes.

 

 

 

“They can scent their prey for many leagues, and you
will soon see them swooping down.”

_A few moments thereafter he called our attention to a
ie black speck in the sky, afar off over the snow-Clad
peaks.

“They are coming now,” he said.

The speck grew larger, and, one by one, other black
specks appeared behind it, growing steadily larger as
Lhe¥ Came, until there were a hundred or more in all. We
were now thoroughly interested, and watched the gradu-
ally enlarging specks intently. Pretty soon the foremost
one took the shape of a bird, as big as a far-distant crow.
With wings outspread, and its followers also developed
into birds,

Down they swept—down—down—down from their im-

measurable hights of air, until soon, swooping and flut-
tering scarcely a hundred yards above our heads, we be-
held the famous condor, the most powerful, the largest,
and the highest-soaring bird that files toward the heavens
—uand, let me add, the most repulsive in appearance,
Their hunger soon overcame their cowardice, and, one
after another, they settled upon the stakes and then into
the corral, and rushed toward the dead horse, regardless
of our presence and our cries.
The raven is a handsome, glossy bird, and I have seen
some specimens of the common vulture which were in-
teresting to look at; but the great coudor of the Andes is
loathsome to the last degree. In full flight, when far above
your head, in the broad sweep of his matchless wings, he
is certainly magnificent; but upon the ground, when
gorging himself with his foul meal, with his pinions drag-
gling in the mud, his long, bloated head and nairy, feath-
erless neck stretched forward toward the unholy feast, he
is certainly a most filthy monster.

Nearly a hundred must have settled within the inclos-

ure in less than five minutes after the leader had appeared
a speck in the Zenith. I think that nearly every spectator,
with the exception of Sanders and myself, positively
enjoyed the spectacle, though to us it was simply disgust-
ng.
The birds fought with each other, and crowded around
and over the dead horse. They tore up the tough hide
with their strong, heavy beaks, and dragged tle flesh
from around and between the bones with savage voracity.
The old birds would swaliow the bleeding flesh a pound
at the mouthful, and then rush for more, while the small-
er (and, I judge, the younger) would be content with
smaller morsels, It was a norrible and ghoul-like feast,
which will never be effaced from my memory.

At length the carcass was nothing more than a skele-
ton, and then the “sport,’? as our host termed it, com-
menced. Abouta dozen peons entered the coral, some
carrying lassos and others armed with spears, and began
the work of death upon the condors. The latter were
gorged to such excess that they could no longer fly.

A few managed to get over the stakes and escape, but
the large majority could only hop and flutter about, like
corer with their wings clipped, and were speedily dis-

atched.

P Strong as they were—some, Iam confident, were capa-
ble, when hungry, of bearing a full-grown sheep aloli—
when caught in the slip-noose of the lassos they were
utterly heipless, and were speedily ianced to death.

I thtnk sixty were slainin all. The bodies were drag-
ged away and thrown into a pit. for assuredly the stench
arising from such decaying bodies would have exceeded
the impurity of any carrion upon which they had preyed.
Condor-killing was indeed a novel spectacle, but one
which I have never cared to see repeated.

An Old Friend Gone.

Mr. John G. Lightbody, well and favorably known by.
almost everybody connected with the press as the leading
printing ink manufacturer of this city, departed this life
on Monday, the 26th of April, and now quietly reposes in
Greenwood Cemetery, there to rest till the fiual awaken-
ing. The funeral services took place in the Church of the
Holy Communion, and the immense assemblage present
testified clearly enough to the estimation in which the
deceased was held. We have known Mr. Lightbody for
many years, and in common with all who have enjoyed a

like privilege, we feel that we have not only lost a friend
but that the world has lost a useful member of society.
Mr. Lightbody, although having amassed a fortune in his
business, was a peculiarly unostentatious man—blunt,
outspoken, strictly honest, and the hater of everything
pretentious or mean. Most sincerely do we sympathize
with his family, who have lost in him all that a husband,
father and friend can be. May he rest in peace!

lo

 

 

 

A BOIL ON THE NOSE.

Itis a little thing, but it is a source of untold misery to
its unlucky proprietor.

We suppose you have had one? Almost everybody. has.

You feel it coming long before it really puts in a de-
cided appearance. Your nose feels tight and straight, and
it aches in little needle-like pains, and you are painfully
conscious of the fact that you are the possessor of a nose,

Whenever, for any cause, you n to be more con-
scious of owning one organ of the body than another,
then be assured there is disease there. A person in per-
fect health knows no ears, no eyes, no limbs, no feet—

are all concen inone comfortable feeling that
he is sound in every part.

A8 your nose grows worse, you begin to consult a hand-
mirror, and set it up against the window for a better light.
Your nose is likea painting—it requires a full head of
light; and indeed it looks as if it had not only been paint-
ed, but varnished.

Hourly it loses its fair proportions, and assumes no par-
ticular shape. It twists first to one side, and then to the
other; and it bulges out iike a broken umbrella, and the
space under youreye is puffed aud baggy, and the eye
itself shows signs of going under.

Your wife wants to go toa ball or an opera about that
time, but you are too much disfigured to venture, and she
is sulky in consequence, and spitefully says she wishes she
had married & man who wasn’t foreverlastingly having
boils. And she adds that she might as well have been Mrs.
Job, and done with it.

Your small children eye you curiously, and tell you con-
fidentially that your nose looks just like old Blazo’s when
he’s tight; and they embrace the first opportunity of ask-
ing their mother “if she thinks father drinks,”’

Everybody you meet asks you if you have been fight-
ing. People in the street-cars stare a4 you, and whisper
about small-pox, and move farther off.

School-girls giggle when they meet you, and from small
boys you get saluted in this wise:

‘Say, nose! where are you going with that man???

How earnestly you watch therising and swelling of
your tormentor! Noculturist of roses ever watched the
unfolding of some new and rare variety of rose bud with
aby more solicitude,

How long it is coming to a headi

Everybody laughs at your uneasiness, and tells youte
be patient,

How slow the time is in passing! Will it never be next
week? Why doesn’t the abomination break? Will it leave
dae ? What did make itcome? Willthere be more of

em

Why didn’t you appreciate your felicity when you hadn’t
any boil?

At last, after you have completeiy given out, and have
become resigned to a perpetual boil on your nose, the
swelling suddenly collapses, the ‘core’? comes out,

an Rich ard is himself again}?! KatE THORN.
———__ > @«
EAGLE’S Nest, April 27, £875.

Messrs. Street & Smith.—Through the kindness of
anoted Texan ranger, aided by several of his friends,
who have placed campaigning notes, letters and life
sketches in my hands, added to my own knowledge
of the country in which the Kiowas and Comanches
hold almost undisputed sway, about the headwaters
of the Rio Concho, Colorado and Wichita rivers,
among the Kiowa peaks, and along the Staked
Plain, I have been enabled to write up the best bor-
der story that I everundertook. Every character is
real, well-known on the Texan border; and when I
mention such men as the late General Sam Houston,
Captain Ed Burleson, Old Rocky, Reckless Joe, Cor-
tinas the Mexican robber hero, and over twenty of
the leading rangers on the border, as taking part in
the adventures which form the life of the story, you
may well know it cannot be otherwise than thrill-
ing. Samuel G. Hall, better known as the “Little
Yank,” or “Buckskin Sam,” takes the lead as the
hero of the story, which I have called “Litre Yang;,
THE ScALP-TAKER;” and I herewith forward his like-.
ness, taken in ranger costume, in order that you.
may see what manner of man he looks like.

Born in Worcester, Mass., and yet well-known
there, beginning life as a newsboy, then trying New
York life as assistant steward at Lovejoy’s Hotel,
where he met an old Texan Hunter, who induced -
him to become a Texan Ranger, his natural.bravery-
and adventurous disposition made him foremost in.
every fray, until his life went far ahead’of the dull
phases of ordinary fiction and became a romance
worthy of the days of knight-errantry.

But I will not anticipate—the story is yours and I
am proud of it, its two fair heroines, and its twenty

Ever truly yours,
E. Z. C. Jupson, alias NED BUNTLINE.

Will Soon Be Commenced
ROSE MICHEL..

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Such as you gave I give to you;”
Those words you hissed into my ear,
Have rung through revel’s gayest hour,
And rayless midnight’s lone and drear.

With eager hate your path I’ve marked,
Though all the watching brought was pain.
l’ve waited, gloating o’er the time
I fling your fierce words back again.

I’ve watched and waited long, long years;
At last the broken link was found,

Where through your armor’s glittering front
1 yet might give the deadly wound.

To-night, to quench this burning thirst,
Which for long years has urged me on,

To gloat my vengeance on your woe,
To-night I sought your palace home.

The Dower was mine—I could have crushed
The flower which in your heart is worn—

Have turned your light and joy to night
Far darker than you yet have borne,

But pausing there to think this hand
So soon your proud, cold heart should wring,
A prayer came from her fresh, y oung lips,

A prayer for all the suffering.
* * * * * * *

Powerless it struck this guilty arm,
Nerveless this hand by sin defiled,

Disarmed, for aye, this wicked heart,
That prayer of murdered Bertie’s child.

LOVE
WORKS WONDERS!

By CM B.,
Author of “THROWN ON THE WORLD.”

CHAPTER I.

There had been some little unpleasantness when
Madame Selini’s Agency Office was first established
in the aristocratic neighborhood of South Audley
Street. It was not considered quite the right quar-
ter for it. It was actually next door to the family
mansion of the Right Honorable the Countess Dow-
ager of Barewood, who spoke of it with uplifted
eyes and upraised hands. Nevertheless, in a short
space ot time, Madame Selini’s office became an es-
tablished institution, and ceased to cause any com-
ment.

One fine morning in May a carriage stopped before
Madame Selini’s door, and from it descended a hand-
some, aristocratic gentleman, evidently of the old
school. There was some little commotion in the in-
terior of the building, and then a foot-page appear-
ed, to whom Sir Oswald Darrell—for that was the
gentleman’s name—gave his card.

“Tam here by appointment,” he said, ‘‘to see
Madame Selini.”

He was ushered into a handsomely furnished
room, where, ina few minutes, he was joined by
Madame Selini herself—a quick, bright French-
woman, whose dark eyes seemed to embrace every-
thing in their comprehensive glance. Sir Oswald
bowed with stately courtesy and quaint, old-fashion-
ed grace.

‘““Have you been so fortunate, madame, as to find
that which I am in search of?” he inquired.

‘“‘T think you will be pleased, Sir Oswald—nay, I
am sure you will,” answered the lady. “I have a
lady waiting to see you now, who will prove, I should
say, a treasure.”

Sir Oswald bowed, and madame continued:

“Miss Hastings—Miss Agnes Hastings—has been
for the last six years finishing governess as Lady
Castledine’s, and her two pupils make their debut
this year; so that there is no longer any occasion
for her services.”

‘*And you think she would be fitted, madame, to
occupy the position for which I require a lady of
talent and refinement ?”

“T am quite sure of it,” replied madame. ‘‘Miss
Hastings is thirty years of age. She is highly ac-
complished, and her manners are exceedingly lady-
like. She isa person of great refinement; more-
over, she has had great experience with young girls.
I do not think, Sir Oswald, that you could do bet-
ter.

“ “Ts the lady here? Can I see her?”

Madame Se lini rang, and desired the little page to
ask Miss Hasti to come to her. In a few minutes
an elegant, well-dressed lady entered the room. She
advanced with quiet grace and dignity that seemed
natural to her; there was not the slightest trace of
awkwardness or mauvaise honte in her manner.

see Selini introduced her to Sir Oswald Dar-
rell.

‘“T will leave you,” she said, ‘to discuss your pri-
vate arrangements.” :

Madame quitted the room with gliding, subtle
grace, and then Sir Oswald, in his courtly fashion,
placed a chair for Miss Hastings. He looked at the
pale, clear-cut face for a few minutes in silence, as
though he were at a loss what to say, and then he
commenced suddenly:

‘‘Tsuppose Madame Selini has told you what I
want, Miss Hastings ?”

‘*Yes,” was the quiet reply; ‘‘your niece has been
neglected—you want some one to take the entire
superintendence of her.”

“Neglected!” exclaimed Sir Oswald. ‘‘My dear
madame, that isa mild word, which does not ex~
press. the dreadful reality. I wish to disguise
nothing from you, I assure you—she literally horri-
fies me,”

Miss Hastings smiled.

“Neglected!” he repeated—‘“‘the girl is a savage—
a splendid savage—nothing more nor less.”

**Has she not received any kind of training, then,
Sir Gswald ?” ik

‘Training! My dear madame, can you imagine
what a wild vine is—a vine that has never been cul-
tivated or pruned, but allowed to grow wild in all
its natural beauty and strength, to cling where it
would, to trail on the ground and to twine round
forest trees? Such a vine is a fit type of my niece.

Miss Hastings looked slightly bewildered. Here
was a very different pupil from the elegant, graceful
daughters of Lady Cag Siler errs 5 Se

“J should, perhaps, contikted Sir Oswald, “ex-
plain to you the peculiar position that my niece,
Miss Pauline Darrell, has ootupied.”

His grand old face flushed, and his stalely head
was bowed, as though some of the memories that
swept over him were not free from shame; and
then, with a little gesture of his white hand, on
which shone a large diamond ring, he said:

“There is no need for me to tell you, Miss Has-
tings, that the Darrells are one of the oldest families
in England—ancient, honorabie, and, I must confess,
proud—very proud. My father, the late Sir Hilde-
bert Darrell, was, I should say, one of the proudest
and most reserved of men. He had but two chil-
dren, myself anda daughter twelve years younger
—my sister Felicia. Iwas educated abroad. It was
one of my father’s fancies that I should see many
lands, that I should study men and women before
settling down to my right positionia the world; so
that I knew but little of my sister Feiicia. She was
a child when I left home—the tragedy of her life
had happened before I returned,”

Again a great rush of color came over the pale,
aristocratlt face.

“J must apologize, Miss Hastings, for OURD AG
you with these details, but unless you understan
them you will not understand my niece. I cannot
tell you how it happened, but it did so happen thet
while I was away my sister disgraced herself; she
left home with a French artist, whom Sir Hildelbert
had engaged to renovate some choice and costly pic-
tures at Darrel Court. How it came about I cannot
say—perhaps there were excuses for her. She may
have found home very dull—my father was harsh
and cold, and her mother was dead, It may be that
when the young artist told her of warm love in sun-
ny lands she was tempted, poor child, to leave the
paternal roof.

“My father’s wrath was terr@ie; he pursued Julian
L’Estrange with unrelenting fury. I believe the
man would have been a successful artist but for my
father, who had vowed to ruin him, and who never
rested until he had done so—until he had reduced
him to direst poverty—and then my sister appealed
for help, and my tather refused to grant it. He
would not allow her name to be mentioned among

 

us; her portrait was destroyed; bob ame belong-'

ing to her was sent away from Darrell Court.
“When I returned—in an interview that I shall
never Ores father threatened me not only
with disinheritance, but with his curse, if I made
any attempt to hold the least communication with
my sister. I do not know that I should have obeyed

him if I could have found ‘her, but I did not even know’

what part of the world'she wasin, She died, poor

 

<i THE NEW YORK

 

girl, and I have no doubt that her death was greatly
hastened by privation. My father told me of her
death, also that she had left one daughter; he did
more—he wrote to Julian L’Estrange, and offered to
adopt his daughter on the one condition that he
would consent never to see her or hold the least
communication with her.

~The reply was, as you may imagine, a firm refusal
and a fierce denunciation. Inthe same letter came
a note, written in a large, childish hand: ‘I love my
papa, and I do not love you. I will not come to live
with you. You area cruel man, and you helped to
kill my dear mamma.’ It was a characteristic little
note, and was signed ‘Pauline L’Estrange.’ My
father’s anger on receiving it was very great. I
confess that I was more amused than angry.

“My father, Miss Hastings, lived to a good old age.
} I was not a young man when I succeeded him. He
left me all his property. You must understand the
Darrell and Audleigh Royal estates are not entailed.
He made no mention in his will of the only grand-
child he had; but, after I had arranged all my
affairs, I resolved to find her. For ten years I have
been doing all I could—sending to France, Italy,
Spain, and every country where I thought it possi-
ble the artist might have sought refuge.

‘Three months since I received a letter from him,
written on his deathbed, asking me to do something
for Pauline, who had grown up into a beautiful girl
of seventeen. I found then that he had been living
for some years in the Rue d’Orme, Paris. I burie
him, brought his daughter to England, and made
arrangements whereby she should assume the name
of Darrell. But I little knew what a task I had un-
dertaken. Pauline ought to be my heiress, Miss
Hastings. She ought to succeed me at Darrell Court.
T have no other relatives. But—well, I will not des-
pair; you will see what can be done with her.”

‘“Wiliat are her deficiencies?” asked Miss Hastings. ~__

Sir Oswald raised his white hands with a gesture of de-
spair.

nl will tell you briefly. She has lived among artists.
She does not seem to have ever kuown apy of her own
sex, She is—I am sorry to use the word—a perfect Bohe-
mian. Whether she can be transformed into anything
faintly resembling a lady, I cannot tell. Will you under-
take the task, Miss Hastings?”

She looked very thoughtful fer some minutes, and then
answered:

“T will do my best, Sir Oswald.”

‘I thank you very much. You must permit me to name
liberal terms, for your task will be no light one.’

And the interview ended, to their mutual satisfaction.

 

CHAPTER I.

It was a beautiful May day, bright with fresh spring
Yoveliness. The leaves were springing fresh and green
frum the trees; the hedges were all abloom with pink
hawthorn; the chestnut trees were all in flower; the gold
of the laburnum,-the purple of the lilac, the white of the
fair acacia trees, and the delicate green of the stately elms
and limes gave a beautiful variety of color. The grass
wus dotted with a hundred wild-flowers; great clusters
of yellow buttercups looked in the distance iike the up-
spreading of asea of gold; the violets perfumed the air,
the bluebells stirred in the sweet spring breeze, and the
birds sang out loudly and jubilantly.

If one spot looked more lovely than another on this
bright May day, it was Darrell Court, for it stood where
the sun shoue brightest, in one of the most romantic and
picturesque nooks of England—the part of Woodshire
bordering on the sea.

The mansion and estates stood on gently rising ground;
a chain of purple hills stretched away into the far dis-
tance; then came the pretty town of Audleigh Royal, the
Audieigh Woods, and the broad, deep river Darte. The
bank of the river formed the boundary of the Darrell es-
tates, arich and magnificent heritage, wherein every
beauty of meadow and wood seemed to meet. The park
was rich in its stately trees and herds of deer; and not far
from the house was a fir-wood—an aromatic, odorous fir-
wood, which Jed to the very shores of the smiling southern
sea.

By night and by day the grand music of nature was
heard in perfection at Darrell Court. Sometimes it was
the roll of the wind across the hills, or the beat of angry
waves on the shore, or the wild melody of the storm
among the pine trees, or the full chorus of a thousand
feathered songsters. The Court itself was one of the
most picturesque of mansions. It did not belong to any
one order or style of architecture—there was nothing stiff
or formal about it—but it looked in that bright May sun-
shine a noble edifice, with its square towers covered with
clinging ivy, gray turrets, and large arched windows.

Did the sun ever shine upon such a combination of
color? The spray of the fountains giittered in the air, the
numerous balconies were filled with flowers; wherever it
was possible for a flower to take root, one had been placed
to grow—purple wistarias, sad, solemn passion-flowers,
roses of every hue, The star-like jessamine and scariet
creepers gaye to the wallsof the old mansion a vivid

 

 

glow of color; gold and purple enriched the gardens,
heavy white lilies breathed faintest perfume. The spot
looked a very Eden.

The grand front entrance consisted of a large gothic
porch, which was reached by a broad fligit of steps,
adorned with white marble vases filled with flowers; the
yet terrace Wa8 immediately below, and terrace led 1rom
terrace down to the grand old gardens, where sweetest
blossoms grew.

There was an old-world air about the place—something
patrician, quiet, reserved. It was no vulgar haunt for
vulgar crowds; it was not a show place; and the master
of it, Sir Oswald Darrell, as he stood upon the terrace,
looked in keeping with the surroundings.

There was a distingue air about Sir Oswald, an old-
fashioned courtly dignity, which never for one moment
left him. He was thoroughly weil bred; he had not two
sets of manners—one for the world, and one for private
life; he was always the same, measured in speech, noble
in his graye condescension. No man ever more thoroughly
deserved the name of aristocrat; he was delicate and fas-
tidious, with profound and deeply-rooted dislike for afi
that was ill-bred, vulgar, or mean.

Even in his dress Sir Oswald wag remarkable; the su-
perfine white linen, tle diamond studs and sleeve links,
the rare jewels that gleamed on his fingers—ail struck the
attention; and, as he took from his pocket a richly en-
graved golden snufl-box and tapped it with the ends of
his delicate white fingers, there stood revealed a thorough
aristocrat—the ideal of an English patrician gentleman.

; Sir Oswald walked round the stately terraces and gar-
ens.

“J do not see her,’? he said to himself; ‘‘yet most cer-

tainly Frampton told me she was here.”

Then, with his gold-headed cane in hand, Sir Oswald

descended to the gardens. He was evidently im search of

some one. Meeting one of the gardeners, who stood, hat

in hand, as he passed by, Sir Oswald asked: .

‘Have you seen Miss Darrell in the gardens?’?

‘“} saw Miss Darrell in the fernery some five minutes

since, Sir Oswald,’’ was the reply.

Sir Oswald drew from his pocket a very fine white

handkerchief and diffused an agreeable odor of millefleurs

around him; the gardener had veen near the stables, aud

Sir Oswald was fastidious.

A short walk brought him to the fernery, an exquisite

combination of rock and rustic work, arched by a dainty

green roof,and made musical by the ripple of a little

waterfall. Sir Oswald looked in cautiously, evidently

rather in dread of what he might find there; then his eyes

fell upon something, and he said:

“Pauline, are you there??? ge

au, Gleas, Musical YOiae answered:
“Yes, {am here, uncle.”

“My dear,’ continued Sir Oswald, half timidly, not ad-

yancing a step farther into the grotto, ‘‘may lask what

you are doing?’

“Certainly, uncle,’? was the cheerful reply; ‘‘you may

ask by all means. The difficulty is to answer; for I am

really doing nothing, andi do not know how to describe

‘nothing.’ ”?

“Why did you come hither?” he asked.

“To dream,” replied the musical voice. “I think the

sound of falling water is the sweetest music in the world.

I came here to enjoy it, and to dream over it.”

Sir Oswald looked very uncomfortable.

“Considering, Pauline, how much you have been ne-

glected, do you not think you oe spend your time more

profitably—in educating yourself, for example ?”?

“This is educating myself, Iam teaching myseif beau-
tiful thoughts, and pature just now is my singing mis-
tress.’?> And then the speaker’s voice suddenly changed,
and a ring of passion came intoit. ‘Who says that I
have been neglected? When you say that, you speak ill of
my dear dead father, and no one shall do that in my pre-
sence. You speak slander, and slander ill becomes an
English gentleman. If I was neglected when my father
waa alive, I wish to goodness such neglect were my por-
tion nowP? “

Sir Oswald shrugged his sliouiders. ;

‘Bach one to his or her taste, Pauline, With very little
more of such neglect you would have been a+’?

He paused; perliaps some instinct of prudence warned
him.

“A what?? she demanded, gseornfully. ‘Pray finish
the sentence, Sir Oswald.”

“My dear, you are too impulsive, too hasty. You want
more quietness of manner, more dignity.”’

Her voice deepened in its tones as she asked:

“| should have been a what, Sir Oswald? I never be-
giu a kentence and leave it half-finished. You surely are
not afraid to finish it???

“No, my dear,”? was the calm reply; ‘‘there never yet
was & Darrell afraid of nt on earth. If you par-
ticularly wish me to do so, I will finish what I was about
tosay. You would have been a'confirmed Bohemian, and
nothing could have made you a lady.”

“LT love what you call Bohemians, and I detest what you
call ladies, Sir Oswald,’? Was the amgry retort.

“Most probably; but then, you ‘see, Pauline, the ladies
of the house of Darrell have always been ladies—highi-
bred, elegant women. I doubt if any of them ever knew
what the word ‘Bohemian’ meant.”

‘She lauglied a little scornful laugh, which yet was sweet
and clear as the sound of silver bells.

“7 had almost forgotten,’ said Sir Oswald. ‘I came to
speak to you about something, Pauline; will you come
inlo the house with me?’

They walkéd dn together in silence for some minutes,
and tien Sir Oswald began.

“I went to London, as you know, last week, Pauline,
‘arid my etrand ‘was on your behalf.’

She raised her‘eyebrows, but did not deign to ask any
‘questions.

TB

 

“T have engaged a lady to live with us here at Darrell
Court, whose duties will be to finish your education, or,
rather, I may truthiully say, to begin it, to train you in
the habits of refined society, to—to—make you present-
able, in fact, Pauline, which I am sorry, really sorry to
say, you are not at present.” ki

She made him a low bow—a bow full of defiance and
rebellion.

“T am indeed indebted to you, Sir Oswald.”

“No uifling,’’ said the stately baronet, ‘‘no sarcasm,
Pauline, but listen tome! You are not without sense or

reason—pray attend. Look around you,” he continued;
“remember that the broad fair lands of Darrell Court form
one of the grandest domainsin England. It is an inherit-
ance almost royal in its extent and magnificence. Whoso
reigns here is king oy queen of half a county, is looked
up to, respected, honored, admired, and imitated. The
owner of Darrell Court is a power even in this powerful
land of ours; men and women iook up to such a one for
guidance and example. Judge then what the owner of
the inheritance should be.”

The baronew’s grand old face was flushed with emotion.

“He must be pure, or he would make immorality the
fashion; honorable, because men Will take their notions of

honor from him; just, that justice may abound; upright,
Stainless. You see all that, Pauline?”

“*Yes,’? she assented, quickly.

“No men have so much to answer for,’ continued Sir
Oswald, ‘“‘as the great ones of the land—men in whose
hands power is yested—men to whom others look for ex-
ample, on whose lives other lives are modellea—men who,
as it were, carry the minds, if not the souls, of their fel-
low men in the hollows of their hands,”

Pauline looked more impressed, and insensibly drew
nearer to him.

“Such men, I thank Heaven,” he said, standing bare-
headed as he uttered the words, ‘have the Darrells been
—loyal, upright, honest, honorable, of stainless repute, of
Stainless life, fitted to rule their fellow men—grand men,
sprung from a grand oldrace. And at times women have
reigned here—women whose names have lived in the an-
nals of the Jand—who have been as shining lights from
the purity, the refinement, the grandeur of their lives.’”

He spoke with a passion of eloquence not lost on the
girl by his side.

“7.? he continued, humbly, ‘am one of the least wor-
thy of my race. 1 have done nothing for its advance-
ment; but at the same time I have done nothing to dis-
grace it. Ihave carried on the honors passively. The
lime is coming when Darrell Court must pass into other
hands. Now, Panline. you have heard, you know what
the ruler of Darrell Court should be. Tell me, are you
fitted to take your place here???

“] am very young,’”’ she murmured.

“It is not a question of youth. Dame Sibella Darrell
reigned here when she was only eighteen; and the sons
she trained tosucceed her were among the greatest states-
men England hasever known. Sheimproved and en-
larged- the property; she died, after living here sixty
yeurs, beloved, honored, and revered. It is not a question
of age.

“Tam a Darrell!’ said the girl, proudly.

“Yes, you have the face and figure of a Darrell; you
bear the name, too; but you have not the grace and man-
ner of a Darrell.”’

“Those are mere outward matters of polish and veneer,”
she said, impatiently.

“Nay, notso. You would not think it right to see an
unformed, untrained, uneducated, ignorant girl at the
head of such a house as this. What did you do yester-
day? A maid displeased you. You boxed herears. Just
imagine it. Such a proceeding on the partof the mis-
tress of Darrell Court would fill one with horror.”

A slight smile rippled over the full crimson lips,

“Queen Elizabeth boxed her courtiers’ ears,’’? said the
girl, ‘‘and it seemed right to her.”

“A queen, Pauline, is hedged in by her own royalty;
she may do what she will. The very fact that you are
capable of defending an action so violent, so unladylike,
so opposed to all one’s ideas of feminine delicacy, proves
that you are unfit for the position you ought to occupy.”

“Tam honest, atleast. Imake no pretensions to be
what I am not.’?

“So is my butler honest, but that does not fit him to be
master of Darrell Court. Honesty is but one quality—a
good one, sturdy and strong; it requires not one, but
many qualities to hold such @ position asl would fain
have you occupy.”’

Miss Darrell’s patience was evidently at an end.

‘“‘And the upshot of all this, Sir Oswald, is——”

“Exactly so—that 1 am anxious to give you every
chance in my power—that I have found an estimable, re-
fined, elegant woman, whgwill devote her time and tal-
ents to train you and fit you for society.”

A low, musical laugh broke from the perfect lips.

‘“‘Have you any idea,’? she asked, ‘‘what I shall be like
when I am trained ???

“Like a lady, I trust—a well-bred lady.
nothing more beautiful than that.”’

“When isshe coming, this model of yours, Sir Os-
wald???

“Nay, your modei, niece, not mine.
and I wish to introduce her to you.
possible,’”? he concluded, meekly,
impression on her.”?

There was another fmpatient murmur.

“| wish you to understand, Pauline,’’ he resumed, after
a short pause, ‘that { shall expect you to render the most
implicit obedience to Miss Hastings—to follow whatever
rules she may lay down for yot. to attend to your studies
a8 she directs them, to pay thé” greatest heed to all her
corrections, to Copy her styie, toimitate her manners,

to——”?
“T would

Ican imagine

She is here now,
I should like you, if
‘to make a favorable

“T hate her!? was the impetuous outburst.
sooner.be a beggar all my ijife than submit to such re-
straint.”

“Very well,’ returned Sir Oswald, calmly.
that arguing with youis time lost. The choice lies with
yourself. If you decide to do as I wish—to study to be-
come a lady in the truest sense of the word—if you will fit
yourself forthe position, you shall be heiress of Darrell
Court; if not—if you persist in your present unladylike,
unrefined, Bohemian manner, 1shall leave the whole
property to some one else, I tell you the plain truth with-
out any disguise.”

“I do not want Darrell Court! she cried, passionately;
“jt is a prison to me!’

*] excuse you,’’ rejoined Sir Oswaid, coldly; ‘‘you are
excited, and so not answerable for what you say.”?
“Uncle,” said the girl, **do you see that beautiful sing-
ing bird there, giving voice to such glorious melody? Do
you think you could catch it and put it in a cage ?

“I have no doubt that I could,’ replied Sir Oswald.
“But, if you did,” she persisted; ‘even suppose you
could make it forget its own wild melodies, could you
teach it to sing formally by note and at your will?”

“| have never supposed anything of the kind,’’ said Sir
Oswald. “You are possessed of far too much of that kind
of nonsense. The young ladies of the present day—prop-
erly educated girls—do not talk im that way.”

“T can easily believe it,’? she returned, bitterly.

“Miss Hastings is in the library,” said Sir Oswald, as
they entered the house. ‘I hope tosee you receive her
kindly. Put away that frown, Pauline, and smileif you
can. Remember, it is characteristic of the Darrells to be
gracious to strangers.”?

With these words Sir Oswald opened the library door,
and holding his niece’s hand, entered the room. Miss
Hastings rose to receive them. He Jed Pauline to her,
and in the Kindest manuer possible introduced them to
each other.

“T will leave you together,’ hesaid. ‘Pauline will
show you your rooms, Miss Hastings; and I hope that you
will soon feel happy, and quite at home with us.’?

Sir Oswald quitted the library, leaying the two ladies
jooking in silence at each other.

“T know

ee

CHAPTER Ul.

Miss Hastings had beén prepared to see a hoyden, an
awkward, unfledged schoolgirl, one who, never having
seen much of good society, had none of the little graces
and charms that distinguish young ladies. She had ex-
pected to see a fall, gaunt girl, With red hands, and a gen-
eral air of not kuowinug what to do with herself—that was
the idea she had formed. She gazed in wonder at the
reality—a magnificent figure—a girl whose grand, pale,
statuesque beauty was something that could never be for-
gotten, There was nothing of the boarding-school young
lady about her, no acquired graces. She was simply mag-
nificent—-no other word could describe her. Miss Hast-
ings, as she looked at her, thought involuntarily of the
graceful Jines, the beautiful curves, the grand, free grace
of the world-renowned Diana of the Louvre; there was
the same arched, graceful neck, the sameroyal symmetry,
the Same harmony of outiine.

In one of the most celebrated art galleries of Rome
Miss Hastings remembered to have seen a superb bust of
Juno; as she looked at her new pupil, she could almost
fancy thatits head had been modeled from hers. Pau-
line’s head was royalinits queenly ¢ofttour; the brow
low, white and rounded at the tensples; the hair, waving
in lines of inexpressible beauty, was loosely gathered to-
gether and fastened behind with a gleaming silver arrow.
The eyes were perhaps the most wonderiul feature in that
wonderful face; they were dark as night itself, somewhat
in hue like a purple heartsease, rich, soft, dreamy, yet at
times all fire, all brightness, filled with passion more in-
tense than any words, and shining then with a strange
half-golden light. The brows were straight, dark, and
beautiful; the lips crimson, full, and exquisitely shaped;
the mouth looked like one that could persuade or @on-
temn—that could express tenderness or scora, love or
pride, with the slightest play of the lips,

Every attitude the girl assumed was full of unconscious
grace. She did not appear to be in the least conscious of
her wonderful beauty. Shehad walked to the window,
and stood leaning carelessly against the frame, one beau-
tifal arm thrown above her head, as though she were
weary, and would fain rest—an attitade that could not
have been surpassed had she studied for years.

“You are not at all what I expected to see,’ said Miss
Hastings, at last. “You, are, indeed, so different that I
am taken by surprise.’?

‘Am I better or worse than you had imagined me?’ she
asked, with eareless scorm

“You are different—better, perhaps, in some things.
You aretslier. You are so tall that it will be difficult to
remember you are a pupil.”?

“The Durrells are a tall race,’ she said, quietly. ‘‘Miss
Hastings, what are you come here to teach me?”

The elder lady rose from her seat and looked lovingly
into the face of the girl; she placed her hand caressingly
on the slender shoulders, :

“I know what I should like to teach you, Miss Darrell,
if you'will let me. Ishould like to teach you your duty
to Heaven, your fellow-creatures, and yourself.’

“That would be dry learning, 1 fear,’? she returned.
“What ddes my uncle Wish me to learn???

te ee

 

“To be-in all respects ‘a perfectly refined,'graceftil lady.”

20 Sane _ me =

 

 

Her face flushed with a great crimson wave that rose to
the white brow and the delicate shell-like ears.

“I shall never be that,’? she cried, passionately. “TI
may just as wellgive up all hopes of Darrell Court. |
have seen some ladies sincel have been here. I could
not be like them. They seem to speak by rule; they ali
Say the same Kind of things, with the same smiles, in the
Same tone of voice; they follow each other like sheep;
they seem frightened to advance an opinion of their
own, or even give utterance to an original thought. They
look upon me as something horrible, because | dare to
say what I think, and have read every book I could find.”

“It is not always best to put our thoughts into speech;
and the chances are, Miss Darrell, that, if you have read
every book you could find, you have read many that
would have been better left alone. You are giving a very
one-sided, prejudiced view after all.’?

She raised her beautiful head with a gesture of superb
disdain.

“There is the same difference between them and my-
self as between a mechanical singing bird made to sing
three tunes and a wild, sweet bird of the woods. I like
my own self best.”?

“There is not the least doubt of that,’? observed Miss
Hastings, with asmile; ‘‘but the question is not so much
what we like onrselves as what others like in us. How-
ever, We will discuss that at another time, Miss Darreil.”’

“Has my uncle told you that if I please him—it I can
be molded into the right form—I am to be heiress of Dar-
rell Court?” she asked, quickly.

“Yes; and now thatI have seen youlam persuaded
that you can be any thing you wish.”

‘Do you think, then, that I am clever?’? she asked,
eagerly.

“IT should imagine 80,’’ replied Miss Hastings. ‘‘Pauline
—I need not call you Miss Darrell—I hope we shall be
friends; I trust we shall be happy togethér.”

“It is not very likely,” she said slowly, ‘that I can like
you, Miss Hastings.”’

“Why not??? asked the governess, astonished at her
frankness.

“Because you are to correct me; continual correction
will be a great annoyance, and will prevent my really
liking you.’

Miss Hastings looked astounded.

“That may be, Pauline,’ she said; ‘‘but do you know
that it is not polite of you to say so? In good society one
does not tell such unpleasaut truths.’? ?

“Phat is just it,? was the eager retort; ‘‘that is why I
do not like good society, and shall never be fitforit. I
am truthful by nature. In my father’s house and among
his friends there was never any need to conceal the truth;
we always spoke it frankly. if we did not like each other,
we said so. But here, itseems to me, the first lesson
learned to fit one for society is to speak falsely.”’

“Not so, Pauline; but, when the truth is likely to hurt
another’s feelings, to wound susceptibility or pride, why
speak it, unless it is called for?’

Pauline moved her white arms with a superb gesture of
scorn.

‘T would rather any day hear the truth and have my
mind hurt,” she said, energetically, ‘‘than feel that people
were smiling at me and deceiving me. Lady Rampton
visits Sir Oswald. Ido not ljike her, and she does not
like me; but she always asks Sir Oswald how his ‘dear
niece’ is, and she calls me a ‘sweet creature—origina), but
very sweet.’ You can see for yourself, Miss Hastings,
that I am not that.”

“Indeed, you are not sweet,’? returned the governess,
smiling; ‘‘but, Pauline, you are a mimic, and mimicry is
a dangerous gift.”

She had imitated Lady Hampton’s languid tones and
affected accent to perfection.

“Sir Oswald bows and smiles all the time Lady Hamp.
ton is talking to him; he stands first upon one foot, and
then upon the ether. You would think, to listen to him,
that he was so charmed with her ladyship that he could
not exist out of her presence. Yet I have seen him quite
delighted at her departure, and twice I heard him say
‘Thank Heaven’—it was forthe relief. Your good society
is all deceit, Miss Hastings.”’

“Tf will not have you say that, Pauline. Amiability,
and the desire always tobe kind and considerate, may
carry one to extremes at times; but I am inclined to
prefer the amiability that spares to the trut that wounds.”’

“J am not,’? was the blunt rejoinder. ‘Will you come
to your rooms, Miss Hastings? Sir Oswald has ordered a
suite to be prepared entirely for our use. I have three
rooms, you have four; and there is astudy that we can
usé together.’

They went through the broad stately corridors, where
the warm sun shone in at the windows, and the flowers
breathed sweetest perfume. The rooms that had been
prepared for them were bright and pleasant with a beau-
tiful view from the windows, well furnished, and suppiied
with every comfort. A sigh came from Miss Hastings as
she gazed—it was all so pieasant. But it seemed very
doubtful to her whether she would remain or not—very
doubtful whother she would be able to make what Sir Os-
wald desired out of that frank, free-spoken girl, who had
not one conventional idea. ;

“Sir Oswald is very kind,’ she said, at length, looking
around her; ‘‘these rooms are exceedingly nice.”’

“They are nice,’ said Pauline; ‘but I was happier with
myfatherin the Rue d’Orme. Ah me, what liberty we
had there! In this stately life I feel as though I were
bound with cords, or shackled with chains—as though I
longed to stretch out my arms and fiy away.”’

Again Miss Hastings sighed, for it seemed to her that
the time of her residence at Darrell Court would in all
probability be very short.

CHAPTER IV.

Two days had passed since Miss Hastings’ arrival. On
a beautiful morning, when the sun was shining and the
birds were singing in the trees, she sat in the study,
with an expression of deepest anxiety, of deepest thought
on her face. Pauline, with a smile on her lips, sat oppo-
site to her, and there was profound silence.“ Miss Darrell
was the first to break it,

“Well,” she asked, laughingly, ‘‘what is your verdict,
Miss Hastings ?”?

The elder lady looked up with a long, deep-drawn sigh.
“Ihave mnever been so completely puzzied in all my
life,”’ she replied. ‘‘My dear Pauline, you are the strangest
mixture of ignorance and knowledge thatI have ever
met. You know agreat deal, but it is all of the wrong
kind; you ought to unlearm all that you have learned.”’
“You admit then that I know something.”’

“Yes; but it would be almost better, perhaps, if you
did not. I will tell you how I feel, Pauline. I know
nothing of building, but I feel as though I had been
placed before a heap of marble, porphyry, and granite,
of wood, glass, and iron, and tnen told from those ma-
terials to shape a magnificent palace. I am at a loss
what to do.’?

Miss Darrell laughed with the glee of a child. Her
governess, repressing her surprise, continued:

“You know more in some respects than most edu-
cated women: in other and equally essential matters
you know jess than a child. You speak French fluently,
perfectly; you have read. a large number of books in the
French language—good, bad, and indifferent, it appears
to me; yet you have no more idea of French grammar or
of the idiom or construction of the language than a child.”
“That, indeed, I have not; 1 consider grammar the
most stupid of al! human inventions.”

Miss Hastings offered no comment.

‘“Again,’’ she continued, ‘you speak good English, but
your spelling igs bad, and your writing worse. You are
better acquainted with English literature than I am—that
is, you have read more. You have read indiscriminately;
even the titles of some of the books you have read are not
admissable.’? --

né dark éyes flashed, and the pale, grand face was
stirred as though by some sudden emotion.

“There was a large library in the house where we lived,”
she explained, hurriedly, ‘‘and I read every book init. I
read from early morning until late at night, and some-
times from night until morning; there was uo one to tell
me what was right and what was wrong, Miss Hastings.”
“Then,” continued the governess, ‘‘you have written a
spirited poem on Anne Boleyn, but you know nothing of
English history—neither the dates nor the incidents of a
single reign. You have written the half of a story, the
scene of which is laid in the tropics, yet of geography you
have not the faintest notion. Of matters such as every
girl has some idea of—of biography, of botany, of astrono-
my—you have not evenaglimmer. The chances are,
that if you engaged in conversation with any sensible per-
son, you would equally astonish, first by the clever things
you would utter, and then by the utter ignorance you
would display.’?

“J cannot be flattered, Miss Hastings,’’ Pauline putin,
“because you humiliate me; nor can | be humiliated, be-
Cause you flatter me.”

But Miss Hastings pursued her criticisms steadily.
“You have not the slightest knowledge of arithmetic.
As for knowledge of a higher class, you have none. You
are dreadfully deficient. You say that you have read
Auguste Comte, but you do not know the answer to the
first question in your Church Catechism. Your education
requires beginning all over again, You have never had
any settled plan of study, I should imagine.”

“No. Llearned drawing from Jules Lacroix. Talk of
talent, Miss Hastings. You should have known him—he
was the handsomest artist lever saw. There was some-
thing.so picturesque about him.,??

“Doubtless,” was the dry response; “but I think ‘pic-
turesque’ is not the word to use in such a Case. Music, [
presume, you taught yourself?’

The girl’s whole face brightened—her manner changed.

“Yes, [taught myself; poor papa could not afford to
pay for my lessons. Shall I play to you, Miss Hastings ?””

There was a pianoin the study, a beautiful and val-
uable instrument, which Sir Oswald had ordered for his

niece.

“] shall be very pleased to hear you,’? said Miss Hast-
ings.

Pauline Darrell Yose and went tothe piano. Her face
then was as the face of one inspired. She sat down and
played a few chords, full, beautiful and harmonious,

“I will sing to you,’”? she said. ‘We often went to the
opera—papa, Jules, Louis and myself. I nsed to sing
everything I heard. This is from ZZ Puritani.”

And she sang one of the most beautiful solos in the
opera.

PAler voice was magnificent, full, ringing, vibrating with

passion—a voice that, like her face, could hardly be for-
otten; but she played and sang entirely after a fashion of
er own.

_ “Now, Miss Hastings,” she said, ‘I wili imitate Adelina

Patti.’

Face, voice, manner, all changed; she began one of the
tar-famed prima donna’s most admired songs, and Miss
Hastings owned to herself that if she had closed her eyes
she might have believed Madame Patti present.

“This is ala Christine Nilsson,’? continued Pauline;

 

and again the imitation was brilliant and perfect,

The magnificent voice did not seem to tire, though she
sang song after song, and imitated in the most maryeious
manner some of the grandest singers of the day. Miss
Hasting left her seat and went up to her.

“You have a splendid voice, my dear, and great mu-
sical genius, Now telime, do you know a single note of
music ???

‘Not one,’ was the quick reply.

‘You know nothing of keys, time or anything else ?’*

“Why should I trouble myself when I could play with-
out learning anything of the kind?”

“But that kind of playing, Pauline, although it is very
clever, would not do for educated people.”

“Is it not good enough for them?’ she asked, serenely.

“No; one cannot help admiring it, but any educated
person hearing you would detect directly that you did not
know your notes.”’

‘Would they think much less of me on that account ?””
she asked, with the same serenity.

“Yes; every one would thinkit sad to see so much talent
wasted. You must begin to study hard; you must learn
to play by note, not by ear, and then all will be well. You
love music, Pauline ?”?

aoe the beautiful face glowed and the dark eyes
shone.
_ “1 love. it,’? she said, “because I can put my whole sout
into it—there room for one’s soul in it. You will be
shocked, 1 know, but that is why iliked Comte’s theo-
ries—because they filled my mind, and gave me so much
to think of.”
a “Were I in your place I should try to forget them, Pau-
ine,

“You should have seen Sir Oswald’s face when I told
a Ihad read Comte and Darwin. He positively groaned
aloud.”

And she laughed as she remembered his misery.

“T feel very much inclined to groan myself,”? said Miss
Hastings. ‘‘You shall have theories, or facts, higher,
more beautiful, nobler, grander far than any Comte ever
—— And now we must begin to work in real ear-
nest,

But Pauline Darrell did not move; her dark eyes were
mr a her beautiful face grew sullen and deter-
mined.

“You are going to spoil my life,” she said. ‘Hitherto
it has been a glorious life—free, gladsome and bright;
now you are going to parcelitout. There will be no
more sunshiny hours; you are going to reduce me t0 &
kind of machine, to cut off all my beautiful dreams, my
lofty thoughts. You want to make mea formal, precise
young lady, who will laugh, speak, and think by rule.”

“| want to make youasensible woman, my dear Pan-
line,’? corrected Miss Hastings, gravely.

‘Who is the better or the happier for being so sensible?’
demanded Pauline.

, phe paused for a few minutes, and then she added, sud-
ebly:

“Darrell Court and all the wealth of the Darrells are not
worth it, Miss Hastings.”’

“Not worth what, Pauline ?”’

“Not worth the price I must pay.”’

‘What is the price ?”’ asked Miss Hastings, calmly.

“My independence, my freedom of action and thought,
my liberty of speech.”?

“Do you seriously value these more highly than all that
Sir Oswald could leave you???

“T do—a thousand times more highly,” she replied.

Miss Hastings was silent forsome few minutes, and
then said:

“We must do our best; suppose we make a compromise ?
I will give you all the liberty that I honestly can, in every
way, and you shall give your attention to the studies I
propose. I will make your task as easy as | can for you.
Darrell Court is worth a struggle.”

“Yes,’? was the half-reluctant reply, ‘‘it is worth a strug-
gle, and I will make it.”

But there was not much hope in the heart of the gov-
erness when she commenced her task.

[To BE CONTINUED. }

THE CASH BOY.

By Horatio Alger, JY.,
Author of “ONLY AN IRISH BOY,” “ABNER
HOLDEN’S BOUND BOY,” etc.

 

 

 

[“The Cash Boy” was commenced in No. 27._ Back numbers
can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER XIII.
THE HOUSEKEEPER’S NEPHEW.

“By no means,” said Mr. Wharton, as the housekeeper
was about to withdraw; ‘‘don’t imagine you are iutrud-
ing. Come in and sit down.”?

“You won't need me, sir.’?

“But shall be glad of your company. Bring your
work, if you like, and Frank shall read to us both.”

“Thank you, siz,” said Mrs. Bradley, in a measured
tone. ‘You are very considerate, Iam sure, but if you'll
excuse me, I won’t come in this evening.”’

“Any other evening, then, you will be welcome.””

Mrs. Bradley bowed, but did not reply.

“Mrs. Bradley has been with me a good many years,”
explained Mr. Wharton, ‘‘and I daresay she feels a little
disturbed at seeing another occupy ler place, even in a
duty like this.”’

“T am afraid she will be offended with me, sir,” said
Frank, Who could not help seeing the unfriendly look
with which she regarded him.

“Oh, no; I will explain matters to her.
your reading, Frank.”

Soon afterward, Mr. Wharton asked:

“Do you play checkers, Frank ?”?

“No, sir.”

“Then I will teach you. Itis a favorite game of mine,
and it will be a relief after reading so long. I tried to
teach Mrs. Bradley, but she evidently didn’t enjoy the
game, and I gave it up.”

At half-past nine. Mr. Wharton took out his watch.

“It is getting late,’? he said. ‘I have no doubt you are
tired, and need rest.”

‘lam nol tired, sir.”

“T believe in going to bed early.
you Jater than this,
out ???

“Yes, sir. When shall I come to-morrow evening ?””

“A little before eight.”

“1 will be punctual.’

Though Frank realized that he was tired when he got
out into the street, it was a feeling that he was glad to
experience.

“Won't Jasper be surprised when he hears of my good
luck ?”’ he thought, as be hurried home,

Jasper was waiting up for him, not wholly without anx-
iety, for it was very unusual for Frank to be late.

“Well, Frank!’ he exclaimed, “this is a preity time for
you tocomehome. I began to think you had got into
trouble. 1 was just going round to the nearest station-
house in search of you.”’

“I wasin quite a different place, Jasper.”

“Where were you???

Frank told his story, including an account of his en-
gagement.

“So it seems I am to lose your company in the evening.
Iam sorry for that, but 1 am glad you are so lucky.”

‘Jt was better than I expected,” said Frank, with satis-
faction.

‘I was afraid myself that you would find it hard to get
any evening employment. That was a fortunate adven-
ture of yours.’’

“So it was. Now, Jasper, there is something I want to
ask your advice about.”?

“Go ahead.”?
“Don’t you think I ought to bring my sister to the city
now that I am able to take care of her?’

Jasper soook his head.

“Not if she is in a good place now.”

“She is in an excellent family.”

‘Let her stay there then. Consider, if she should come
to New York she would hardly see anything of you. You
are to be employed in the evening as well as during the
day. In the meantime your sister would be alone, with
no one to keep her company.”?

“T see you are right, Jasper; but I should like tosee
her.”?

Go on with

T shall seldom keep
Do you think you can find your way

Sunday? You can come back by an early irain on Mon-

day morning.” ‘
“That is true.

little richer.” ;
“That willbe the best way. You couldn’t give your sis-

ter so good a home in the city as she has now, not to

speak of the loneliness. What sort of a man is this Mr.

Wharton ???

“He is very kind and generous. I am lucky to have so

good a friend. There’s only one thing that is likely to be

disagreeable.”

“What's that???

“The housekeeper—her name is Mrs. Bradley—for some

reason or other doesn’t want me there.’

“What makes you think 80?’

“Her manner, and the way she speaks. She eame in
to read to Mr. Wharton last evening, and didn’t seem to
like it because I had been taken in her piace.’’,

“She is evidently jealous,” pe

“J don’t know; she has no reason to be.’? Me

“What sort of a looking woman is she?” .

“Sheis tall, thin, and very cold in her manners.’”

“You must take care not to offend her. She might try
to get you dismissed.” ;

“7 shall always treat her politely, but I don’t think I
Can ever like her.”? ;

Meanwhile, the housekeeper on leaving. the library had
gone to her own room in dudgeon.

“Mr. Wharton’s a fool!’ she muttered to herself. “What
possessed him to take Mis cash-boy from the streets, in-
vite him to dinner, and treat him as an honored guest,
and finally to engage him as areader? I never heard of
anything 80 ridiculous? Is this little vagabond to take my
place in tbe old man’s good graces! Pve been slaving and
slaving for twenty years, and what have I got by it? I’ve
Jaid up two thousand dollars; and what is that to provide
for my old age? Ifthe ola mén would die and remember
me handsomely in his will, it would be worth while; but
this new favorite may stand iu my way. If he does, Vl
be revenged on him as sure a8 my name is Ulrica
Bradley.’

Here the area bell rang, and ina moment one of the
housemaids entered Mrs. Bradley’s room.

“There’s your nephew outside, ma’am, ané wanting to
see you.”’

Fell him to come in,” and the housekeeper’s cold face
became softer and pleasanter in aspect as a young man
of twenty entered and greeted her carelessly.

‘How are you, aunt???

“Pretty well, Thomas,’ she answered,

I think I wil), by and by, when I feeia

“You haven’t

 

been here tor some time.”

 

 

 

“Why can’t you go to your old home and spend some _

my

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“No. I’ve had a lot of work todo. Nothing but work,
work, all the time,’ he grumbled. ‘I wish I was rich.”

“You get through at six o’clock, don’t you ??

“Yes?!

“Then you have your evenings to yoursell.”

“That isu't much. A fellow wants a little fresh air.”

“| hope you spend your evenings profitably, Thomas.”

“J ain't likely to go on many sprees, aunt, if that’s what
you mean. I only get tivelve dollars a week.”

“T should think you might live on it.’? —

“Starve, you mean, What's twelve dollars to a young
fellow like me when he's got his board to pay, and has to
dress like a gentleman ?’!

“You are not in debt, I hope, Thomas,’ said Mrs, Brad-
ley, uneasily.

“J owe for the suit Ihave on, and I don’t know where
I’m to get the money to pay for it.’’

He was dressed in a flashy style, not unlike what is
popularly denominated a swell. His coarse features
were disfigured with unhealthy blotches, aud his outward
appearance was hardly such as to recommend him. But
to him alone the cold heart of the housekeeper was warm.
He was her sister’s son and her nearest relative. Her
savings were destined for him, and in her aifachment slie
was not conscious of his disagreeable characteristics.
But, frugal aud economical herself, she bad been troubled
by indications of her nephew's extrayagance. She had
occasionally given him a five-dotlar bill gto eke oul what
he termed his miserable pay, aud now whenever he
called he didu’t spare hints that he wags out of pocket,
and that a further gift would be acceptable, Indeed, the
only tie that bound him to his aunt was @ mercenary one.

“The old girl has money,’ he said to one of his com-
panious, “and I must be atfentive. [ wish slie wasu’t so
confounded careful of it. “fhave to hint pretty hard be-
fore I can get a cent oubof her.’! ‘

But the housekeeper, sharp-sighted as she ordinarily
Was, did not detect the secret motive of such attention as
she received {rum her nephew. She flattered herself that
he really loved lier, not suspecting that he was Loo selfish
te love any body but himseif.

“Thomas,’’ she said, with a sudden thought, “[ may be
able to help you to an increase of your income.”

“T wish you would,’? muttered Thomas, ‘If
enough. What ig it???

“Mr. Wharton needs somebody to read to him evenings.
On my recommendation he might take you.”’

“Thank you, aunt, but I don't seeit. Idon't want to
be worked to death. Ll work hard enough in the daytime
without working evenings too,”?

“But think, Thomas,’’ said his aunt, earnestly. ‘He is
very rich. He might take a fancy to you aud remember
you in his will.

“} wish somebody would remember me in his will.’

“Then iry to please him.’?

“Do you really think there’s any chance of the old boy’s
doing something handsome for me???

“That depends on yourself. You
him.’

“Well, [ must do something. What’ll he give?’

“IT douw’t know yet. it fact, there’s another reading to
him just now.”

“Then there's no chance for me.’!

“Listen to me. It’s a boy he’s picked up in the streeta,

uite unsuited for the place. He’s a cash boy at Gilbert

Mack’s. Why, that’s where you are,’ she added, with
sudden recollection.

“A cash-boy from my own place?. What's his name ?’

“Fowler, I believe."

“JT know him—he’s lately come.
with the old man?!

“Mr. Wharton fell in the street, and he happened to be
near and heiped him home. So he was invited to dinner,
andI have just learned that he is engaged to read every
evening.’?

“Then where's the cance for me?”

“You ouglit to be able to compete with a mere boy.’?

“7 don’t kuow. Youll have to manage il, aunt,’

“DPitsee what I can do to-morrow. He ought to prefer
my nephew to a strange boy, seeing I have been twenty
years in his service. IL’lllet you Know as soon as [ have
accomplished anything.”

“J don't half like the idea of giving up my evenings. i
Gou’t believe [ can stand it.”?

“Jtis only for alittle while, to get him interested in

ou’?
, “Maybe I might try ita week, and then tell him my
health was failing, and get him to do something else for
me.’?

“Atany rate the first thing must be to become ac-
quainted.”

Thomas now withdrew, for he did not enjoy spending
an evening with his aunt, the richer by five dollars, half
of which was spent before the evening closed at a neigh-
boring billiard-saloon.

 

need it

must try to please

How did he get in

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE HOUSEKEEPER SCHEMING. °

if Mrs. Bradiey had been wiser she would have felt less
confident of her nepliew’s producing a favorable impres-
sion upon Mr. Wharton, But she didn’t iook upon him
with the eyes of the world, and funcied him far more at-
tractive than he was. She would not mind having her
place ag reader taken provided it were taken by Thomas,
So she resolved Lo open tlie subject at the breakfast table.

Mr. Wharton expected to find her still under the influ-
ence of the feeling which she had betrayed the previous
evening, and was agreeably surprised to find her more
social and agreeable than usual. He did not know that
she had a purpose to serve. By-and-by she introduced
the subject she had in mind,

«7 didn't know, Mr. Wharton,” she commenced, “that
you inteuded to engage a reader.’’

“Nor did I propose to do so till last evening.”

“} think—you'll excuse me for saying so—that you will
find thai boy too young to suit you.”

“IT dou’t think so. He reads very clearly and dis-
tinctly.”?

Mrs. Bradley shrugged her shoulders.

“If [had Known you thought of engaging a reader, I
would have asked you a favor.”? ,

“What favor, Mrs. Bradley? I need notsay, of course,
that I like to ubey you when [ can.”

“TI would have asked you to engage my nephew.’’

“Tndeed, I was not aware that you had a nephew in the
city.”

“ie hag not been here long; he came liere from Cin-
cinnati.”

“Ts he a boy f’’

“No; he isa young man. He was twenty years old last
Juue. Poor feliow, he finds it hard to get along,” aud the
housekeeper sighed sympathetically.

“Ig he unfavorably situated ?”

‘He has a place as salesaian.’’

“With what firm?

“Gilbert & Mack."!

“Why, that is the same firm, that employs my young
friend.”

“Indeedt?

“It ig a good firm.’ '

“Perhaps it is, but my poor nephew receives 4 very
BMmallsalary. He finds it very hard to get along.”

“What is his salary?!

“J don’t exactly kuow,’’ the housekeeper said in hesita-
tion, for it was her own private opinion that her nephew
ought to live on it, and slie thought it possible Mr. Whar-
ton might think the same ‘It is small, however.”

“Your nephew is young. He will be promoted if he
serves his employers well.’?

“Thomas would have been giad to read to you in the
evening, sir,’ said Mrs, Bradley, commencing thie attack.
“He is older than the boy you have engaged, and I think
would suit you better.”

“But for my present engagement, I might have taken
him,” said Mr. Wharton, politely.

“Have you engaged that boy for any length of time???

“No; but it is auderstood that he will stay wile I need
him and he continues to suit me. I have a favorable
opinion oi fina," Lae ;

Mrs. Bradley coughed in mute protest.

“Besides,’? continued Mr. Wharton, ‘he needs the pay.
He receives but three dollars a week as a Cash boy, aud
has a sister Lo Support as well as himself.”

“[ am sorry,’ she said, in an injured tone. “I hope
yowll excuse my mentioning it, but I took the liberty,
having been for twenty years in your employ.’

“To be sure! You were quite right,’” said her employer,
kindly. ‘Perhaps I may be able to do something for your
nephew, though not that. Tell him to come and see me
some time.?? : ,

“Thank you, eu said the housekeeper, with an air o

ed resignation.
eon ease however, to have obtained so much. She
would introduce her nephew, hoping he would favorably
impress &man who might, if he pleased, be of essential
to him. ;

oT here was one question she wanted to determine, and
that was the amount of compensation received by Frank.
She did not like to inquire directly from Mr. Wharton, but
resolved to gain the infofmation from our hero. Some
evenings later she had an opportunity. Mr. Wharton had
an engagement, and asked lierto tell Frank, when he ar-
rived, that he was released from duty. Instead of this
she received him in the library herself. ‘

“Probably Mr. Wharton will not be at home this even-
ing,’? she said. “It he does not retum in-half an hour,

not wait.
sar eye up her work, seated in Mr. Wharton’s usual
place, and Frank remained ready for duty.

“Mr. Wharton tellg me you have a sister,’’ she said,

“Yes, ma‘am.'!

“Who is dependent upon you for support.’?

*Yes ’am.!?

“ton mast find it ‘hard work to provide for her as well

ourself.’!
wat do, or rather I didtill I came here.”

“How much does Mr. Wharton pay you ?’' she asked, in

n indifferent tone.

“Five dollars a week,’’ answered Frank, having no ex-

for declining to answer. AM
This was tied as much a$ Mrs. Bradley anticipated,
and it did not please her.

‘oWhy couldn't he have paid mé that extra when I used
to read to him?’ she nee “You are lucky to get
3 hance,’’ she said. 7
or ae saa itis more than I earn, { know, but it isa

great lielp to me.”

“And how much do you get as cash boy?
are acash boy.”

“Three dollars-a week.” ae

“So that you actually receive nearly twice ag niuch for
a couple of hours in Lhe evening as for the’ whole day.”’

She spoke as if Frank were quite wrong'to” receive it,
and he colored and felt unpleasant, but he ouly an-
sweredr : J

v , mha’atn,’
aie a pity Thomas can’t have this chance?’ she
thought.

She remained silent till Frank felt uncomfortable.

I believe you

 

“Shau’t [read to you, Mrs. Bradley, till
comes??? he asked.

‘‘No—or yes, if you like,’ she answered, desirous oi
hearing how well he could read.

Frauk read Clearly and distinctly, as she ceuld not bat
acknowledge to herself, much as she was prejudiced
against him, anditeven crossed her mind that possibly
her nephew would not have acquitted himself so well,
but this only made her the more prejudiced against our
hero, and (he more desirous of ousting him froin his posi-
tion,

When it was nine o’clock, she said:

“You need not wait any longer. Mr. Wharton will not
be home in time to-hear you read.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Bradley,” said Frank.

“Good evening!’ she responded, coldly.

“That boy is in the way,’’ she said to herself, when she
Was ie{t aione. “He is in my way, and Tom’s way. I
can see that he is artfully intriguing for Mr. Wharton’s
favor, but I must checkmate him, It’s odd,’ she re-
sumed, after a pause, “but there ig something in his face
and voice that seem familiar to me. What ls it?”

CUAPTER XY.
AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW.

“How do, aunt?’ said Thomas Bradley, carelessly, ag
he entered the housekeeper’s room.

“Very well, thank you, Thomas. [ am glad you are
here. Ihave been wanting to see you.’?

“The old man isn’t going to do anything for me, is he?”

‘How can you expect it 80 soon? He doesn’t know
you yet. How much do you think he pays the cesh-boy
that reads to him in the evening ?”

“I don’t Know.?!

“Five dollars a week.*?

Tiomas shrugged his shoulders,

“He won't muke his fortune.”

“It seems lo me itis a very handsome sum,’ said the
housekeeper, “If you had it, it would raise your salary
to seventeen dollars a week.”

Again Thomas shrugged his shoulders. He was in debi
nearly a hundred dollars to a Broadway tailor, and five
dollars @ week did not seem very large.

“f wouldn’t give up my evenings for that,’ he said.

“It isn’t so much the pay, Thomas, though that vould
bea help. He might take a fancy to you."

“That might pay better. When are you going to intro-
duce me???

“This evening; that is, I will ask Mr. Wharton if he will
see you.”?

“Lshan’t know what to say to him.
ahead.’

Mrs. Bradley entered the library, where Frauk was en-
gaged in reading aloud.

“Excuse ny interruption,” she said; “but my nephew
has Just called, and I should like to introduce him to you,
if you wiil kindly receive him,”

“Oertainly, Mrs. Bradley,’? said Mr. Wharton.
litm in.”

The housekeeper left the room, but speedily re-ap.
peared, followed by her nephew, who seemed a litile
abashed.

“My nephew, Thomas Bradley, Mr. Wharton,” said his
aunt, by way of iutroduction. ‘You have often heard me
speak of Mr. Wharton, Thomas,”’

“How do you do, sit?’ said Thomas, awkwardly.

“Pray take a seat, Mr. Bradley. Your aunt has been
long & member of my family. 1 am glad to see a nephew
of hers. [ believe you are a salesman at Gilbert &
Mack's ?**

“Yes, sir.’?

“Then you must know my young friend here?’ point-
ing to Frank.

“How are you, Cash?” said Thomas, laughing, under
the impression that lie had said something smart,

“Very well, Mr, Bradley,” auswered Frank, quietly,

“You see, that’s all the name we Call ’om in the store,”
said Thomas, “There was agood joke the other day.
Old lady from the country came in, and after a while she
said to me:

“‘How many children that Mrs. Cash must have, aud
all about of a size. Haw! hawl”!

Mr. Wharton smiled, but could not help thinking:

“How poorly this young man compares with my young
friend. Still, as he is Mrs. Bradley’s nephew, I must be
polite to him.”

“Are there many cash-boys in your establishment, Mr.
Bradley ?”

“About a dozen. Ain't there, Fowler?

“I believe so, Mr. Bradley.”

“Gilbert & Mack do a good business, I should judge.””

“Yes, they do; but that doesn’t do us poor salesmen
much good. We get just enough to keep soul and body
togetlier.’?

“Iam sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Wharton, privately
thinking itrather bad taste in his visitor to introduce
such a topic at so early a stage in their acquaintance.

“Why, sir,’? said Thomas, gaining confidence, ‘all they
pay me is twelve dollars a week. How can they expect a
fellow to live on that ?*

“I began my career about your. age,” said Mr. Wharton,
or perhaps a little younger, and had'to live on but six
dollars a week.’?

Thomas shrugged his shoulders,

“Didu’t you come near starving ?” he asked.

‘On the contrary, I saved a little every week.”

“Tcan’t,? said Thomas, a little discomfited.
takes half that to dress decently.’?

Mr. Wharton glanced quietly at the rather loud and
flashy dress worn by his visitor, but i

“A small salary, of course, makes economy necessary.”

“But when a fellow Knows he earns a goud deal more
than he gets, he doesn't feel like starving himeelf just
that his employers may grow rich.”

“Of course, if he can better himself they caunot object.”

“That's just what | want to do,” said Thomas; “but I
expect I need influence to help me to something better.
That's a good hint,’ thought he.

“I was telling Thomas,’’ said the housekeeper, “that
eyou liad kindly expressed a desire to be of service to him.
Five dollars a week more’’—she looked pointedly at Frank
as she spoke—‘*‘would be a’great help to him.”

“Tam uot now in active business,’? said Mr. Wharton,
‘sand of course have not the opportunities I formerly had
for helping young men, but I will bear your case in mind,
Mr. Bradiey.”’

“Thank you, sir,’? said Thomas.
thousand dollars a year.”’

“I think, Thomas,’? said Mrs. Bradley, ‘“‘we won’t in-
trude on Mr. Wharton longer this evening. When he
fiuds sontething for you he will telt me.”

“All right, aunt. Good-night, Mr. Wharton. Good-
5 $e Cash,’* said Thomas, chuckling anew at the old
oke.

“Well, aunt,’ said he, when they were once more in
the housekeeper’s room, ‘‘do you think the old gentleman
will do anything for me?”

‘f hope so; but Lam not sure, Thomas, whether you
were not too familiar.”

“Why shouldn't Lbe? Ain't Das good ashe is, barring
the money ?*?

‘You spoke of money too quick.’?

“It’s my way to come to business. Of course a woman
can’t understand it; she wants to palaver half an hour
first. But Mr. Wharton used to be a man of business, and
he will understand me.” :

“I wish you were his reader, instead of that boy.”
“Well, [don’t. I wouldn’t want to be mewed up in
that room with the old man every night. I should get
tired to death ofit.”

“You would have a chance to get him interested in you.
That boy is artful; he is doing all he can to win Mr. Whar-
ton’s favor. He is the one you have most reason to
dread,”

“Do you think so, aunt???

“Yes; Lam sure of it.

“Do you think he will do. me any harm???

“T think he will injure your chances,’?

*Egad! if 1 thought that ld wring the young rascal’s
neck,”?

“There’s a better way, Thomas,"

“What is that?

“Can’t you get him dismissed from Gilbert & Macks???
“How 2???

“It don’t Know; you can tell better than I.?

“T haven’t enough influence with the firm.’

‘Suppose they thought him dishonest?!

“They'd give him the sack, in course.’ '

“Can’t you make them think so, Thomas ??

“T don’t know.”

“Then make it your business to find out.'?

“TI suppose you know what good it’s going to do, aunt,
but I don’t. He’s got his place here, with the old man.’
“If Mr. Wharton hears that he is disgraced, and has Jost
his situation, he will probably discharge him too.?*
“That’s so; I didn’t think cf that.”

“And then you'll have a Clear field.”

‘Perhaps so; I suppose you know best.”?

“Do as I tell you, and I will manage the rest.’
“Allright. Ineed your help enough. To-night, for in-
stance, l’m regularly cleanedout. Haven't got but tiwenty-
five cents to my name.”

“It seems to me, Thomas,’ said his aunt,
troubled look, “you are always out of money.”
“How can [help it, aunt, with my miserabiesalary ?
A fellow can’t live respectably on twelve dollars a week.”

“Pll give you five dollars, Thomas, but you must re-
member that Iam not made of money. My wages are
small.’?

“You ought to have a good nest-egg laid aside, aunt.”’

“ve got something, Thomas, and when I die it'll be
yours.”’ ;

“T hope I shan’t have. to wait too long,” thought
Thomas, but he did not give utterance to the thought.

“How have you got your money invested, aunt?’? he
asked.

“It’s in two savings banks."?
\*You can’t get much interest there.
you, so. you'll make eight per cent.”’

What do you Know about investments, Thomas? asked
the liousekeeper, shrewdly.
invested, have you???

“Not Much, but I’m in witha young broker in Wall
Street, and he puts me upto a good thing occasionally.’

“The savings banks are good enough for me," said Mrs.
Bradley. ‘Come again soon, Tiomas, and don’t forget

whatI havesaid.” ——
CHAPTER XVI.
JOHN WADE.

A tall man, with a sallow complexion and hexvily-
beardéd face, stood on the deck of a Cunard steamer, only
) a few miles distant froni New York harbor.

“It’g three years since I have seen America,’ he said to
himself, thoughtfully. ‘‘Lsuppose I ought to feel a patri-
otic fervor about setting foot onee more on my native
shore, but I don’t believe in nonsense. I would be con-
tentto livein Burope all my life, if my uncte’s fortane
Were once in my possession. | am his sole heir, but he
persists in holding on to his money-bags, aud limits me to

 

 

Mr. Wharton

However, go

“Bring

“Why, it

“Tam sure I earn a

with a

r

I can invest it for

“You haveu’t got any money

 

NE te Fae cr SA UREA ICD A ES EN Ta nom

  

a paltry three thousan
duee him to give me @ good, round sum on uccount—ffty
thousand at the least—and then Ican wait a little more
patiently till he drops off.” ;
He pulled out a cigar as he formed this resolution, and
began to pace the deck thoughtfully,

 

passed that officer in the course of lis promenade.

“tn four hours, I think, Mr. Wade.”?

“Do you think I can land to-night?"

«We shall gel in too late for the Custom House examin-
ation to lake place this evening, bul that won’t prevent
your landing.”’

“I shau’t give the Custom House people mueh trouble.
If I cau land this evening, L shall. Iam tired of being
rocked in the cradle of the deep.”

“I suppose you will enjoy a good bea on shore better.”

Here the conversation closed. The captain’s duties
called him to another part of the vessel, and the passen-
ger with whom he had spoken resumed his walk,

“So this is my birthday,’ he said to himself. “Thirty-
five years old to-day, Half my, life gone, and I am still a
dependent on my uncie’s bounty, Suppose he should
throw me off—leave me out in the cold—where should |
be? With expensive tastes, with no profession, I shud-
der to think what would become of me. it is lucky there
is NO One to step between me and the inheritance. If he
should find the boy—but no! there is no cliance of that. i
have taken good care of that. By the way, I must look
him up soon—cautiously, of course—and see what-has be-
come of him. He will grow up a laborer or mechanic, and
die without a kuowledge of his birth, while I fill his place
and enjoy his inheritance. That isasit should be. Never
having been used to luxury, he will never know what he
has lost. I wonder how the old man is now. He niust be
close upon seventy. Hecan’t last much Jonger. Pa-
tience, patience! By the time I am forty I shouid possess
his estate, aud then Ican take my proper place in the
worlkd.”?

At six o'clock the vessel reached the Quarantine, Most
of the passengers decided to remain on board one night
more, but. John Wade was impatient, and, leaving his
trunks, obtained a small boat and soon touched the shore.

“Shall l go to the Astor House for the night, or go up ai
once to my uncle’s house?” he said to himself,

It did not iake long to decide.. He was eager to see his
uncle, not from any affectionate interest iu his welfare,
but that he might survey him with the eyes of sordid cal-
culation, and estimate the. probable number of years
Which separated him from his expected inheritance.

There lad been some delay in leaving the steamer, as
there always is. It was nearly eight when Johu Wade
landed in the city. It was half-past eight when he stood
on the steps of his uncle’s residence and rang the bell.

That residence is well known tous. It was the house
Where Frank was at that very moment engaged in read-
ing to Mr. Wharton, for Mr. Wharton was Jolin Wade's
uncle,

“Is my uncle—is Mr. Wharton—at home?!’ he asked of
the servant who answered the bell.

“Yes, sir.”

“Lam-his nephew, just arrived from Europe. Let him
know that [am here, and would like to see him.”?

The servant, Who had ueyer before seen him, having
only been six mouths in the house, regarded him with
some Curiosity, and then went to do his bidding.

“My nephew arrived!” exclaimed Mr. Wharton, in sur-
prise. ‘‘Why, he never let me know he was coming.”

“Will you see him, sir???

“To be sure! Bring him in at once,’?

“My dear uncle!’ exclaimed John Wade, with effusion,
for he was a polilic man, aud could act when it suited his
interest to do so, “Lam sogled to see you. How is your
health ?!

“I am getting older every day, Jolin.’

“You dou’t look a day older, sir,’ said John, who did
not believe what he said, for he could plainly see that his
uncle had grown older since he last saw him,

“You think so, Jolin, but I feel it. I can feel the ap-
proaches of age, and its infirmities, But your coming is
a surprise. You did not write that you intended Sailing.’’

“I formed the determination very suddenly, sir,”

‘Were you tired of Europe ?”

“No; but I wanted to see you, sir. Remember we bad
not met for three years, and that is a long time, consider-
ing how near we are to each other.’!

“And you really took so long a journey for my sake,
Johu?” asked the old gentleman, witli a smile of pleasure.

“YY ea; air.?!

“Thank you, John,” said his uncle, pressing his
nephew’s hand. ‘lam glad you think so much of me.
As you gay, We are near to each other, and we ought to
feel drawn together. Did you higye a pleasant voyage ?”’

“Rather rough, sir.’?

“You have had no supper, of course. If you will ring
aa bell, the housekeeper willsee that some is got ready
or you.

“Ig Mrs, Bradley still in your employ, uncle ?”?

"Yes, John. I amso used to her that I shoukin’t know
how to get along without her. She has been twenty
years in my house,”’ :

“I thought it was as long as that. I can remember her
from a boy.’

‘“‘How old are you now, John ?”

‘Thirty-five, uncle. 1 too am growing old.’

“I didn’t think you were as old; John. Not that it
secms old tome. When you are seventy, you will look
upon that as young.”’ ste
Hitherto John Wade had been so occupied with his
uncle that he had not observeg’ Frank. But at this mo-
ment our hero coughed inyovtiitarily, and Join wade
looked at him. He seemed to be singularity amected. He
started perceptibly, and lis sallow face blanched, as his
eager eyes were fixed upon the boy’s face.
“Good Heavens!’’ he muttered to himself.
that boy? How comes he here?”

Frank noticed his intent gaze,.and wondered at it, but
Mr. Wharton's eyesight was defective, and he did not per-
cieve his nephew’s excitement,

“I see you have young Visilor, uncle,’ said John Wade,
burning with auxious curiosity, aud determined at once
to satisfy it. ;

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wharton with a kindly smile.
igs a very constant visitor, el, Frank 2’!

“Yes, sir,’’ said our hero, smiling in turn.

‘He spends all his evenings with-me,’’ said Mr. Whar-
ton.

“What do you mean, sir??? demanded John Wade, with
ee suspicion and fear, ‘He seems very young com-
pany for. :

“For a man of my years,” said Mr. Wharton, finishing
the senteuce. ‘You are riglit, Jon. But, you see, my
eyes are weak, aud I cannot use them for reading in the
evening. So it occurred to me to engage areader. Other-
Wise the time would have hung heavily on my hands.’
“Very true,’ said his nephew, who had by this time re-
covered his self-possession. He was not sure whether
his temporary ¢xcitement had been noticed by his uncle,
and though he wished to inquire the name of the boy
whose appeurance had so powerfully impressed him, he
determined not Lo do it at present. What information he
sought he preferred to obtain from the housekeeper,
whom hie should see in a few moments, , He turned away
froin Frank, therefore, with ostentatious indifference, and
began to speak with his uucle on other topics.

Meanwhile Frank’s attention had been drawn to the
visitor, It was natural, Since, as le gathered, he was a
nephew of his employer. But the inierest was deepened
when he saw how Jolin Wade was affected by the sight of
him.

“‘He seemed surprised, as if he had seen me somewhere
before, and recognized me,’’ thought Frank, ‘‘but I don’t
remember him. If I had seen his face before I think 1
should remember it.’'

Not that the face pleased him. There are some persons
whom we instinctively dislike or fear, though we caunot
explain why. So it was in the present case. Though
Jolin Wade was the nephew of a man whom he had every
reason to like, Frank could not disguise from himself that
he did not like him. Nay more, he felt a vague and inex-
plicable dislike, and an undefined presentiment that this
man whom he now saw, as he thought, for the first time,
would some time work him harm.

{TO BE CONTINUAD.}
_———>2+____—-

ITEMS OF INTEREST,

ka An ‘“ex-Confederate” writes to a California
paper concerning Barbara Fritchie to the effect that he was one
of Stonewall Jackson’s men who fired at the flag she held during
the march through Frederick. He adds: “I was in one of the
dust-browned ranks (may I be pardoned) that Stonewall ordered
to halt, and I flatter myself that the bullet from my gun was one
of the many that hit the flag.’

4#a- The Master’s farm, in Saratoga county, N. Y.,
has been sold but twice in 200 years, but the Schoharie Union
says that the farm owned by Mr, Martin L. Schaefer, in Scho-
harie, has never been sold at all. A Schaefer settled on it when
the valley was first settled, in 1709, and secured his title direct
from the Indians, and since then it has beea handed down from
father to son.

aa- The following is a list of the States and Terri-
tories that have so far subscribed for the Centennial Exhibition:
Arizona, $5,000; Arkansas, $5,000; Delaware, $10,000; Colorado,
$4,000; Illinois, $1,000; Indiana, $5,000; Kansas, $5,000 ; Minnesota,
$500; Montana, $5,000; New Jersey, $10,000; Ohio, $13,000; Wis-
consin, $3,000; Nevada, $20,000.

aa- There is a genuine working widow in Chicka-
saw county, Miss, named Mary Ann Thrift, who stated recently
that she made_all the shoes for her father’s family, consisting ot
eight or ten persons, and that not one of them had spent a single
dime for shoes or boots in five years. She also makes a good
hand at cooking, washing, sewing, and working in the field.

4a@- The Boston and Maine Railroad Company is
organizing anew route to New_York, via Lawrence, Lowell,
Framingham, Mansfield and Providence, leaving Portland at
3:15 P. M., taking steamer at Providence or Stonington, and.ar-
riving mm New York early in the morning.

4a Planters in the South-west are complaining
greatly of an unprecedented destruction of mules, horses and
catile by the Buffalo gnats, Tt is estimated that, within a few
weeks, $500,000 worth ot stock lias been killed by them.

aa The “‘season” in Florida closed last month.
The number of northern visitors from: December to April was
thirty thousand, and it is thought they expended at least three
million dollars,

aaz- In one of his balloon voyages in April, Profes-
sor Donaldson found the upper curreuts So cold that mineral wa-
ter taken along for his refreshment was frozen.

a@- The recent frosts in California were very dam-
aging to the fruit crops. Some estimate the injury done at two
millon doilars,

s@ For stealing two cents, Patrick Doyle, a truck-
driver, of this city, aged 19, has been sent to the Penitentiary for
one year.

s@ There are one hundred churches in Newark,
New Jersey.

4a A negro one hundred and twenty-five years
old died recentiy.in Henry county, Alabama.

“Who is

“He

 

 

 

h year, I must see if I can’t in-

“When shall we reach port, captain? he asked, as he

  

D EVER.

M. A.

 

-BY MBS. KIDDER®.

 

May I never turn away

From the wretched and the poer;
Never add a single burden

To the sorrows they emdure

May I ever seek the light,

Ever shunning sin’s dark alight;
Ever thanking God in Heaven
Dally for His blessings given.

May I never add a blight

To my friend's or neighbor’s name
Never seck by word or actioa

Fer to rob him of his fame.

May I ever buiid him up,

Share with him imisfortune’s cup;
That together some bright day
We may chance in fortune’s way.

May I ever do the right,
May I never do the wrong;

That at last when done with triats
I may sing the angels’ song.

A Wicked Woman.

By P. Hamilton Myers,

(‘Ae Wicked Woman” was commenced in No, 22. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. }

CHAPTER XXXY.

Seven months had passed since Orville‘s return from
Europe, and seven Weeks since he left his “Paradise” ou
the shore of Luke Ontario,

His mother kad been quietly married to Doctor Boson,
had been off ona brief wedding trip, and now she and
Rose were living in their uew home, apparently quile
happy.

Frederick, resisting his good-natured stepfather’s earn-
est invitation to become aiso one of his family, had taken
board in the vicinity, and was, of course, a frequent vis-
itor of thesé, his only relations,

He had contided to Rose, bat not to his mother, his en-
gagemeut to Lizzie Temple, and Rose, sister-like, had ap-
proved it, aud had said everything to encourage him aud
to incite him to industry and economy,

“There isn’t much use, sis, he said, “in advising a
man to industry when he has nothing to do, nor to econ-
omy when he has nothing to spend. [can pay my board
for six months yet out of my present exchequer, and that
is the end of my rope as fur I can see, unless something
more comes in, My business barely pays office rent.’

“Dear, dear! [liad no idea you were so badly off, I
thought you saved something on your travels, out of ‘that
thousand dollars.’’

“I did, but I had the rent to pay when I got home and
an oid debt of two hundred on my library.”

“Then you brought me those expensive presents,
ought not to have done that.”

“Mr. Temple was living when I purchased them, and
had made me 80 Many promises of what he was going to
do for me when we got home that I felt quite rich.”

“Whata pity that he did not live. Lamesure there
musi have been something wrong about that matter of
the will. Do not you think so?"

“Some mistake, probably. I think he gave the wrong
will to Mr, Everis and burned the one he had intended to
keep. I sometimes used to think his mind was a little
unbalanced, lie became so dreadfully excited at times,”
“Well, it caunot be helped now, but it is aggravating
to think what you aud Lizzie have lost.’’ ,
“No, it isn't; not a bit of ii!” exclaimed Frederick, sud-
denly brightening up. “I should neyer have had her if
she had been a great heiress—I should never have even
sought her, Juave gained more than I have !ost, im-
measurably.”’

“Oh, weil, [am glad you look upon it in that light,’’ re-
plied Rose, laughing.

“Of course, I do,’’ was the emphatic reply.

“IT hope——”’

Rose Checks herself, and her brother, coloring a littie,
said:

“L Know what you were going to say, and that is that.
you hoped Lizzie looked upon it in the same light. But
she does, Rose, I assure you—exactly the same.¥

“Oh, then, we are all right after all,” returned Rose,
laughing; ‘‘vut,’’ she added, more soberly, “Lreally would
not spend my last dollar for board, Fred, when the doctor
would be really gladtohave you here. You might at
least come for & while, until better times,”

“And mix pills for him, and hold his horse, I suppose ?”’
said the young man, bitterly.

“No, lhe would not ask you to doa thing,”

“That would be still more degrading. To live on him,
without making any return. I would rather hold his
horse, and groom if, too, than to do that. No, I will uot
come.’?

Frederick had recently met Mr. Bieight several times in
tié street, aud had, of course, taken notice of his im-
proved appearance, The once seedy man was now al-
ways richiy and sometimes flashily dressed, and was-iu
the company of young men, who looked still more like
“swells”? than himself.

Afterward, and after the conversation just narrated,
having occasion to Callata fashionable hotel to see a
friend he met him there, and he learned to Ifis surprise
that he was boarding there, and occupied a handsomely-
furnished room.

Mr. Blaight being considerably ‘“‘elevated”’ with wine or
something stronger was more than civil to him; he was
polite aud cordial, far more so than their slight acquaint-
anceship required.

Of course Mr. Orville made no allusionsto the scrivener’s
altered fortune, but Blaight did, He seemed very frank
and open-hearted, aud talked glibly about. himself.

“How goes the law, Orviile?’ he said; and without
wailing for an answer, he continued: ‘I’ve left it, you see.
Got a step farther up the ladder; lots o’ tin now, and if
you ever get hard up, which you plodding fellows never
do, [ belieye—why just come to me.’?

“Thank you,’”’ replied Frederick, smiling.

“You wonder how I got it now, of course, though: you
are too polite to ask. 'Twas by a rich uncle, you ‘see,
who died in California—a rich uncle—that’s how it was.”’
“Ali, I congratulate you. He le{t his property all to you,
I suppose.”’

‘Not at all. Not a bit of it.’

“Ali—how, then ?*?

“He just died, and left it; and being a bachelor, and I
his nearest relation, the law said it belonged to me, for
which [am much obliged to the law, far more thau for
anything else I ever got by it.”

“T daresay.’

“And aslo the Indians—between us, Orville, they have
their uses, aud I—I don’t feel at all bitter toward them,
you see. There's no vengeance in my heart.’

“Indians! What do you mean?!

“Well, you see, Uncie Job didn’t die in his bed. Aun
amiable redskin took a fancy to his hair in the mountains,
meaning no harm, I daresay.”

“Oh, L see.’’

“That’s how it was!’ exclaimed Blaight, giving his
companion a playful poke in the side. ‘“‘Oome—take a
glass of something.’

“Thank you, I will take a cigar instead, if you please,’
replied Orviile.

Alter they parted, Mr, Orville met the friend whom he
had called to see—one Joliffe from New Jersey, a dista
relation of the Orvilles, wo was stopping for a few days
in the city, and who, being a professed ‘‘siglit-seer’? knew
more about some phases of city life than his legal friend,
who had been brought up in the metropolis.

He was the son of a prosperous farmer, ‘aud was a wide-
awake young man, whose dark skin and large hancs pro-
claimed his Calling, but who was cleanly, well dressud and
intelligent.

“Do you know that man?’ he asked, pointing to Blaight
ye? am he had seen Mr. Orville conversing.

ae es.

“1 saw him lose two thousand dollars at a faro table last
night in at Zetler’s, and afterward win it back and con-
siderable more,??

“Nol?

“Yes—I did. And he was so tipsy that some one iuter-
fered, and said it wasn’t fair to win his money while he
Was in that condition. But he insisted ou going on, and
Was 80 angry that the man who had wanted to befriend
him apologized, and the play went on. After that he won,
but he’ll go ‘to the bad’ some day, aud nota distant day
either.’?

“Of course he will.
“Ts he rich ?”?

“I Know very little about him, except what he has told
me, which, probably is not true.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Of course, Blaight’s career of intemperanoe and gam-
bling soon used up all the large sums of money which he
had received from Mrs. Temple, and he applied to her,
from time to time, for more, but as the estate was stil/ in
the hands of the executor, she found it difficult to respond
to these demands.

She did what she could. Mr. Everts was obliging, and,
although he was surprised at her large drafts, he honored
them, after some expostulation.

It was awkward not to be able to explain why she
wanted so much money beside her own very large current
expenses, and when; a few days after the eveuts last re-
lated, Blaigt called to ask for another five thousand dol-
lars, she told lim it was impossible,

“*You have already had ten thousand ip less than six
months,’ she said,

*“Yes’m,’? said Benjamin, who had taken a few extra
glasses that morning to allay his chagrin at some heavy
losses (he night belore; ‘‘yes’m; ten—ten thousands—but
I—I've invested that, and jes now l’ve promised to—hic—
lend a friend a few thousands—so—hic—you see I must
haveit. You owe me lots, cous—you know—tw-twice as
much as I’ve had,’!

“I Know it, but not now; next year, when the estate is
settied. Itisn’tdue till then, Then everything wiil be in
my own hands,!

“Must have some, though, cous—three thousand at
least. 1 can—hie—git along with that a few weeks.”’

“Tt does you no good, Beujamin,’!

“Thavs my lookout, Mrs. Te-Temple.”!

“Well, 80 it fs, but if you wouid only take-my. advice—”

“Couidn’S think of such a thing! Not.uovy, at least.

 

You

He’s gone tliere already.’’

 

 

 

NS 2 BOF A ORES ek A OT

a EEE ee eT

   

M-money first and advice afterward, cous, a5 mueh ag
you please,”

“You may call to-morrow, tien, and I will have ft for
you, if it’s a possible thing, bus you really must not ask
for any more in six months,’* °

“All right; if my investment—hic—works right I shan"s
want it—J—I"il have some tolend to you. 1 w-will, *per
honor.’?

Mrs. Temple raised the money—not of the executor
this Lime, she was really afraid to go to him teat he should
suspect something wrong. But she borrowed it efa
friend who, was only too glad-to lay her under obligations.

It did littie good. It was like pouring water intea
sieve, forin a week Blaight was back again, quite cleaned
out, andjrabid for more. ;

The widow determined to make a stand here, and show
that she was not frightened, for ff she did not do thia ake
Was sure there would be no end to his exactions, even
after he had received the whole of the large sum whieh
was yet to become due to him.

It was necessary, she thought, to assert herself now.
She felt sure that he could not harm her sinee the witt
Was really destroyed, and that his unsupported testimony
would never be taken against her, Besides she was sure
he did not dare to implicate himself. “So she denied him
resolutely atid firmly, and when he threatened and ballied
She lost her own temper and ordered him cut of the
house.

Blaight went, “red with uncommon wrath,’? and at the
sireet door he met Guy, who had just alighted from a ear-
riage and was coming in.

There was a curonic antipathy between these two, and
Guy, who had become a decided swell, had his dignity
wounded by seeing this half-intoxicated man coming out
of lis mother’s house,

Ignorant of what had taken place, he said, haughtilys

“See here, Blaight! I’ve got one thing to say to yen,
and that is that you must not come to this house in tuis
condition, I won't have iit -Do yeu understand ??

“Y-yes,”’ said Blaight, dealing a tremendons slap en the
other’s face, in full sight of two young ladies of his ae-
quaintance, who were just passing. ‘Do y-you un-stand
that?

Guy staggered back a step and then darted inte the
house, and Mr. Blaight walked deliberately off.

“I's allover in ¢éhat quarter now,” he said, in solite-
quy, as he reeled down the street; “and I (hic}—I—I grad
of it. I—D Il lighten my conscienee—hie—before the day
ig out, And make money by it, too. Yes, sir; I wowt bea
—hic—rogue any longer—specially as $.ll pay better to be
an honest man.”?

In the evening of that day he called on Mr. Orville at his
boarding-house, greatly. to (he surprise of that gentleman,
and begged a private interview,
Frederick conducted him to his little room in the third
mcty, and there the first words that the visitor said were
these:

“Got a Bible ??

“Oh, yes,’’ replied Pred, producing one.

“T want you to swear.”

“Swear you?’
\“No; L want to swear you—that—that whatever hip
happens in consequence of what Pm going to teil you,
you won't peach on me. Un’stand ?”
_ Yes. Does it concern me?”

“Very muchly.’!

©Go on, then.’

“But | want it put in writing. A ‘davy, you know.’

Orville produced pen, ink and paper, and wrete at Mr.
Bleight's dictation, an oath which satisfied him, and then
he signed and sworeato it.
“Now, then,’ said Benjamin, ‘we are ready to proceed
to business, You once drew a will for Mr. Orlando
Temple.’ ;
“Yes,” repiied Fred, tremendonsly excited.
“Suppose I know where that will is to-day, and can pre-
duce it ?? ep
“Im possible! >
“Never you mind whether it is impossible or not—4 7
dott. Then what?” ;

“Then you will doa most nobte deed, and you will res-
cue a worthy family from poverty and distress.”

“Of course. Whatelse? Ishoula make old Renben
Temple rich, and make his daughter almost a millionaire
—shouldn’t I?

*‘Yes."?

‘And what should 1 get for all this? I—a poor man—
for exposing ascheme of fraud, which nobody but me
could possibly expose, and restoring your friends to their
righis? That's the question.”

“I thiuk I could venture to promise you—anything in
reason.??

“Well, the figures ?’?

“Ten thousand——"

Blaight shook his head,

“Twenty——”

Another shake,

“Well, say thirty thousand dollars,’

“That sounds more like it.”

This, in fact, was Blaight’s price, for it was the sam
which he was to have received from Mra. Temple, and ef
which he had already squandered nearly half. He wanted
to begin back and try again, hoping to hold on to his for-
tune next time.

“It will bea trifle, you see, to Miss Temple and ker
father,’? he said; “only about half a year’s income.??

“It is a large sum, but itis a great service which you
propose to render them, and they can afford.to pay it cer-
tainly when they receive the estate.’ .

“I Shall not ask il sooner,”’ replied Blaight; “put what
security Can you give me that they will keep faith with
me in this matter ??? ?

‘Lean give you their bond and mine, and our oaths,
too,"? said Orville, quickly; “but it will take time to get
then. :

“Very well. Get them as soon as you can, and then we
will proceed to business—that is to say, I will put the will
into your hands, and then I shail leave for parts unknown
until the estate is settled.”

“You are sure that you can.do this?’ asked Orville, who
could not fully believe in such good fortune.

‘Quite sure.”

“Why not put the will into my hands now? F will bind
myself by the most soienin oaths never to show it to any
mortal untill have procured aud delivered to you the
bonds which you require ?”?

“And that you will re-deliver it to to me, If they are not
furticoming ??

“*Yeg.”?

“Within ten days?!

Yes,’

Blaight reflected a while, and while he did soa tumult
of emotions filled the breast of his companion.

This great hope had dawned so suddenly upon him, and
he sull entertained so strong a doubt of his visitor being
either able or willing todo what he asked that his sus-
pense was very paintul.

“Tell you whiat,’’ resumed. Blaight. ‘I’m hard ap, and
a couple of hundred dollarsin hand to-night would be
worth more to methan thousands some othertime. If
you can advance me that trifle out of my coming fortune,
and bind yourself as you have said, I will give youa writ-
ten order for my bank-box, which you can procure at ten
o’clock to-morrow moruing. In it isthe will}

It was Orville’s turn now to: hesitate. Biaight was a
Villain on his own snowing, and his present proposition
had a suspicious look.

That two hundred dollars might be the prime objeet ef
his visit, and all his power might be pretended.

Still he decided to take the risk, and althongh he had
not the required amount of money out of bank, he knew
where he Couid procure it, and he left Mr. Blaightin his
room, While he went and borrowed it.

Then the rest of the negotiation was soon completed,
and when Blaight went away he left in Mr. Orvilie’s hands
& written orderon a cily bank for the delivery of his
‘‘bank-box,’’ which phrase among financial men usually
signifies a small japanned tin repository for valuabie pa-
pers, deposited in some bank vault for safe keeping. He
iso gave him the key of the box, which he usually carried
iu his pocket-book. Mr. Orville could scarcely believe in
the reality of the scene through which he had just passed,
norin its promised f{ruition. The prize seemed of teo
great magnitude to drop so easily inio his hands. Bat
could he do anything to render it more seoure?

It was now nine o’clock in the evening, and the bank
would not open until near the hour of ten the next morn-
ing. Mr. Blaight might change his mind, or others, more
interested than he in the matter, might hear of or sns-
pect his design, and take measures to thwart it.

He walked his floor in great excitement and irresotn-
tion, and at one time had resolved to go at once and hant
up one of the bank officers and procure the prize before
heslept. But such an unusual course might awaken sus-
picion, and defeat the very object which he was so anxious
Lo secure, and aller much agitating reflection he decided
to do nothing until morning.

CHAPTER XXXViIl.

The reader, who has seemingly seen the last wilt 27 Or-
lando Temple torn into shreds and burned by his astute
widow, may need some explanation of Mr. Blaight’s pre-
Sent extraordinary movements and assumptions,

In order to give these we must go back to the day when
the unscrupulous scrivener carried off the wili from un-
der the very eyes of its unsuspecting custodian, leaving
the older onein its stead,

It may be remembered that this feat of diabolism. was.
performed in the forenoon, or about the middie of the
day, aud that Blaight did not report progress to Mrs.
Temple until jate In the evening. How had his time
meanwhile been employed ?

He was, as we have seen, an adruit penman, and if he
had been at all a confiding man, (which he was not,) he
had littie confidence in his high and mighty relation, Mrs.
Temple.

The thne might come when she would repudiate her
bargain aud set lini at defiance, for he was sensible
enough to know thatshis word alone, or his oath, would
weigh but little against that of a lady so very far above
tim in the social ranks,

It wouid be well enough to retain the absolute power in
his hands, which he reso to do by keeping the will
itself, And making an exact copy of it for her to destroy.
This he did, working with assiduity until he had made a
perfect. copy of the important document, and a nearly per-
fect Fado simile of the signatures of the testator and of the
witnesses. :

When this was done, and when it was ribboned and
sealed, and a little of its freshness taken off by a judicious
application of dust, he carried it to the scheming widew,
and permitted her to read it and denounce it, and stamp
on it, and gloat over its piecemeal destruction, while the
original was safely locked up in his office.

Whether he designed to destroy it atter he had made sure
ot the fortune which had been promised him, or whether
he even then intended to keep it in his hanes as the basis
of future exactions—the lever with which he could alwa
“raise the wind’’—it $s impossible tosay; for Blaight, tn
entering upon his present career, bad thrown aside all

 

 

 

 

 

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regard te principie. Buthe had an old grudge against
his relation, Mrs, Tempie, who had disowued him in her
prosperity, and had only sought him out when she could
make him useful by tempting him to crime. | :

This feeling was hightened by the illdisguised con-
tempt of Guy and Rivira, whose fate he never forgot he
held in his hands, and new that the excuse was afforded
him, ke was even inore fierce fur revenge than he was for
wealth.

But Benjamin was naturally fickle and irresolute, and
he was reudered more so by his fits of inebriation, during
which he was eagily influenced; and while Mr. Orville,
passing a nearly sleepless night, was picturing himself in
possession of the coveted will, and was hastening in im-
agination to carry the joyous news to Lizzie and her fath-
er, other agencies were at work which boded the down-
fail ef his iofty hopes. :

Mrs. Temple was sustained for a while by her pride and
Wrath, bul she became more alarmed on reflection, aud
most deeply regretied her quatre! with Biaight. She took
Guy {nto her confidence, for he had never known of her
erime, and as she colored aud pailliated it, it scarcely
seemed such to him, but rather a successful counterpiot
against an allempted wrong on the part of his late slep-
fasher.

Sull, it was most humiliating to make such a confession
te her son; but she wanted his aid-and advice, and she
wanted to show him the necessity of overlooking the in-
suit which he had received, and of assisting her to bring
about a reconciliation. ; .

“Tuere is something back,” she said, ‘‘or Benjamin
Weuld not Lave been so bold. Itis not his nature te be
@eMiant. 1 know the will is destroyed, but he may lave
shown it to some one first.”

“He may have Kept » copy of it.” f

“Yes, yes. 1 feei that there is danger of some Xind, and
I have been most foolish to quarrel with him. “1 want to
go and see him, and bring him here, and 1 want you to go
With me, before it is too late.”

“Jgo with you! Ishould look well, I think!’ replied
“Perhaps you want me to apologize.to him for
fetling him slap my face?’

“I want you to overlook this smali matter now in con-
sideration of the far greater interest that so deeply con-
@erns ns ali, You provoked him, you know, and you can
afford 10 be Maguauimous—you are so very much above

ta.”

“1 wish you would get some one else tu go with you.””

“There is no one elise.’ 1 want you to go wilh me to his
hetel, and even to his room, if necessary, for if I should
merely send for him I a surehe would uct come, but |
think Ican induce him tocome with me. But there is
need of hasie; to-morrow may be too late.”

**What are you going to offer him??? ;

“A great dea}, Ido not know exactly, for it will de-
pend upon his mood, and how far 1 can bind him. I shail
take my jewels with me.”

**You would not give him them?”

“Yes 1 would—all of them, if uecessary. They are of no
wse Bow, When I am in mourning, and hereafter I can buy
more. What matters lt, when we are to have nearly sixty
thousand a year.”’

“Well, 1 will go withyou if I must, bat I know one

”

“What is that ?
“Well, bo matter. What time shall I order the car-
77

“About eight—or as soon as it is dark, if you choose. I
Bhallbe ready.” -

The one thing which Guy knew was that he had a loaded
revolver in his room, and if Mr, Benjamin Blaight took a
fancy to commil another assault upon him, he would
shoet him! That he would! And it would be justifiable
homicide, and that would perhaps be the best and most
satisfactory mode of settling the whole matter.

He said nothing to his mother about this deadly ar-
rangement, and he did not lack courage to carry it out,
aljpeit he had shown himself to be something of a paltroon
in the moruing. :

The memory of that insult perhaps iucreased his deter-
mination now, and the decided advantage which his
weapon gave him, put soine pluck iu his heart. _

They went soon alter eight o'clock in the evening, aud
as the drive was not along one Mrs. Temple's carriage
was soon in front of the hotel, while Guy went in to in-
quire for Biaight.

He was not at home, of course, for as we Know he was
at thal time closeted with Mr, Orville iu u distant part of
the city. They drove on, and returned haif au hour later;
and again at half-past nine, Mis, Temple remaining in the
earriage wiile her son recounoiiered and inquired.

The lady’s anxiety became very great, and sue resolved
to wait now until he came, which he did-a little before
ven, Guy being posited on the porch to watch for him.

He had walked from Mr. Orville’s, and having stopped
at several restaurants to inbibe, he was decidedly **inel-
lew” and good-natured when he reacted iis hotel, avd
seemed, on meeting Guy, to have quite forgotten tie affair
ef the mornihg.

He accosted him in a maudlin way, and even put out
his hand, which Guy took, and then suddenly receilecting
the encounter, he said, hiccuping:

“No "Sense, Guy; I didn’t mean to be {hic) personal this
morning. Oome in and take suthing.”’

*No—thank you. Mother is in the carriage there, and
Wauts to see you.” ; 3

“The old lady? Not Is she though? (hic) Who'd a
thought it? Wa-wares she goig?’’

*“Homel Aud she wants you to go with het - She has
semething very speciai to say to you. Besides, we are
going to have soe oysters aud Champague.”’

*You dun’t say sof Oysters and cham({lic)pagne! They
go fust rate to-gezzer—fact. But the oid lady and I had
(aic) some words yesterday.”

“To-day, I believe.’

“Was it to-day? (hic), but I—Dilcome. Take my arm
—it’s slippery night. Wu—where’s the carriage ?”’

*‘Just a little to the left here; only a few steps. We did
not like to stop right in frout.?

“Aw right—I—Il'il go—oysers and champague—pol—
egy’s accepted—aw’ ri’.””

Matteriug thus, Biaight went to the carriage, and after
ahaking hands with the gracious and affable widow, was
hejped in by Guy and came very near silting down in the
lap of his distinguished cousin. ;

Mrs, Temple having secured her prize (far more easily

. than she had anticipated) ordered her coachman to drive

heme as fast as possible, aud once there she entered upon
business before supper, for she kuew that her guest would
be nearly helpless and speechiess after it.

Sue had been most happily disappointed in finding Ben-
jamin so pliable and good-natured, and she was sauguine
new that slie could at once resume her former relations
with him without any increased heavy expenditures. But
she was anxious to find out first whether he had done or
said anything rash m the matter, which could at all com-
promise lier, or set Lue thousand tongues of scandal wag-
ging.

Ou this point she questioned him, and Blaight parrying
her inquiries jor awhile soon showed that although he
Was in an amiabie mvod he had an eye for business.

Competition was brisk and his ambition grew in view
of the prospect before him. Whai might he not make
with two seis of bidders for his great secret? He was
sure he had been altogether too modest, and that he
might just as well have fifty thousand dollars as thirty.
He had no principle to restrain: him, and he had no idea
of keeping faith with anybody jonger tian his interest re-

uired.

7 So he flay told Mrs. Temple how the affair stood, con-
fessed to having deceived her about the will, and to layv-
ing entered upon negotiations with the euemy for deliver-
ing it up, telling his story in a haif-defiant, haif-comical
Way, a8 though it was oneof the best of jokes and re-
dounded largely to his credit as a skillful and ingenious
man.

The widow was appailed, and for awhile was really
speechless with alarm, and before she rallied Blaight re-
sumed with some judicrous shaking of his very unsteady

“You came for me in the nick of time, cousini—the yery
nick-to-mor’ mornin’ wouid have been too (hic) late. So
here Lam, open to an off—offer—highest bid takes it, you
see—ali on thesquare. Yes’m—I—{ p—put Orlando T—
Temple’s estate up at auction Lo be struck off to the high-
est bidder. Jist a going, ma’am! Hal hal hal Jist a
going?’

The result of this iuterview was that Mrs. Temple ac-
ceded io her profligate cousin’s most exorbitant demand,
piedging herself to pay a very large sum down on the de-
livery of the will, and to give her note for the remainder.
She could raise the money on her jewels if necessary—but
there were other resources, and in such an emergeucy sie
would not regard difficulties or even some humiliation if
she could only keep her terriblesecret, Traly ‘the way
of the transgressor is hard.’

Mr, Blaight was jolly now. He ate his supper, and
drank his wine with great relish, and felt no doubt that
he would be able to anticipate Mr. Orville in the morning
in getiing possession of his box and its contents,

He wouldgo before banvk hours and get it the moment
the door o or, better sijtl, he would look up the por-
ter early in morniug and pay hia a good round fee to
go and get it for him, ;

Then he would call Oh Mr. Orville, pay him back his
money With large interest, and tell him that his whole
Blory of the preceding evening was a hoax, fabricated to
gain a temporary loan, and le was quite sure that the (i0
be) disappointed man Could never prove the contrary.

‘nese were his designs, but he had not told Mrs. Tem-
pie ali the particulars of his negotiations with Mr. Orville,
hor how he had given, that gentle:mau an order for his
bank-box. : r

He did pot wanttolet her Know that he had gone as
far as that, but if he had done so, doubtiess she would
have watched him, and excited him to greater vigilance
aud prompter action in the matter than he would other-
wise use, —

He went home a little before tweive o'clock in Mrs,
Tempie’s Carriage, not without some money advances in
his pocket, and promising faithiuliy to bring the will at
moon the next day, when he was to receive a heavy ia-
Stallment on the purchase.

“You are swe you will do this now, Benjamin?’ Mrs,
Tempie asked, as they parted.

*Aw, yes, qui’ sure, ma’am.’’

“You have it safe 2”

“Ver safe, Uuner lock and kKey—tu a bauk vault,
ma’am.”’

“Jun abank ? But isn’t that risky, Benjamin?”

“Not tall, uia’am, uot tall—l—manu business—know the
ro w ri’.7?

‘Ah, very weil, then. Good-night.
you at noon to-morrow. Good-night,”

if Mra, Temple had been a saiutiy mother in Israel she
ooukl pot have ntiered her closing salutation with more
unction, Gorin a one Which sounded more like a ben-
ediction

We shail look for

Late ag was the hour when Mr. Biaight arrived at his
hotel, he did not think of retiring, for he found a pair of
boon companions who had been looking for hin, and
whom he invited to his room, where they resolved to make
a@ night of it yet.

With wine, and cigars, and cards, they passed three
jotly hours, and it was not far from four o’clock when
Benjamin hiccuped himself into bed, and into a sownd,
bul not refreshing sleep. His room was weill-darkened,
and as no obtrusive dayiight disturbed him, he slept very
late. Past the “rising beil,’? and the breakfast bell, and
the breakfast itself, Benjamin slept, aud not till after
eight o’clock did he opeu iis eyes and begin to wouder
whether it was really broad day.

He wondered a good while, dozing at intervals, and at
intervals looking out at the dim light. which his heavy
window Curtains admitted into the room,

His watch lay upon the table beyond his reach, and as
he was sure he had heard no.bells, he concluded it must
be early; but soon afterward a passing chamberinaid tried
his door, and then he changed his mind and decided that
it must be very late. He jumped up and looked at his
watch, and to his dismay found thatit was nine o’clock.

To his dismay, we say, for he remembered the necessity
for his being early atthe bank, and the probability that
Mr. Orville would call before the hour of ten with his or-
der for the box.

He dressed as rapidly as his haste and alarm would
permit, but nearly every article of iis apparel seemed io
have been misplaced, aud to require a s-parate search. |

Nothing would button or tie until alter repeated fail-
ures, his hands trembied, his head whirled, and he fretted
and fumed over his stupidity in retiring 80 late and sleep-
ing So long. b

When at last he was dressed, in a slovenly way, he sal-
lied forth, hailed a down-town Omnibus, and climbed into
the seat wilh the driver, who, under promise of large pay,
shut his eyes to all siguals, looked straight ahead, and put
his horses on a fast trot.

Mr. Orville was also, meanwhile, on his way to the
bank, not in great hasie or trepidation, for he did not be-
lieve that Blaight intended to recede from his bargain,
and, as we have seeu, lie feared that the exhibition of any
undue solicitude in getting possession of the box might
awaken suspicion at the bank, aud prevent its delivery on
the order.

He went, however, early, to prevent accident, ana tried
the outer door of the bank soon after nine, but found it
locked, and then he stationed himself in au opposite stair-
way and watched for comers,

He knew that although the banks were not open for
ousiness until the hour of ten, that the porters and younger
clerks came earlier and began their day’s work, and that
the porter was the custodian of the deaiers’ boxes, re-
ceiving an annual Christmas fee for his trouble in taking
care. of them, for the majority of these valuable receptacies
ure taken in every uight aud handed out every morning
Lbroughout the year.

Twenty tines the impatient Orville had looked at his
watch when, at last, the outer door of the bank was
opened by a surly-looking porter, and a knot of brokers’
boys, Who had gathered on the steps, were admitted to
claim their respective boxes, freighted with unknown
treasures

Frederick followed them in, and when they had been
quickly laden and had departed, he presented his written
order to the porter with rather more equanimily than he
would have felt if he had known that Mr. Blaight was
coming, post-haste, to countermand it, and that he was
aul that Moment not a quarter of a Mile distant.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_—————_>-0+—____——_-

The Right to Dramatize this Story is Reserved by the Publishers.

THROWN
OW THE WORLD.

{“‘Turown onthe World’? was commenced in No, 15. Back Nos.
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States, ]

CHAPTER LV.

It was some time before Silvia could recover her-
self at all, The world seemed to have ended—time
to stand still. The curse that had cluag to her for
years had fallen from her at last. At last she stood
free and unfettered, able to raise her head with its
halo of innocence undimmed; able to take her
place where she had always most wished to stand—
among the honorable rank of women, whose pride
and boast is a fair name.

Mr. Eversham saw that she was completely over-
come.

**You love your friend very much,” he said, gently.
“Now let me read this paper to you.”

It was somewhat obscure in its legal phraseology,
but the sense of it was plain enough, even to her
half-bewildered mind. There might be doubt else-
where, but there was none in the mind of the clever
lawyer. He saw no flaw in the marriage, it was

 

 

evident. . i "

“The lady has ground sufficient for an action at
law,” he wrote, *‘and there is no doubt that it would
be decided in her favor.”

“So you see, Mrs. Rymer,” said Mr. Eversham,
“your friend has the law, as it were, in her own
hands.”

He saw that she was too much agitated to reply
coherently, but no suspicion of the truth came over
him. He never dreamed that he had been making
inquiries for her, or they would have been more
zealously made. He thought her friend must be an
old schoolmate, to whom she was warmly attached,
and he admired her all the more for her intense and
kindly sympathy toward others,

It was a relief to Silvia when Mrs. Greville entered
the room. She advanced to greet the old states-
man with outstretched hands. She had so much to
say to him that Silvia’s silence was unheeded. They
talked of Rome, Madame Torlani, of the brilliant re-
ceptions, of everything that was gay and amusing.
No one surpassed Mrs. Greville in that kind of con-
versation—all sparkle, brilliancy and nonsense. Mr.
Eversham enjoyedit very much, and after a time
took hisleave. Then Mrs. Greville went up to Silvia,
and bending over her kissed her. She was not
given to caressing, or any great demonstration, and
Silvia looked up with a sudden gleam of affection.

‘Secrets still?” said Mrs. Greville. ‘I must not
ask what they are, but, Siivia, there is a look in
your face to-day that I have never seen before.”

She raised her head proudly. It was the first time
for years, Heaven help her, that she had dared to
raise it among honorable women.

“T have heard good news,” she said, briefly. And
then other visitors came in and the conversation
ended.

But Silvia was left like one bewildered. In vain
that day she took up books to read, fancy work,
sewing, writing—she could not keep her attention
fixed on any Oue thing for many minutes, All that
she could remember—the only idea that she could
keep in her mind—was she was Ulric Rymer’s lawful
wife.

She could find no rest indoors; she went out into
the sunlit garden, and bending over the pretty
fountains, saw her face reflected in the clear, shining
waters. For the first time for many years its beauty
pleased her. She had forgetten what it was like to
feel the least thrill of pleasure or delight in her
rirlish loveliness; but now, as she looked at the fair
face in the tranquil waters, she was pleased that
Cyril’s should be comely in all eyes. Perhaps there
came to her a remembrance of the time when some
one else had praised that face, and had called it
fairest of the fair. She saw herself a difference of
expression; the face she had beenaccustomed to see
downcast, with an expression half of shame, half of
desire to be hidden from the world’s sight, the face
upon which she gazed now, was fearless in its ex-
pression of innocence.

Even the daucing waters andthe sunlit. garden op-
pressed her, She went into her own room, and, kneeling
by her bed, she thanked Heaven for having delivered her
from the curse and bondage she thought only to lose in
death. No one can tell how great her relief was, except
those, who, like her, have lived under the shadow of a
dark cloud and suddeuly find that cloud vanished,

When the first ecstasy of her happiness had passed, she
was able to think more clearly; she was no nearer her
lost love than before; the simartof his desertion was no
less; the pain of her loss was keen as ever; but the one
great happiness was hers. She was before God and
tan a iaw{ful wedded wife. Of this joy no one could rob
lier, Noone could takeit from her. Even if she never
saw him again, she should take this source of happiness
with her to the grave. She could not decide upon any
plans; the only thought .that occurred to her was that
plies one returned to Eugiand she would do her best to

o iim,

A few days afterward Mrs, Greville said to her:

“Silvia, do you kuow how long itis since we left Eng-
land ?’'

“Yes; | have kept a faithful record of each day,” was
the truthful reply. ‘
“And though you have said nothing about if, though
you have neither murmured nor complained, I can im-
ugine that each day has seemed ap age, because of your
great love for your boy.”

“E should like to see kim again,” said Silvia, wistfully;
“buy though Ihaye not actually seen him, three days
have never passed without my hearing about him, Mr.
Hardiman has sent me a photograph of him; but my heart
aches for one look at him.”

“I think we have been away long enough. 1 purpose
returning to London for the season. What do you think ?”
A sudden, burning flush dyed her fuir face—it was the
yery desire of her heart put into words,

“I should itke it better than anything eise in this wide
world,’’ said Silvia, eagerly,

“You would have liked it long ago, but have not said
80; I suspect we will go to Lingholme, and you shall
have your boy there for a week—all to yourself—and then

 

we will go to Loudon,”

 

 

sass

Silvia was delighted. Mrs, Greville watched the beau-
tiful face with admiring surprise.

“The time will come, I honestly believe, when I shall be
jealous of you, Silvia, if you grow much prettier, 1
inust look to my laurels already.”

There was great and general disappointment expressed
When it was known that Mrs. Greville and her beautiful
friend intended leaving Roine; but Silvia looked forward
eugerly tothe time. Her interest in everything seemed
dead; she had but one idea, one thought, one longing, and
it was to be in London, where she could make inquiries
afier her long-lost lover.

Did he know that marriage was legal? She could not
tell. Attimes she thought not—tiat his intention had
been throughout to deceive her; but then he was a man
of the world, who understeod the world’s ways; it was
barely possible that he should be mistaken. Knowing it,
had he married again? She lost herseif in a thousand
conjectures; she was almost bewildered by the chaos of
thought that seemed at. times to overwhelm her.

“You do not regret ieaving Rome,” said Mrs. Greville
to her on the morning of their departure. “*You look as
delighted as possible over it. Dv you forget how many
adoring ioves you leave behind?”

“The adoring loves do not trouble me in the least,” said
Silvia. “I feel quite indifferently over them.”

Aud the gay widow, who lived upon the breath of adu-
lation and homage, looked with wonder aud surprise at
the calm, fair face of the woman who had cared so httle
for the brilliant offers of marriage she had received as
barely to remember thein.

The journey to England seemed very jong to Silvia,
every hour increased her impatience. What could Cyril
ve like? It seemed so long since she had lefthim. He
would be seven years old—a baby no longer, but growing
rapidly. How her mother’s heart yearned for him!

“How could { have left him?’ sie asked herself, over
andover again. ‘And yet I have done better for him
than if [ had spent iny income an keeping up a house for
him.”

By Mrs, Greviile’s kindiy-expressed wish, sie wrute to
Mr. Hardman, telling him of her return te Bugland, and
her longing desire to see the boy.

“I Canuot,’? she wrote, “go to Hampstead; but I beg of
you to send some trustworthy messenger with my boy at
once, aud let him remain at least a week at Linghol:ne.”

“Home is pleasant, alter ali,” said Mrs. Greville, on the
evening of their returu. “1 ran away from English win-
ters and Euglish fogs, but, after all, they have a charm of
their own. Ido not think I shail go away again.”

It was pleasant. February had come in very fair guise
that year. Thesnowdrops were peeping above the ground,
there was a faint odor of violets in the stiady parts of the
wood, green buds were forming on hedge and tree; there
was new life In the fresh, cold, bracing breeze; tle sky
was blue and clear, and thesun shone. 1t seemed to Sil-
via as though all things living shared. in her happiness,
and spoKe'to her of a new and brighter life.

Linghelme had never looked so fair. When she left it,
the consciousness of sliame and svurrow had hidden the
beauty of the world from her, as a dark vail spread
over Lhe fair creation would have done. The vail was re-
moved now; she couid see the beauty of earth and of
Heaven. Sorrow and paiu existed still for her, but not
shame; and everything else seemed easy to bear.

It was on the third day after their arrival that the letter
came telling her that little Cyril would be at Lingholme
that day. Her face grew perfecily white as she read, and
Mrs. Greville, looking at her with a Kindly smile, said:

“Never mind keeping up appearances, my dear; leave
me, and go end prepare forhim. Perhaps if 1] had hada
little child, I might have loved it as you do yours.”

CHAPTER LVI.

The February evening was drawiug toa close; a purple
light lingered over the trees; the suushine had long since
faded; the air was cool and fresh with the fragrance of
early violets and the sweet, moist woodlands. Surely,
under the broad, biue heavens on the face ofthe fair,
traugnil earth thé@fe'was no heart so impatient as that of
the beautiful young mother, who was pacing, with rapid
footsteps, the western terrace, from whence she could see
the carriage drive. The littie boy was to reach Ling-
holme at six, and since four she had been wailing for him.

She had prepared a little room by the side of her own.
She had prepared his little bed. Everything that a mo-
ther’s heart could suggest, or a mother’s hand could do,
had been done, and she was waiting for him now with a
heart full of impatience. kt seemed to her that every hour
Was an age, every moment an hour. The light was fad-
lug in the western skles—would he never come?

Suddenly she. saw the carriage turning round the grand
drive. She flew rather than waiked. Ste opened the
door. She cried in a loud, vehement voice:

“Oyrill Cyril! where are you ?”’

The next she liad him in her arias. Ste covered his
face with kisses and tears; she layished on him every fond
name, every tender word, every joving epithet, until the
child looked up at her in wonder.

“Do I frighten you, my darling ?? she cried. The car-
riage was driven on to the house then, and Cyril was
standing under the chestnut trees in the grand drive. She
had flung herself on hier Knees at his feet, and was Cling-
ing to him with a loving, passionate ciasp. ‘Do I frigit-
en you, my darling 2’ she askee in, **My heart han-
gered for one look at you, wy sbufScctinen tlirsty. Cyril,

callie -mother’—say ‘mother’ to Ine, so that [ may Know
1 am not dr STL ;

The child clasped his arins siowly round lier neck.

“Mother,*’ he said, geutly, ‘I am so pleased to be with
you again.”?

The voice seemed to pierce her heart with its sweet, fa-
miliar tones—it was Ulric’s voice. It had the same ring,
the Same music, the self-same aecent and inflections. She
could have fancied it was Ulric who spoke to her, and she
iooked up, with a low, passionate cry, into the child’s
face, f

As she gazed, her own grew white with the pallor of
death. Was fancy playing her some trick? Were her
own senses deluding her? The face was very young,
smooth and fair, but it was Uiric Ryimer’s face in minia-
ture, There was the saine rich, clustering hair, the broad,
white brow, the eloquent eyes, the beautiful lips, the per-
fectly molded features. Que drop of water did not resem-
ble another more Closely than the face of Cyril, the son,
resembled that of Ulric, the father,

A low, passionate cry, and then she laid her head on
the child’s breast.

She was face to face once more with the love of her
ueart, the Jove of her youth,

“How shall l live aud look on him?’ she murmured.

Then the child’s voice roused her.

“Mother, those tall trees almost frighten me. See, they
are bending their heads as though they were going to
speak to me. Shall we go home???

Sne roused herself from that passionate trance of an-
guish, and took the little hand in hers.

“{C is such @ pretty home, Cyril,” she said, gently. “We
have flowers and birds. I shail find a pony for you to

ride.’?
“Is it our home?’ asked the child. “Is it yours?’
“No, We siall have a home some day, Cyril; but this

isnotours, It belongs to a very good, kind lady, who
will be pleased to see you.”

The mention of a pony quite opened the child’s heart.
He ran by his mother’s side, prattling gayly, telling her
all his school experience, his play, his lessons, furgetiing
{o beshy, Only remembering that she was the darling
mother he had longed go intensely to see. Perliaps it was
one of the proudest moments of her life when she took the
boy into Mrs, Greville’s boudoir.

The mistress of Lingholine, notwithstanding. all her
litue affeciations, was a kindly-natured lady. She gave
the little stranger the warmest welcome. She took him
in her arms, and kissed the beautiful iace, then looked so
earnestly atit that Silvia wondered.

“My boy does not resemble me,” she said, gently.

“No, not in the Jeast; but his face recalis some one or
other to my mind—I cannot imagine whom it is like, Is
he like his father ??

Then for one half moment Silvia’s ‘heart stood still.
Would it hart him, her idolized child, to say that he had
his father’s face? No, for she was his father’s wife. It
was half-proudly, half-sorrowfully that she answered:

‘7 think he is, There seems to me a great likeness,”?

Mrs. Greville was still looking at the child with the
same intent, earnest gaze.

“I cannot remember whom itis that he resembles so
closely. His face is full of pleasant associations for me.
Was your husband an Englishinan, Silvia?”

“Yes, he was English,’’ she replied, and then the mat-
terdropped; but whenever Mrs. Greyilie’s eyes fell upon
the child they took the same wondering expression.

For a few days Silvia was perfectly happy: she almost
forgot her troubles in the presence of that beloved and
beautiful child. With an anxious heart she watched his
every action, and listened to every word. There was no
taint of selfishness in him. Once or twice she had grown
half faint with dread, jest having his father’s face he
sould inherit his faults; but she suw no trace of them,
and from the depths of her heart she thanked God. He
was a brave, generous, unselfish: child, full of noble in-
stincts and good impulses; it never seemed to occur to
him to be mean or selfish. Mrs. Greville watched him
with shrewd amusement,

“Your boy ought be a prince, Silvia,” she said, laugh-
ing. ‘He is the most priucely child lever met; his ideas
are superb.”

Silvia sighed. A prince! Ot! if she could only give
him a pame that was stainless and unsullied, she would
ask no better gilt from Heaven than that.

When the week was ended Mrs, Greville was the first to
object to his leaving Lingholme.

“itis so long since he has heen with you, let him stay
now that he is here, Ihave changed my mind over Lon-
don; I shalt not go yet. Lady Courcie has a purty of
friends coming to the Mount, and I know several of them.
I siall stay here a few weeks longer.”

Had she not so remained, would the story have been
different?

So it was arranged by general eonsent that little Cyril
should remain until they went to London; then his mo-
ther could take him to school herself.

Two days afterward came an invitation that Mrs, Gre-
ville had expected, for her te go to the Mount to meet
Lady Courcie’s friends.

‘You must amuse yourself as well as you can, my dear,’?
she said to Silvia. ‘I suppose you will want nothing eise,
now that you have the boy.”’

So for a few days mother and child were inexpressibly
happy together; then came a note from Mrs, Greville.

*}shall not beat home until Wednesday,” it ran, “and
Ishall bring a friend with me—Lady Dynecourt. Her
husband is away just at present, and she is not very
stroug; the noise and excitement of a large pariy are too
much for her. I have asked her to spend a few days
quietly at Lingholme. Will you see that everything is
ready for her???

Silvia suddenly remembered the photograph of the

 

beuuliful face, gud felt pleased at the prospect of seeing

 

K WEEKLY. ¢3—>

 

 

one so Charming as she feit sure Lady Dynecourt must be.
She looked forward io the visit as to a new source o! plea-
sure, and busied herself in having everything ready for
the expected arrival,

It was night when Mrs, Grevitle and her visitor arrived.
Little Cyril had gone to sleep, and Silvia satin the draw-
ing-reom alone, awaiting the coming of the ladies, At
first sight she was charmed with Lady Dynecourt—there
was something winning and noble about her patrician
beauty; yet, to Silvia’s keen instinct, there was something
mournful too, She was moss gracious, most charming,
most amiable, but despite all the grace and sweetness,
there was an undercurrent of melancholy.

“She is very lovely,” thought Silvia, ‘‘very graceful;
but I am sure she is not happy.”

Yet not one word feli fro Lady Dynecourt’s lips that
could be taken as a sign of melanctioly. She joined in all
coliversations, she had a@ very beautiful smile, 2 most
charming fashion of seeming to give her whole attention
to every one who Claimed it; but Silvia saw underneath
all this a Constant current of sadness—a constant return
to some secret source of unhappiness.

Lady Dynecourt was quite delighted with Silvia; her
beuuty, grace, her affectionate, warm-hearted disposition
seemed to have a great attraction for her. When they
parted for the night, she held SAvia’s hand in her own,

“Mrs. Greville tells me you have a little son Staying
with you,”? she Said, wistfully.

Something in her face made Silvia ask:

“Have you any childreh, Lady Dynecourt 3"?

The beautiful face grew pale.

“No,’’ she replied, gently; “I have none.”

CHAPTER LVII.

There is nothing, alter all, so li:nited as human knowl-
edge, A man devotes his whole lifetime to the study of
one particular star, one planet, one bird,and he dies
without knowing one half there is to Know. Another
Zives his whole thoughts and altention to the solving of a
problem, yet dies leaving it unsolved. Silvia Ryimer had
but one object in life—it was the inding of her lost lover,
Sne was under the same roof with his wife, but knew no
more of itthan did Lady Dynecourt in her turn suspect
who she was. They were fated to meet, and they had
met, butit was without recognition. The two, both be-
irayed by the same love, had crossed eacli other’s paths at
last.

The morning after her arrival Lady Dynecourt had
gone ouLin the grounds alone. She had a love, almost
amounting lo @ passion, for trees, and from the windows
of her room she had caught sight of the beautiful chest-
nut drive, and she hastened there. Mrs. Greville was far
loo accomplished a hostess to dream of interference, If
er guest preferred a solitary ramble, it seemed to her the
perfection of good breeding to indulge that wish; so Lady
Clotilde wandered under the chestnuts, feeling more at
ner ease and happier than she had done for some time.
She stopped to listen to the faint chirping of the birds, to
watch the white heads of the pretty suow drops. A faint
color flushed her beautiful, noble face, a faint smile played
round her lips. Ouly Heaven knew what fair dreams of
her youth returned to her as she enjoyed this hour among
the leafless trees.

The sound of a child’s laughter struck her, a burst of
melodious laughter that seemed to cheer and brighten
the air around. She Jooked up witha quick, bright smile.
Like many childless women, she had a passionate love of
children. In the far distance she saw a little boy at play,
and Mrs, Rymer was just crossing the drive to go to him.
Lady Clotilde hastened to join her,

“That is your little son?” she said; and Silvia looked
up with a quick, warm flush,

“How lenvy you!” continued herladyship. “If I hae
been offered my choice between the wealth of all the
world and a little child, I would have chosen the child.”

Silvia’s beautiful face, full of sympathy, was raised to
ners, :

“I do not wonder at jt,”? she replied; ‘there is no gilt of
Heaven so good.”’ . ;

“I often wonder about it,’? continued Lady Dynecourt.
“I read such shocking, cruel things in the papers, of chil-
dren killed, and starved, and cruelly treated! If Heaven
iad only trusted one to me, I would have taken such care
of it—and they are given to those who do not care for
them. I feel tempted sometimes to wonder how it is,”

‘JT have often thought of it, too,” said Silvia; and they
walked together down the long drive.

“Tu me, or rather ju my case,” said Lady Clotilde, it
seems very hard. My husband, Lord Dynecourt, longs so
intensely forason and heir. The property at his death
passes to a stranger, oue of the branch of the family whom
he disiikes; that makes it so much more painful. Every
allusion to the future makes my heart ache. When I see
him indifferent over anything connected with the proper-
ty, I think directly itis because a stranger must step in
Where his son should tread.”

‘It must be a great trowble to you,” said Silvia; “I can
understand #1 so well?) And to herself she thought:
‘Every heart knowetlt its own bitterness,’ and this poor
jady Knows hers.” oS

She grew deeply interested in Lady Clotilde; there was
something 80 winning, 80 lovable, so true about her. As
she louked at the beautiful face, she caught herself won-
dering what Lord Dynecourt was like, and thinking how
very dearly he must love this gentle wife of his—wonder-
ing, too, whatthe shaduw OU Her lace meant, and why it
Was there, P .

Suddenly, with a peal of childish Jaugiter, little Cyril
ran into the drive toward them. Silvia stooped and took
him in herarms; she put back the rich cluster of bair
from his brow, aud then, with motherly pride, said:

“This is my son, Lady Dynecourt.”

What had happened ?

What was there in the childish, beautiful face that
seemed to hold Lady Dyneconrt entranced ?

She had grown white as the snowdrops, and in her eyes
there was a wanderilg, piteous look. It was only by a
violent effort that she aroused herself.

“How strange you must think mel’ she said; ‘but
there is something so famiiiar to me in that fauce—it seems
to me as ihough 1] hag known it and lived with it.”

“IL is strange,” said Silvia; “but Mrs. Greville sald the
same thing.’

The patior deepened on Lady Ciotilde’s face.

“Has she said 80? Has she noticed it? she asked,
breathlessly.

“Noticed what?’ asked Silvia, iu amaze.

Then Lady Clotilde remembered herself.

“] mean—does she too fancy that she can trace a resem-
bignee to some one she knows?”’

‘So she says,” replied Silvia.

Lady Clotilde sat down on one of the garden chairs, and
took litle Cyril on her knee, Eagerly, anxiously, with
wistful, wondering eyes, she scanned each feature of his
face. ‘There could be no mistake about it; fancy was not
misteading her, nor was imagination deceiving her.

' The face into which she gazed so earnestly resembled
thatof her husband, Bazil, Lord Dynecourt, exacily as
one drop of water resembles another.

She could not account for it. Of course it must be pure-
ly accidental; yet, was there ever anything so startling;
the yery line of the clustering curls, they fell from the
brow in precisely the sume fashion; the color of his eyes,
the drooping of the long lashes; there could be no more
perfect resembiance. Of course it was accidental, yet it
hurt her with a strange pain.

Why should a stranger’s child wear his face, while her
arms were empty? Lady Ciotilde sighed deeply, and
warm, bright tears filled her eyes.

**Has your ljittle boy’s father been long dead ?’ she
usked,

‘Itis six years now since I lost him,’ said Silvia, eva-
sively.

“Had he relatives in England? Was he an English-
man??? asked Lady Ctolilde, and her eyes seemed as
though they would pierce every thought in Silvia’s heart,

She was able to auswer with truth, thatshe had never
heard her husband speak of his relatives,

*You loved him very dearly,’ said Lady Clotilde,
gently.

A warm flush rose to the beautiful face,

“I loved him ten thousand times more dearly than my
own life,” replied Silvia,

“Ah! thatis the right way to love. Ihave an opinion
of my own, and that opinion is, there is no equality in
love. One gives all, another reserves all. 1 do not think
it possible to fad husband and wife who bave an equal
love for each other,

‘Even that doctrine is not so terrible as some of Mrs,
Greville’s,” replied Silvia, with a smile; “she disbelieves
in Jove altogether,”?

“Therein she is mistaken; much unhappiness may
spring. from it, but it would be a wretched world with-
out it.’?

Still she never put the chiki down, or took her eyes
from his face. She asked his name, and he looked at her
as he replied:

“Oyril Rymer.””

Alil even the very tone of the childish yoicet
mockery? She could haye
court stood speaking.

‘I cannot help thinking,” she said to Silvia, “that I
must know some of your husband’s relatives—this face
and yoice are 80 familiar. Did you know anything of
your husband’s family ??

It was a relief to answer truthfully—no, that she did
not. She began to wonder at Lady Giotilde’s strange
manner, Of whom or what did she remind her? Her
eyes almost asked the question, and Lady Dynecourt saw
il; she tried to repress her eagerness and her curiosity;
she talked to the little one, and listened with delight to
his pretly answers,

“Why, Oyril,”’ she said, “you will soon be a man,”

‘d wish it were now,” he reptied; “then 1 could always
take Care of mamma,”?

‘You love mamma so much?’ said Lady Dynecourt,
wistfully.

“She is all L have in the world,’ replied the child, with
unconscious pathos; “I cannot help loving her.’

“If he were but mine!? said Lady Clotilde. “I would
give ali my money, Cyril~everything that I have in the
world—for a little boy like you.”?

He laughed, as though the idea of another little boy
just like himself were a great joke; then Silvia told him
to run away, he would ure the lady.

The child looked up into the wistful face with a smile;
he clasped his little arms round Lady Qiotilde’s neck.

“You are a beautiful lady,’ he said; ‘i love you very
muen,’?

She kissed him, then tet him down, with tears in her
eyes. Sie rose abruptly, and walked away. Silvia did
not follow hers. she seemed by instinct to understind that
the beautiful, unhappy lady would prefer to be alone,

But after that morning it was wonderful to gee how fond
Lady Dynecourt became of the boy; she was always ask-
ing for him, always begging to bave him with her,

‘I shall hope to see little Oyril in London,” she said.
“You must be kind to me, Mrs. Rymer, and let me have
hiin for a whole week to myseif.”’

Aud Bilvia, who would have done anything to console

Wasita
imagined that Lord Dyne-

 

 

 

 

  
    
 

and comfort her, laughir

igly promised that she should
have him whenever she wished.

They little dreamed that it was to his own father’s
house the child had been invited—the house that, if right
prevailed, must oue day be his,

CHAPTER LVIII.

That marriage is a lottery, is a trite saying; that some
draw rich prizes, others bitter blanks, is equally trite and
true, The world had not quite made up its mind as te
the result of Lady Clotilde’s marriage. Some, who looked
no deeper than the surface, declared it to be a happy one.
Lord and Lady Dynecourt were generally seen together;
uo one ever heard an unpleasant or disagreeable word
pass between them; the gentleman was to all appeare
ances kind, considerate, and attentive, the lady happy.

“It was sad that Lord Dynecourt would have no heir,”
every one agreed on that point; but “every heart knows
its own bittervess,”” and Lady Clotiide Knew the hight
and depth.

She had married. Lord Dynecourt because she loved
him, and she looked forward to a kind of ideal happiness
with him, She saw ouly the better and brighter side of
his character; she was disposed to make a hero of him,
She did not think it possible that he should be anything
except good and great. She loved him exceedingly. She
had been greatly admired, Sought after; she had had
many Jovers, but the only man who ever touched her
pee was Basil Lord Dynecourt; she never cared for ane
other.

There never was @ marriage that gaye greater promise
of turning out well; they were both young, gifted with
beanty, wealth, rankK—everything that could make life
desirable; the future before them seemed bright as the san
that suone on their wedding-day—there was uo cloud te
dim its radiance,

How, then, had such a marriage prospered? “Excel-
lently!? said the world. Whatsaid Lady Clotilde? Even
to her own self she shrank from owning the truth—thag
she was disappointed; that she was unhappy; tata some-
thing without name—a shadow—had grown between her
husband and herself; a distance, a coldness, that in-
creased as Lhe days wenton. She could not explain itg
She Could not tell how it was; she could not remember
even when it had began. She could not trace the firs§
origin of Lhat coidvess and chill sense of disappointment
that so soon destroyed her happiness. Was it that she
fancied he did not give lo her the same superabundant,
grant, generous love thatshe gave to him? Was it that
she found him less noble, less heroic, more commonplace
‘han she had fancied he would be? Was it because at
umes, in the hush aud the dead of night, she heard the
name of another woman on his lips, and heard him mur-
pee words of endearment, such as he never addressed toe
her

She remembered so well the time that happened first—
how she had listened to him with a beating heart, and,
when morning dawned, had said to him:

‘Basil, did you dream of me last night ?”?

Laughing at the question and anxious face, he an
swered:

“No; I ought to be ashamed, perhaps, at the confessioa,
but. l really did not.’

‘““Who were you calling ‘love,’ and speaking so gentle
to, then ?”?

‘I did not Know that I ever talked in my sleep,” he re
plied, hastily.

“You did; you ofien do. Basil, do not be afraid te tel?
me; did you love any one before you met me???

He answered by a careless laugh:

“Why, Clotilde, what a quesiion. I was not a statue,
neither did I live in a desert, and men, yny dear, are bat
men. ;

“That is vo answer tu my question,’ she said, wouder-
ing atthe evasion, “Did you love any one belore you
knew me???

“I may safely say, Clotilde, that I. livedin a chronie
State of being in love from the time I was seven years old
until now.’

‘‘] never thought of you as sucha general lover,’ she
said, slightly piqued,

“Did younot? Why, Clotilde, 1 wonder that you have
never discovered my weakness before.”

“You will not answer my question,’’ she said. “You
Will not tell me whether you veally loved any ene before
you loved me.’?

Again the careless laugh that jarred upon her feelings,
that hurt, her as a physical pain, then he replied gayly:

“Of course I never cared for any one one-thousandth
part as much as J care for you;” but the ring of the words
was faise, she felt that ihe words themselves were false,
and from that hour, @ dark shadow, slowly, but surely,
arose between them.

She was too noble a woman to yield to curiosity; she
might Nave listened to his dreaming Words; she might
have looked among his papers; she might haye played the
spy upon hii in a hundred different ways, but she was far
too noble for that,

Tie grand dream of her life was destroyed, she could no
longer delude herself into thinking that she was the soie
object of her husband’s love. Cruel doubt and jealousy
had begun whatis always fatal work; and though she
would never Own it eyen to herself, Lady Dynecourt’s
Short dream of happiness was at an end.

If the desire of her heart liad been given to her; if she
had had little children to love, and to love her, she would
not perhaps have dwelt so continually on this one theme;
her thoughis would have been better and brighter. Her
dream had ulways been one of love, and no other,

Women ivel nothing more Keenly than the graduat
dowusall of an idol, Lady Ciotilde had made an ideal
hero of her lover, in her girlish, romantic fashion; she
had endowed him with grand and noble qualities; she had
to watch these ideal qualities disappear, one by one; she
had thought him the very sou) of truth and honor; she had
to find out that he was no more truthful than other men;
that though perhaps he would have scorned what the
world calls a lie, he was guilty of the same evasions, the
same equivocalions as other people. He was, in fact, no
ner and after a lime she was obliged to own that to her-
self.

The thing, perhaps, that startled her most, was his light
way of speaking of things she held in the highest honor.
Love was but a jest; inconstancy, rather a subject of pride
than otherwise; infidelity, a mere matter of course; and
when once or twice she had shown bim plainly that she
did not like to bear such sentiments, he had laughed and
called her a pretty prude.

“You make life a wagedy, Clotilde,” he said to her,
“and it was never intended for anything but a farce.”?

“You dishonor what I honor most,’ she said, coldty.

Yet despite this intangible difference, this soinething
without @ name, there was never any open disagreement
between them, Lady Clotilde was not the only one con-
demned to see her life laid bareand waste, she bore it
with patient dignity, she made no murmur, bo complaint.
Did she love her husband the less? Those who under-
stand @ Wwoman’s heart best can answer the question.

The strange iikeness existing between the ehild ana@
husband puzzied her. Mrs. Rymer’s husband must haye
been related to her hnsband’s family. Perhaps he was
one of the poorer, younger branch, Sie resolved to lose
no timeln making inquiries. It would have been a
source of greatest pleasure to her if she could have traced
the least relationship between her husband and this boy—
it might lead to his being adopted by Lord Dynecourt.

So she asked Silvia many puzzling questions, and it was
Well that she had really never heard her husband meu-
tion his family. Lady Clotilde said to her one day:

“It seems strange that your husband should never have
mention his family or connections to you.’?

“It 18 strange,’’ said Silvia; “but it is qnite true.”

“I suppose,” continued Lady Ciotilde, “that yon. were
all the world to each other?”

“Cntil 1 lost him,” said Silvia, “that we most certainly

are.”

Lady Dynecourt resolyedin her own mind that she
would not rest until she had done something worth doing
for the beautiful widow and her little boy.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

"USEFUL
‘HINTS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE.

— The brown leaves which occur upon house
plants are generally caused by a very minute insect called the
“red spider.” They will not live in a moist atmosphere, and the
remedy is to shower the plants frequently, especially the under
sides of the leaves. If you have no syringe, lay the plant down
and shower them from a watering pot.

— Skins, furs, or any article of clothing that is
offensive, may be deodorized by holding them over a fire of red
cedar boughs, or sprinkling ther with chioride of lime,
Another plan is to wrap them in green hemiock boughs, when
ey are Lo be had, and in twenty-four hours they will be odor
ess,

— A saturated solution of permanganate of po-
tassa is the best of all disinfectants. Add to twenty grains two
quarts of water. A tablespoonful of this in a soup plate of
water removes any ordinary smell. No sick room, especially one
in which there is an infectious disease, should be without it

— Meat brine or strong salt and water, poured in-
to the seams of flagging or sprinkle over fzravel walks a fow
times will comipletely kill the roots of grass or weeds,

— To Keep cheese that has been cut, tie it ina
cloth ang put itin a cool place, I: mold.appears wipe it off with
a cloth,

—- Bread and cake should be kept in a tin box or
stone jar,

— Fiour and meal of ali kinds should be kept in a
cool, dry place.

—,Oranges and lemons keep best when wrapped
close in soft paper, and laid in a drawer.

— Keep coffee by itself as its odor affects other
articles. Keep tea ina close chest or canister,

— Toselect nutmegs prick them with a pin. If
they are good the oil will instantly speadjaround the panetare.

pe tiggg d
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

For BETTER, FOR WORsE. A Love Story. Publishers, T. B
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mance containing incidents likely te occur in every day life.
Read it.

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THE OLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. By Miss Eiiza A. Dupuy. Pud-
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THE ANGELS FROM BABES.
BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

What! because Pm not young
Do you think that I laugh
In a mockery at
All young lovers who quaff
The sweet fountain of love,
Which upon every sod
Was Creation’s great Cause
In a love-breathing God ?

Yes, my body may fail,
And my spirit may pine,
For a sphere where all’s love
Round the Innermost Shrine,
But I gladden to see,
In the day or the night,
Summer-ecstacy thrill
Through the blest. nuptial rite.

*Tis the rite thatds crown
Of all crowngon the earth;
Tis the rite by which Heaven
Adds and adds to its worth.
If I mocked at the rite
I wonld dare angel scorn,
For it is here that in babes
All the angels are born!

THE BITTER END.

BY HESPERIAN.

«Miss Montague, allow me to introduce Mr. Dumbar-
ton,” and with a smile and a bow the speaker left me on
the hotel. piazza alone with Opal Montague. Acknowl-
edged belle of the season she wore the honors of her reign
with the royal grace of a queen, and though many averred
her a coquette, as heartless as beautiful, rumor affirmed
her the bride-elect of Harold Spencer, a man of strikingly
handsome presence and considerable wealth.

i, a late arrival at the seaside, was not yet personally
acquainied with the gentleman, albeit our names were
somewhat prominently linked together on account of a
boust on my part to the effect that Miss Montague, if a
cequette, would assuredly find her match in Edmond
Bumbarton. Of course the boast had flown straight to
the lady, butl was not aware of lt till, extending her
hand in recognition of our introduction, she said, with a
Smile matching the fine irony of her voice:

4¢Ah! Mr. Dumbarton, the courteous gentieman in whom
Miss Montague, if a coquette, is to find her match.”’

*“Most assuredly, fair lady,’? I bowed, unabasiied, in
reply, leaving a swift, daring Kiss on the loveliest of finger-
tips, over which she slowly passed her handkerchief,
Quietly responding, as she shook it out in the moonlight:

“And so the boast was really a tocsin of war?”

Before I could answer, the breeze, suddenly rising,
caught the handkerchief from her too light clasp, and
swept it into my instantly outstretched hand, where it
lay, a dainty drift of odorous snow, that I gallantly raised
to my lips, with the smiling words: :

“Nay, not war, if thisis the ante-fruce of Miss Monta-
gue’s ultimate surrender.’? i

“Never! toned clear as the ring of tempered steel on
my ear, and our eyes met—the blue fire of hers kindling
into vivid flame, mine boldly confident, as I coolly folded
the handkerchief and placed it in my vest pocket, em-
phatically rejoining:

“Wait, skeptical lady! I am an imperious man.”

The flame dazzling her face fairly blinded me; then,
with the shadow of a sudden change glooming darkly
over her, she thrillingly retorted:

“Beware, Mr. Dumbarton! The doom of surrender
might brew you a cup, than whicli none could prove more
fatally bitter!’

Quick {rom my heart leaped the rash reply:

“Though never so bitter, from your fair, vanquished
fiand I would drain it to the dregs as sweetest nectar!”

Prescient words of both! how sharply frequent uprose
their memory in after years! But whatever they probed
in the heart of one that evening, in the heart of the other
they awoke no latent spring of pain, as we stood there
together, silent in the moonlight after their utterance.
She and I—the man, notwithstanding his audacious ego-
ism, most vividly conscious that at last he was in the
grasp ol a passion at which he would have incontestably
scoffed an hour previous; the woman, perfectly motion-
less, with one jeweled hand gleaming white above her
heart, and a strange pallor outlining her hall-averted face,
till with a little quick-drawn breath she haughtily threw
back her head, serenely imperturbable as ever, as she
turned, mockingly flashing through the silence.

“Has so chivalrous a gentleman any further courtesy to
offer ??”

“Save at your behest, my leige lady, none.’

Again our eyes met, this time in a mutually electrical
gaze thatI did not care to, and she, taken at a sudden
disadvantage, could not resist, though she evenly said:

“Then accord me the grace of your arm to the dancing-
hall.’?

‘With the loyalty claiming the boon ofa waltz,” I
bowed in reply, proffering my arm, which she accepted,
with the suavely malicious rejoinder:

«Certainly, at the grant of any other hand than mine.’

A mad impulse seized me. When we reacted the hall
i wou!d suddenly surprise her with the crowning audacity
of slipping my arm sround her and whirling her perforce
into the mazes of the waltz. But ‘I reckoned without
my host.’’

On the very threshold of the door Mr. Spencer met us,
exclaiming, with a cool stare at me and a smiling bow to
her:

‘Ah, Miss Montague, [ am in quest of you.
waltz, is it not?’

Swiftly withdrawing her hand from my arm, she grace-
fully introduced us, aud glancing at lier tabiet, radiantly
answered:

“It is, Mr. Spencer.’?? Then with the mocking addition,
«Thanks, Mr. Dumbarton,’”’? she glided away on his arm,
wafting toward me a little triumphant wave of her tan-
talizing hand, as they airily joined the waitzers.

The next morning Mr. Spencer ‘‘interviewed”’ me as
follows:

“Mr. Dumbarton, as Lam a man of few words, it is
needless for me to say more than that my interest in the
welfare ofa certain lady empowers me peremptorily charge
you to beware how you henceforth conduct yourself to-
ward her.)

“Sir,” L haughtily responded, “if you have sought me
at that lady’s request, return her my profoundest thanks.
If, however, you threaten me on your own account, take
that for your insolence,’’ snapping my fingers in his face,
and coolly turning on my heel, I left him.

However, [ aliowed three days to eiapse ere I again ap-
proached Miss Montague. Then, on the evening of the
third, observing her alone on the piazza, where Mr. Spen-
cer had left her for a brief spaee, I advanced to her side,
and after passing the complimenis of the evening, signifi-
cantly said:

“And so, my fair foe, you are compelled to enlist an
ally in your service.’

Icily clear through the moonlight fell the answer:

“Sir, to end further badinage, allow me to inform you
that Mr. Spencer is my affianced husband.’’

“But, Miss Montague,’’ bending daringly toward her,
“what of another faet that has suddenly overtaken you,
as well as me???

“J decline answering the impertinence of a comparative
stranger,’’ was the haughty reply.

“Nevertheless, lady, notwithstanding its impertinence,
my meaning is clear,’ 1 boldly rejoined, my gaze re-
morsely mastering hers, till the eloquent shadow of a
swiftly expiring blush left her pale with an expression
that wrung from my lips the low, impassioned truth:

“‘Opal—Miss Montague! Iam somewhat different from
other men; an arrogant rebel, perhaps, to any other law
than that of my own imperious will. Our acquaintance
is brief; yet to win your love I would count the world
well lost, and having won that love, [would even dare to
wrest you from another at the very altar. But till It is
your pleasure, not more than the veriest stranger will I
again presume to address you,’’ and tearing my eyes
from her transfixed face, [ turned and walked from her
presence—vanquished? Scarcely.

However, I kept my word fora month. Then one day
i was the means of rescuing her, as well as Mr. Spencer,
from a sharp and sudden death. How the feat was ac-
complished does not signify. Let it suffice that it was at
the expense of aforever maimed leg to myself, and that
through all the long, hot August days I was held a recum-
bent prisoner in the cool parlor of the pleasentest suit of
apartments the hotel afforded. But I was not teft to lan-
guish alone, for a throngof gay, butterfly friends speedily
transformed my invalid couch into a throne, where, for
the novelty of the thing, aS well as to kill time, 1 held
willing sway over a court that. soon became an acknow-
jedged attraction at the hotel. Daily, in and out, hum-
ming brightly around me, fluttered, at their own sweet
will, the fairer portion of my subjects—a brilliant galaxy
of beauty, amid which the proud presence of her for whom
i suffered never once shone.

True, Harold Spencer had hastened to’tender me his
and Miss Montague’s united acknowledgement of the ob-
ligation rendered, but I had cut him shoxt with the
brusque interruption:

“Sir, please understand that you, of all men,\owe me
absolutely nothing. Further words are unnecessary.’
And silently lifting his hat, he had hastily turned from the
room, sufficiently wise to spare me a repetition of théin-
trasion.

Of course, many marveled that neither of “the pair for
whom I had nearly broken my neck”’ ever appeared in my
parlor, where all so generally resorted; but I kept my
own counsel, with a nonchalance that effectually baffled
curiosity.

So August passed, and with the milder air of Septem-
ber the gay tide of pleasure-seekers began to turn home-
ward: but day after day wore on, and, though able to
travel, I made no move to follow. No, nor would I till
she left, 1 daily said to myself as friend after friend de-
parted, till finally there arrivea an hour that found me
alone in the friendless atmosphere of an utterly deserted
parlor, reading a dainty note, which ran thus:

“MR. DUMBARTON: Somewhat heartless I may be—ut-
terly solam not. is your courtesy equal to the imme-
diate graut of five minutes’ audience?

“OPAL MONTAGUE.”

This is our

I frankly wrote back:

“MISS MONTAGUE: Ifin the presence of Mr. Spencer,
deeply as I regret the ungallant necessity, the audience is
beyond my generosity to grant.

Eie “EDMUND DUMBARTON.”

Ten minutes later, alone, and in traveling costume, she
glided into the room to my side, with a glitter of tears in
the glance that fellon my crippled limb, as she heid out
her hand, hurriedly exclaiming:

‘‘Mr. Dumbarton, in an hour I leave for Boston, but be-
fore I go, allow me to say that I owe you a debt——””

“Which this moment amply repays,’ I softly interposed,
leaving on her fair, tremulous fiugers a kiss that no scorn-
ful gesture brushed away.

“But——’? she began again.

“Nay, the past is banned,” I smilingly insisted; ‘‘but,
dearest lady, when next we meet, pray allow me to greet
you not as a comparative stranger.” ;

Faiutly flushing, she bent her head, and huskily an-
swered:

“Bowing to the ban you place on the past, I can only
gay, farewell forever!’ and with a glauce as swilt as in-
voluntarily eloquent, she was gone.

“Not quite foréver,’? I murmured to myself; and two
mouths thereafter found me in Boston, the guestof a gen-
tleman, Whom on the evening of my arrival, | accompa-
nied to a brilliant eutertainment at which she was present,
Harold Spencer, as usual, her attendant, Iavoided mak-
ing my presence known to her till I saw her glide, alone
and unobserved by the crowd, into the softly-lighted con-
servatory; then I hastily sought her, exclaiming, in tones
she could not mistake:

‘‘Ig it an illusion, or indeed Miss Montague ?*’

Smiling, and holding out her hand, she said, witha
faint color blossoming over her face:

‘Perhaps an illusion, Mr. Dumbarton.’”? Then casting
aquick glance on the cane upon which 1 leaned, she
added, with aquiver about the lips: ‘‘Pardon me, but
notwithstanding the ban you place on the past, I fear you
lave dear cause to remember it.”’

*Peradventure the loss of life itself would not have
proved too much in your behalf,” I gently answered.

Fair as an imperial rose-tinted lily, she tremulously
commanded:

“7 charge you to never again brave Such peril for me!’

“Such peril for you! Why, Miss Montague,’ I pas-
sionateiy began, but she coldly interrupted:

“Sir, you forget yourself.’’

“No, I continued, ‘I do not forget myself!
ber. ihave told you I am an imperious man.
not yet a wife, and shall listen to me!"

“Shaul, sir!’ with a quick blaze of anger.

“I said shall,’”? Lrecklessly went on; ‘‘and out of the
great, overmastering passion with which you have in-
spired me, I dare to tell you thatI believe you this mo-
ment love meas you never have loved, and never will
love the mau to whom you have plighted your troth.’'

With averted eyes and tightly-locked hands, she har-
kened till I paused; then, as if driven at bay, desperately-
faced me, fairly panting forth the words:

“You force a cruel necessity upon me! Listen. There
is that in my life which, revealed to you in allits horror,
would compel to your lips the recoiling cry: ‘Whited se-
pulchre!’ The man I have promised to marry knows me
for whatI am, yetloves me, pities me, cares for meas
not one man in a thousand would, guarding my secret in
asilence rigid asdeath. As Jacob served for Rachel’s
love, he has served for mine, and, judging by tle past,
will serve me loyal to the sure, bitter end. Then auswer
me, Shall I award him treachery at this late hour? And
for what ??!

The last question fell as if torn from the heart, and she
shrank before me—a cowering shape of ashen wretcled-
ness.

“Opal, I said. She did not speak. ‘Opal,’? J said
again, gently taking her hand, “look up, and read your
answer in eyes than which no truer never sought te win
love from yours.”?

A moment, flushing and paling, she wavered toward
me, the next wrenched her hand away, with the low cry:

“No! no! Harold, 1 will Keep faith with you!”

“And walk the earth forevermore—a living lie’ I re-
lentlessly exclaimed, in tones that drew her eyes to mine
in spite of herself, for one long, impassioned moment that
heid her breathless at my merey. ‘‘Opail O my love! my
love! must we part?’’ I implored.

“You would not ask me if you knew the shamefal
truth,’? she moaned.

“Try me, and see,’’? I said; ‘tell me all.
between us—lis love or minel”?

She half moved to speak, then hid her face in her hands,
weeping silently.

“Opal,” Ladded, *‘believe me, my own life is not so
blameless that lcan justly cast stones at others, least of
allat the woman I love as I do you. Tell me all and choose
—my love or his!”

She still wept on, and tenderly drawing her hands from
her face, I kissed away the tears bathing her cold flugers,
and piead with her, till out of her desperate agony she not
only confessed thatshe loved meas I have said, but, bow-
ing her head in utter Shame, told me the whole dark se-
cret blighting her iife, ending with the words:

‘And now it only remains for you to let me go my
way down to the destruction neither you, nor he, nor
I can avertl’?

Pen cannot portray the hopeless pain of her voice, but
swift on the hush of its despairing renunciation rang
straight from my soul the thoroughiy determined re-
sponse:

“Never! Opal, youlove me. Thatis sufficient to make
you, with al-yourwoe,-mino forever!!! And drawing
her to my bosom, I held her there, raining passionate
caresses on her face and lips till the low-toned murmur:

“Edmond! O, Edmond! I—surrender!’? answered me
with an eloquence as expressive as I could desire.

But alas! When we turned to leave the conservatory,
a wild, maddened face suddenly confronted us—the face
of Harold Spencer, with eyes of burning fire, and rage-
envenomed lips hissing forth the imprecation:

“Shameless traitress and thief! may Heaven’s blackest
curse blast you both into everlasting perdition!’ And
before either Opal or I could divine his purpose he had
caught herin au embrace that blanched her white as
death.

For one well-nigh murderous moment I forgot my
lameness, and springing forward, cruel as a tiger with
my uplifted cane, the next his right arm fell powerless
and broken at his side, and Opal lay a dead weight in
my strong, supporting clasp. Tien we stood fixed as
stone, viudictively glaring at each other—he and J, of all
foes the most pitiless, for love of the woman so uncon-
scious of either during that spell of Gorgon silence, out
of which finally surged the baleful words:

“Kdmond Dumbarton! marry the faithless jilt you have
won; but by her perfidy, your unprincipled bageness,
and this broken arm at my side, | swear to sobner or
later mete you a merciless requital for this night’s work!"’
And ashen pale, with the pain torturing his arm, as
with conflicting passions, the speaker wavered like a
drupvken man from my sight, and years intervened be-
fore we met again.

The following day Opal and I were married, and im-
mediately left Boston to take possession of a home than
which a fairer would not have been but for—O, accursed
woe!—the fell demon of drink. which periodically lashed
the woman I loved into a state insensate as that of the
lowest drunkard on earth. But slie had in no wise de-
ceived me, for that was the secret i had wrung from
her reluctant lips, madly daring the doom I exulted to
wrest {rom Harold Spencer, who had more than once
beheld her drunken to insensibility, only to care for her
with a tenderness that, rare asit was, never for a mo-
ment equaled that which I lavished upon her from first
to last. She always affirmed this, often at my feet, with
her face hidden on my knee, while she wept her ieart
out, sobbing:

“OQ, my husband! with more than woman’s devotion
have you kept your word to drink to the dregs the fatally
bitter cup of which I had such perilous reason to bid you
beware!”?

And for answer I invariably gathered her to my bosom,
mutely caressing the tear-storm of her eyes into a calm
found only in the haven of my love. Butshe was not so
much to blame, as it appears; for—mark the fatal cause—
she inherited her fatal infirmity from the intemperance of
her parents, both of Whom, albeit the favorites of fortune,
drank themselves into a premature grave, leaving her,
their only child, though highly favored in all earthly pos-
sessions, most ruinously dowered in the transmitted her-
itage of a horrible periodical thirst for drink that drove
her nearly insane unless allowed indulgence, Heaven
forbid that I should reveal what she, otherwise the most
incomparable of women, became in those supremely hap-
less hours of her life. Let it suffice. She was my wile, who,
in the long quiescent intervals that uniformly followed the
quenching of her thirst,so0 endeared herself to me by
every engaging grace at her command, that for the time
being she rendered me the happiest of men, and my wor-
shiping idolatry kept loyal faith with her to the bitter end
of our married lives.

Still 1 failed to fully realize the extent of the doom I had
dared till our little Lily was born—the very image of her
mother, id & presence etherealized to such extreme fra-
gility that we both adored her more as of angel tlian mor-
tal degree, in a mutually wordless way that hid an ever-
haunting dread for tlre clii!d’s future, as well as inexpres-
sible pain at the thought of the time when she shouid
come to understand all her mother’s woe.

For six years she daily grew in beauty and promise be-
fore our eyes; then—O Heaven! the curse fell. Harold
Spencer stole our idol from us; but, as if to augment ret-
ribution, not till we had unquestionably learned that in
her frail being slept the blasting transmission of her moth-
er’s evil destiny—knowledge most maddening, revealed,
as it was, by the hand oi that same mother, who, one day
In my absence, when anything but herself, put to her
child’s innocent lips the alluring poison which gaye to my
return the overwhelming shock of beholding both mother
and child lying side by side on the floor, utterly swallowed
up in the dead sleep of senseless intoxication.

Words cannot depict the darkness of that hour, nor the
horror that, when she came to herself, petrified Opal into
such tearless despair that I trembled for her reason more
than once during the delirious illness that resulted to Lily
from the effect of the intoxication upon her delicate or-
ganization, and from which she had barely recovered
when Harola Spencer suddenly spirited her away ina
manner that would have wrapped her fate in impenetrable
mystery but for the following:

“INFERNAL THIEF: Revenge is sweet! Itis the eighth
anniversary of that night in the conservatory, and for the
bride of which you then despoiled me, it is no more than
‘poetic justice’ for me to at length possess myself of the
dainty little substitute with which you have provided me.
Thanks! She is such an exquisite improvement on her
dram-drinklng mother that—unless she manifests the
same cursed tendency—t shall not rest tili I have her
safely immured, beyond the reach of your love forever,
in a durance from which, I herewith swear, she shail not
emerge till the fullness of time transforms ner, willing or
unwilling, into the fair, angelic bride of your life-long
foe, HAROLD SPENCER.”?
Clearly, distinct to the ena, I read the words aloud, their
vindictive, moeking coarseness adding a keener pang to

Remem-
You are

Then choose

 

the agony rending our hearts. Then, from her seat be-

 

side me Opal slowly arose—Nemesis personified—ap-
pallingly white, with one hand lifted high, and ashen lips
knelling forth the deadly oath:

“By all that my soul holds dear, I solemniy vow that
Harold Spencer shail pay for this hour with his heart's
blood!’ and reeling back to my embrace, with the low
wail: ‘Thank Heaven, Edmoad, I am your wife! But, oh!
my child! my child!”

She clung to me, wildly imploring me to go in instant
quest of the best detective taient I could engage to track
down the wolf who had stolen our lamb. Well nigh as dis-
traught as she, I hastened to grant her prayer, and though
not absent beyond two hours, on my return I found her
raving in all the frightful delirium of brain-fever, greatly
accelerated by the stimulus with which she had set her
pulses madly afire directly after my departure.

The month that succeeded passes portrayal. Howbeit,
the end gave me back my wife, though mentally restored,
the saddest shadow of a woman I ever saw, With a burn-
ing hectic daily dazzling her face into a brilliance that
nevermore vanished in life.

Meanwhile, not possessing any clew beyond the few
lines so vengefully accorded us, the search for our lost one
and her abductor had proved most fruitless. From the
moment Opal was able to know the whole desperate
truth, she so piteously pleaded to leave our desolate home
in charge of a few faithful servants, and, notwithstanding
her feeble health, travel from place to place in persoual
quest of our darling, that finally I only too gladly acceded
to her wishes. But, alas! two long years of wretched
wandering dragged away ere we met the least lope of
reward.

Then, while briefly tarrying in a foreign city on account
of Opal’s health, we learned that about six months pre-
vious, a countryman of ours, accompanied by a remark-
ably fragile and lovely child, whom he called Lilly, had
spent several days beneath the same roef where we were
stopping. They were particularly observed by reason of
the Child’s inordinate fondness for wine, and the man’s
unsparing indulgence of that fondness. Hesaid his name
was August Beldon, and though evidently kind to the
child, was not her father, for they had overheard her be-
seeching him to take her back over the sea to her dear
mamma and papa, to which he made reply:

“Yes, little lady, Pll take you back—tlianks to the curse
measuring me a quittance vastly beyond the one first
threatened!’? and shortly after he departed with her for
no one knew where.

That was all we could ascertain.

Noth withstanding his false name, we at once compre-
hended wlio he was, and the fiendish aim he had in view.
The curse to which he had reference was our helpless
child’s inherited passion for drink; therefore, instead of
consigning her to the durance in which he had sworn to
immure her, he would wreck her young life by plying her
with the poison she craved, till irreparably blighted in
body and soul, and then——

“Bring her back to us ten thousand fold worse than
cead!’’ prophetically interposed Opal, adding, with a dan-
gerous blaze of her eyes: “But the demon! We will
track him to his doom like sleuth-hounds!”?

And we did; albeit six additional months wore away
ere we struck the sure trail that led us Lo the far-off Syrian
city, where he discovered our presence just in time to
snatch our jamb in his wolfish arms and hastily flee from
before our long-evaded wrath. But his day was nearly
over, and he kuew it, for, though still warily eluding
capture, as we unefringly followed in pursuit, he led us a
race that aimed straight for the home he had «desolated.

It was a terrible chase; but, through instructions sent
on in advance, it ended by so effectually placing him in
our power, that on the threshold of our long-deserted
home the welcome intelligence met us that not only our
darling was once more beneath our roof, but our enemy
as well, lying, at last, wholly at our mercy.

Our quest was over; but, oh, horror unspeakable! what
an incarnate ruin biasted our eyes in the face and form of
vur foully wronged child, once the fairest and loveliest of
beings, literally burned into a senseless, drink-dazed im-
becile aud barely living skeleton, by the consuming fire
with which she had been so relentlessly plied. Verily,
Harold Spencer had most accursedly avenged himself!

When my poor, heart-broken Opal fully realized that our
hapless child could not revognize us, and never would,
her brain reeled, and rushing to where the destroyer lay
bound and helpless, but for my restraining hand siie
would have murdered him then and there—lost, shame-
less wreich that he had become, a miserable mockery of
his former self, on a brink of a drunkard’Sgrave. YetasI
stood looking vengefully down upon him it suddenly
struck me—a blinding flash of self-condemnation from
Heaven—that I was the main cause of his ruin, and with-
out a word I turned and left him.

An hour Jater beheld him safely lodged in prison.
Three days subsequent we buried our murdered child out
of our earthly sight forever, and a week thereafter Harold
Spencer was tound dead in his cell—stabbed to the heart
by the avenging hand of Opal—my wife.

How she accomplished the deed passes my knowledge

j to relate, though from the black depths of my self-invoked

woelcan solemnly avow that had not the fell demon of
drink remorselessiy nerved her arm, the branding horror
of murder would never have desecrated the woman I
loved. When the officers of the law demanded their prey,
I silently led then, to where, fearfully beyond mortal ar-
raigument, lay nfgyWhite-shrouded dead, fair as a sculp-
tured angel In the awfal hush of a suicide’s coffins

Reader, there is more than atemperatice moral to my
story. Heaven isjust. Had I not trampled on every law
of honor, reason and right, in the ruthless resoive of my
arrogant lovd to win Harold Spencer’s promised bride, at
any risk to myself, aud in defiance of the most fatal re-
sult that could follow to others, both might have been
living still. Happy? Who stall say? Ican only affirm
that till life’s latest breath my portion is to drink of the
retributive cup, ceaselessly wringing from my infinitely
self-condemned soul the unavailing cry: *“O Heaven! my
wife—my child—the bitter, bitter end!”

ASIATIC TIGERS.

Few of our readers as they watch the movements of the
Wild animalsin Barnum’s collection, or that of the Cen-
tral Park, pause to think how these tigers, which they
especially observe, are captured and safely confined for
exhibition. ‘Fuli-grown tigers are never brouglit away
from their native wilds for the use of showmen, as they
cannot be tamed, and make trouble by gnawing and
breaking their cages. Itis only those under six months
of age, baby tigers, that are captured alive. The hunters
stealthily watch the lairs at breeding time, and upon
waylaying a male ata distance from the female and her
litter, they shoot him. The government pays fifty rupees
for his head. As soon as the cubs are old enough to live
Without the mother sheis also shot, and the head brings
apremium. The capture of the young ones is not a mat-
ter of difficulty. The skins of the eid ones are valuabie,
and there is also a market for the claws. A well-marked
tiger skinis worth a hundred rupees. The young tigers
are kept at Calcutta until after teething, when it is safe
to ship them to the orders always on hand from England,
France and the United States. London is the headquar-
ters of the trade, which is carried on in that city by a man
named Jamrach. It is said that the number of natives
eaten by tigersin Singapore will average one for every
day in the year!

THINGS GENERALLY.

BY MAX ADELER.
THE JURIES DIDN’T AGREE.

— One day last week the body of a man was found
lying in a field a short distance out of town, and in-
formation of the fact was sent to onr coroner, Barney
Maginn, who proceeded to the spot in hot haste, with
a jury. When he arrived the party discovered that the
body lay directly across the line between our county
and the county adjoining, and Mr. Maginn was just
about to move it completely within his jurisdiction when
he saw Mr. Doolan, the coroner of tlhe other county,
coming over the fence with his jury and calling to Mr.
Maginn to let those remains alone. A very bilter con-
troversy ensued as to who had the better right to set
upon the corpse. Mr. Doolan contended that as the
head was in his county the body belonged to him, be-
cause the head was the man; a human being might ex-
ist without legs, but he couldn’t get along with any
comfort without a head. But Mr. Maginn said that as
the legs were In his county the man had evidently died
there and then, accidentally, tumbled across the line,
so it was his duty to hold the inquest.

It was at first contemplated to settle the question by
Maginn and Doolan going into a corner of the field and
engaging ina fight, but one of the jurymen suggested
that things might be arranged more amicably by holding
two inquests, Maginn meditating upon the legs while
Doolan mused over the head. Accordingly the inquests
began, and after a careful investigation of the matter, the
Doolan jury brought in a verdict that deceased came to
his death by apoplexy, while the Maginn jury decided
that the condition of the man’s legs showed that he had
been gored to death by Dr. Rymer’s short-horn bull.
Doolan said such a verdict was ridiculous, and Maginn
insisted that the Doolan verdict was an awful violation of
the truth. The controversy became so warm that the two
coroners, With their juries, came to blows, and for some
time a bloody war was waged over the corpse. At last,
when Doolan got Maginun down, and was about to ham-
mer his nose, in order to convince him that his views
were incorrect, Maginn said perhaps they might compro-
mise, He suggested that it would be a good idea to turn
the remains around, and to let Doolan’s jury brood over
the legs while Maginn’s jury investigated the head. This
was agreed to, and, after a thoughtful deliberation, Doo-
lan’s jury made up its mind that deceased had been bitten
to death by a mad dog, while Maginn’s jury expressed
their conviction that the death of the unfortunate man
had been caused by delirium tremens.

Then Doolan said it was simple to declare that the man
died of four different complaints, and Maginn said that
the only idiotic thing that he saw about the proceedings,
was the fact that the Doolan jury had brought in two ver/
dicts which were foreign to the manifest truth. This ex-
cited Doolan’s indignation, and after a few angry words
had passed, the two parties again proceeded to blows, and
for a while it looked as if there would be some more
corpses in the field. This tame Magimn defeated Doolan,

 

and as he was silting upon that gentleman and prepar-
ing to twist his ears, Doolan threw out the idea thai per-
haps they might arrange a compromise by laying the
body lengthwise on the border-line, so that each jury could
examine one side. This was agreod to, and after consulta-
tion, Doolan’s jury had just determined to insist that
death was caused by shot-gun wounds, while Maginn’s
jury was ready to maintain the theory that the man had
been hacked with a knife, when, ail of a sudden, the
corpse sat up, rubbed its eyes, looked around at the
crowd in amazement, and exclaimed:

“What's the matter? Whatin the thunder all you fel-
lers doin’ here, anyway? Holdin’ a picnic or a camp-
meetin? ???

As soon as the coroners recovered from tneir amaze-
ment, and two of the jurymen who had suddenly jumped
Over the fence summoued up courage to come back, Mr.
Doolan said:

“Why, we thought you were dead, and we’ve been
holding inquests on you—setting on you.”

“Inquests! Settin’on me: Well, I hope I may be
hanged! Settin on me ’sifl was dead! I’m just as alive
as you are. The fact is, I was over at Tim Murphy’s tav-
ern last night, drinkin’, and I must have stumbled in here
drunk. Hurt my leg gittin’ over the fence, I reckon.
Dead! I kin lick the man who saysIlam. Where is he?
Show himto me! Run him out so’s I kin look at him!’

Then the coroners suddenly went home, and Mr. Maginn
said to me the next day, that he verily believed that if he
should set on a graven image with the hope of making a
fee, that inanimate sculpture would instantly become in-
stinct with life, and want to dance and climb trees,

BROWN DIDN’T WANT IT.

— Aman came into Brown's grocery store the other
night while I was there, and the following conversation
eusued. The man said:

“Mr. Brown, you don’t want to buy a first-rate wooden
leg, do you? I’ve got one that I’ve been wearing for two
or three years, and I want tosell it. I’m hard up for
money, and, although I’m attached to that leg, I’m will-
ing to part with it so’sI Kin get the necessaries of life.
Legs are all weli enough; they are handy to have around
the house, and all that; but a man must tend to his sto-
mach if he has to walk about on the small of his back.
Now, I’m going to make you an offer. That leg is Fair-
child’s patent; steel springs, India rubber joints, @'astic
toes and everything, and it’s in better order now than it
was when Il bought it. It’d be a comfort to any man. It’s
the most luxurious leg I ever come across. If seraphic
bliss ever kin be reached by a man anywhieres this side of
the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on
and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it
is hisn. Consequently I say that when I offer it to you,
when I give you the first shy at it, I’m doing you a per-
sonal favor; and I think I see you jump at the chance and
want to clinch the bargain before I mention—you’ll hardly
believe it, I know—that I'll actually knock that leg down
to you at $400! Four hundred, did I say? I- meant six
hundred; but letit stand. [ never back out when I make
an offer; but it’s just throwing that leg away, it isindeed.”’

“But 1 don’t want an artificial leg,’? said Brown.

“The beautiful thing about the limb,” said the stranger,
pulling up his trouser and displaying the article, “is that
itis reliable. You kin depend on it. It’s always there.
Some legs that I’ve seen were treacherous. Most always
some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working
backward, or the toes turning down and ketching in
things. Regular frauds. But it’s almost pathetic the
way this leg goes on year in and year out like an old faith-
ful friend, never Knowing an ache or a pain, no rheumat-
ism, nor any such truck, as that, but always good-
natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A
man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under
him. Talk about your kings and emperors and million-
aires, and all that sort of jackassery! Which of em’s got
a leg like that? Which of ’em kin unscrew his knee pan
and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of
‘em kin leave his leg down stairs in the entry on the hat-
rack and go to bed with only one ¢€old foot? Why it’s
enough to make one of them monarchs sick to think of
such a convenience. It’s enough to make ’em morbid and
billious. But they can’t help it. There’s only one man
kin buy that leg, and that’s you. I want you to have it so
bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful,
isn’tit? Just throwing it away; but take it, take it, if it
does make my heart bleed to see it go out of the famiiy.”

“Really I have no use for such a thing,’’ said Brown.

“You can’t think,’’ urged the stranger, ‘‘wiat a bene-
diction aleglikethatis in a family. When you don’t
Want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children
to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire
with in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with
arealleg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher you
every saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the
Knee kinder swing loose you kin tack carpets perfectly
splendid with the heel, and when a cat sees it coming at
him from, the winder, he just adjourns sine die and goes
down off the fence a screaming. It’s perfectly lovely.
Now you’re probably afeared of dogs. When you see one
approaching you always cllange your base, and maybe
shin up a tree or something. 1 don’t blame you; I used
to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you
decorate yourself with this gorgeous artificial extremity,
and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of ’em
come a caliorting at you what’s the odds? You merely
Stand still and smile, and sling ont your spare leg, and let
7em cChaw, let ’em fool with that as much as they’rea
mindto, and how! ana carry-on, for you den'tcare a cent.
An that’s the reason why I say that when I refiect on how
imposing you’d be as the chief engineer of sucha leg, I
feel like saying that if you insist on offering only a dollar-
and-a-half for it, why take it; it’s yours. I’m not the Kin-
der man to stand trifies. I’li take it off aud wrap it up in
paper for you, shall 1???

“Tm sorry,’! said Brown, ‘‘but the fact is I have no use
for it. I’ve got two good legs already. If I ever lose one,
why, maybe then I'i——”

“I don't think you exactly catch my idea en the sub-
ject,’ said the stranger. ‘‘Now, any man kin have a meat
and muscle leg. They’re as common asdirt. It’s dis-
gusting how mouotonous people are about such things.
But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You
have style about you. You go it alone, as it were.
Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I’d
do? J’d get a leg snatched off some way, so’s I
could waltz around on this one. Or, if you hate
to go to the expense of amputation, why not get
your pantaloons altered, and mount this beautiful work
of art just as youstand? A centipede, a mere, ridicklous
insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can’t a man, the
grandest creature on earth, own three? You wobble
around this community on three legs, and your fortune’s
made. People will go wild over you as the three-legged
grocer; the nation will glory in you; Europe will hear of
you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. IVIl build up
your business. People’ll flock from everywhere’s to see
you, and you'll make your sugar and Cheese and things
fairly hum. Look atitas an advertisement! Look at it
aly Way you please, and there’s money in it—there’s
glory, there’s immortality! I think 1 see you now strad-
dling around over this floor with your old legs working as
usual, and this one going clickety-click along with ’em,
making music for you all the time, and attracting atten-
tion in a way to filla man’s heart with rapture. Now
look at it that way, and, if it strikes you, I tell you what
Vildo. IH actually swap that imperishable leg off toyou
for two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cup full of
Jamaica rum. Is it ago?’

Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him an
awiul drink of rum, and told him ifhe would take them
as apresent and quit, he would confera favor. And he
did. Afteremptying the crackers in his pockets and
smacking his lips over the rum, le went to the door, and,
as he opened it, hie said:

“Good-bye. Butif you ever really @o want aleg, Old
Reliable is ready for you. It’s yours. I consider that
you’ve got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose any
time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention
it, and if you don’t need it when I die, I’m going to have
it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check
itout. Good- evening.”

MAJOR TODD’S LEG.

— Major Todd, of our place, lost his right leg at the battle
of Fredericksburg, and some time ago he purchased an
artificial leg from a man in Wilmington. It containeda
system of springs, which enabled the major to use itin
such a natural manner, that when he was walking along
the street nobody would fora moment suppose that he
had not both of his own legs.

One Sunday, while the major was on his way to church,
he slipped upon the ice and gave the store leg a severe
wrench. He must have dislocated some of the springs;
for after reaching church and taking his seat, and while
the clergyman was reading the Scriptures, the leg sud-
denly flew up and rested upon the back of the pew in front
of him, The congregation looked at him in amazement,
and he grew very red in the face. As soon as lhe took it
down it jumped up again and wriggled about on the back
of the pew, finally kicking Mrs, Thompson’s bonnet to
rags. Then the major suppressed it again, and held it
dowg, but it instantly began a convulsive movement in his
own pew, during which it upset the stools, plunged around
among the hymn-books and hats, and hammered the board
beneath the seat, until it made such a racket that the minis-
ter hadtostop. The sexton came rushing in to find what
was the matter, and the major, after explaining the
difficulty in a whisper, asked the sexton to let him lean on
him while he charged on the front door. As soon as the
major got into the aisle that dissolute leg kicked the sexton
sixteen or seventeen limes in a most insolent manner,
varying the exercise by making eccentric swoops off at
the side, during which it kicked right off the high hats at
the pew doors into black silk chaos.

By the time the major reached the vestibule the leg had
become perfectly reckless. It flew up before and it flew
up behind. It butted against the good leg and darted out
sideways, and described circles, and tried to insert its
toes in the major‘s coat-tail pockets, and to whack him on
the nose. When the sexton came with a hack and put
the major in it, the leg banged through the window glass,
and when the driver got down to see about it, the leg
brandished itself in his face, and concluded the exercise
by planting a powerful blow in his stomach. Then the
major told the driver that he would give him ten dollars
to take that leg off; and the driver accepted the offer.
For several minutes it eluded all his efforts to catch it as
it danced about, but finally he got hold of it and hung on
while the major tried to unbluckie the straps. Then it
came off and rolled the driver in the mud. He got-up to
watch it. It writhed and kicked, and jumped and
throbbed and hopped; and whenever it would make a dash
to one side or the other the crowd would scatter in order
to give it full play. Finally Ben Woolley set his dog on it,
and a most exciting contest ensued, the leg two or three
times running off with the dog; and as it seemed likely
that the dog would be whipped, Mr. Woolley got a crow-
bar and aimed a blow at the leg, with the intent to smash

 

it. But he missed it, and nearly killed the dog. As scon
as the dog retired Mr. Woolley whacked at it again and
burst it into flinders, and then there was peace. The
major drove home and got hia crutclies, and since then he
has confined himself to the use of a wooden leg which has
no springs. He tells the story himself with much ani-
mation; but he thinks it a little hard that the deacons tried
to expel him from that church for indulging in profane
levity during service.

—_—___—__>-©<+_____

SoME unappreciated lovers compare their unsym-
pathetic sweethearts with icebergs, statues, and
such cold and insensate objects. The lover of Pau-
line Darrell could not complain thus of her, for he
generally found himself in hot water when he at-
tempted to touch her heart by the utterance of silly

flattery. She was too wise to be caught by such
chaff; and being fond of fnu, she ‘‘chaffed” him in
return, Pauline Darrell is the heroine of the story
ae WoRKES WONDERS,” which is commenced this
week,

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

THE PURCHASING AGENCY CATALOGUE.—Owing to many
changes and reductions in prices, we have been forced to defer
the publication of our New Purchasing Agency Catalogue until
the present time. All oraers now received will be filled at once.
It will be sent to any address, pre-paid, on receipt of ten cents.

“J. D.'—Our arrangements are such that we can get
you everything you need tocommence your business with
at Wholesale prices, or quite as cheap as you get the ar-
ticles if you were here to select them yourself. In the
catalogue of spring patterns you can see all the new styles
of making undergarments,

*“‘Lillie.’—Yak lace or guipure of good quality can be
purchased froin 50 cents to $1.25 per yard, beaded or
plain. Width from one to three inches.

_ ‘Alice’! says; “Like dozens of others I have taken the
liberty of addressing you, forlam a constant reader of
the best paper inthe world, and never neglect that in-
teresting column the *‘Work-Box,’’? which is of 80 much
value to all kinds of people, most especially those situated
aslam.’’ Alice wantsto know if we can furnish her with
ready-made suits. Yes, we can get you suits of any and all
Kinds ranging in prices from $10 to $200. Suits in alpaca,
serge, Suiumer Camel’s hair, and other kindred fabrics
heatly made and trimmed can be bought from $15 to $45.
The suits from $20 to $25 are well worth the money, and
in mandy instances are not sold at the real value of the
material, to say nothing of the cost of making, &c. For
a full suit get brown, drab, or black. Linen and brown
suits cost from $6 to $25; those at $10 to $12 being the
medium-priced, and really useful suits. The merchants
will give no samples of dress fabrics to send to our cus-
tomers, but they decline to cut ribbons, laces or passe-
menteries,

“Laura M.’’—We can get the chemises with embroider-
ed bands and sleeves, to cost from $1.50 to $2.50, the lat-
ter being very pretty and fine with tucked bosoms. Per-
cale drawers to match begin at $1.25, and go up to $2.50
for a greater amount of needle work. Plainer chemises
and drawers of coarser fabric cost from $1 to $3, accord-
ing to work, &c. Walking skirts cost from $1.50 to $5.
Some are tucked, others are ruffled, while the more ex-
pensive have tucks, ruffles and embroidery. Thevery fine
ones cost as high as $10.

“Katie McDowell.”—Your letter was answered by mail as soon
as the desired information could be obtained. We cannot tell
why you did not receiveit promptly. Twenty-six yards of silk
will make you an elaborate suit. Make the skirt after pattern
No. 3,625, price 30 cents; trim with a gathered flounce, witha
shirred heading, finished top and bottom with a fold or binding
of the lighter shade of silk. A pretty and fashionable overskirt
for silk is No. 3,686, price 20 cents. Trim with a shirringof the
light shade of silk and finish with fringe the samecolor. No.
3,809, price 20 cents, is a neat, pretty basque, and can be more
elaborately trimmed than the pattern indicates if desirable.

Louisa.”’—Your sample is a very pretty shade of lavender
and will make a beautiful suit if you cut up your overskirt and
trim your skirt handsomely with ruffles, with a shirred heading
to the upper one, and then make a polonaise of the ecru grena-
dine, which will go with that shade splendidly. There are two
or three illustrations of new patterns in the spring catalogue
that would answer your purpose. You are mistaken when you
imagine that our ladies confine themselves to tight basques or
polonaises. Very many of the overgarments are made with
French or tight-fitting backs, while the fronts hang loosely, or
are belted in to the form, others are loose all around, and for
very full forms these latter garments are most popular. Polo-
naise No, 2,843, price 30 cents, is one of the latter class, while No.
3,640, price 35 cents, is fitted at the back, and the fronts are loose;
or you can wear an overskirt with sacque No. 3,494, price 30 cents,
A novelty in the pattern line. which we have just received, will
suit you; it is a double-breasted morning wrapper, with a sleeve-
less jacket, the wrapper belug so made that it can be looped into
a most stylish polonaise. The back fits the form, while the front
can hang loosely or be slightly belted in to tke form; be careful
and not have the belt, if you wear one, too tight. The jacket,
too, will prove a useful accessory, as it, too, serves to conceal
size. The number of the pattern is 3,862, price 30 cents, and can
be found in all sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six
bust measures, We shall always be glad to serve you, and any
question you may ask in regard to baby’s or your own wellare
will be promptly answered.

“Mrs. J. 8.,”” Doylestown.—No. 3,710, price 20 cents,or any of the
plain long-waisted basques: in the catalogue will answer your
purpose, Trim the skirt for a stout lady with fold or bands, or
with the perpendicular reversed folds, which are to be sewed into
every gore; the latter style is very handsome and dressy.

_ “Mamma Christie.”—You should send your uame and address
in full, also six cents for catalogue of spring styles, then you can
see the new styles. A pretty polonaise of camels’ hair, alpaca, or
any kind of de bege will be cheap, fashionable and pretty.to wear
over your silk skirts, or for later in the season you may havea
garment of grenadine, or white lawn, linen, &c. The little gored
dresses are prettiest for little girls of two. No. 2,789, price 20
cents, is neat, but one which gives a slender appearance is No.
3,598, price 15 cents; both of these patterns can be had in six
sizes for children of from one-half year to five years of age. The
stencil plate would cost you $1. Yes, we will get it for you.

“M. E. G.’—We can get you pretty sets of the real coral for
from $15 to $25 a set, consisting ot pin andear-rings. The cheap
sets to which you refer cost $5 to $8. Do not use anything of the
kind, all such mixtures injure the complexion.

“Mrs. 8, A. B.,’’ Ridgway.—A neat suit for carriage and church
wear in the country, can be bought for from $20 to $50. Those
costing $25, $30 and $35 are reaily very desirable. The cheap
suits cost from $10 upwaras.

“L, E. T.’—The serpentine corset clasps are really what they
are said to be, and you will find a pair most desirable in your
present condition; nursing mothers also appreciate them, as they
are flexible and yet a good support. e

“Mrs. E. P.,” Wenona.—Make your grenadine overskirt after
patiern No. 3,780, price 20 cents, which is handsomely shirred in
front, and has a tull, gracefully draped back.

“Jane D,’—The hair switch or braid for $10 will answer your
purpose. Those costing $15 or $20 are, of course, of much longer
hair and heavier weight. Get a hatof gtay straw, with the
brim turned up at the left side, and bound with ribbon of a rich
shade of mauve, while the inside may be trimmed by similar
ribbon terminating in floating ends at the back. At the left side
may be placed a large spray of yellow flowers with foliage. Or
you can have a hat of white chip, with the brim edged by fiuted
frills of white muslin and of pale blue silk, headed by a puff of
muslin. Place roses in front of the crown, aud surround them
by twisted bands of pale blue silk. At the right side have an os-
trich feather of the same color, end at the back two smaller
feathers with loopsof silk. You desire something odd or uncom-
mon, and the designs above-mentioned are really very quaint
and becoming to such faces as you describe to us. Yes, we an-
swer allletters, so yours must have miscarried, for we haye not
such a letter as you say was written to us.

“Mrs. Marshall,’”—For $75 we can get youa splendid sewing
machine for service. Those more ornamental come higher, but
their works are no better than the less expensive machines. The
wringer will cost you $10, The labor-saving machines are splen-
did to have in the house, for they cannot grumble nor find tault
as our human helpersdo. We are glad, though, to know that
your girl is so faithful. You should be willing to overlook some
of her faults if she has so many virlues.

“T, T, O."—A handsome dress was of gray or lavender poplin.
The back of skirt tormed three large plaits, while the front, which
was quite plain, was covered by a large, draped apron, edged all
around by a fritl, The waist had at back a plaited postilion fixed
by two buttons, while the front consisted of square-shaped tabs,
The sleeves were slightly open at the wrists, and finished with

cuffs.
To Mothers.

“Mother.’’—Educate your children well, with wisdom, from re-
gard for principle, and with a view to their future respectability
and happiness, and you can never Jaborin vain. Begin with
them early—not in a rigorous or violent manner, but with the
tact, sobriety and good sense of one who knows her own heart,
and who wishes on pencaee deep and permanent impressions ou
her children’s minds and bearts. :

*‘Anxious and Distressed Mother.’—We are, indeed, sorry for
you. Your children die so soon after birth that we feel sure your
own condition must be the cause. Before their birth do you take
a great deal of exercise in the open air? Do you eat fruit and
vegetables in plenty? Do you carefully avoid constipation, by
taking a little magnesia, or eating a sour orange or lemon? Try
these remedies, and when yourbabies are born try and secure
the services of a first-class physician, and he will administer the
proper remedy to the babe if one should be required, but we feel
certain, if you observe the few simple rules above given, that the
little one will not turn yellow, and will have a good, pane com-
plexion and strong constitution. Magnesia well and thoroughly
mixed with a little milk and sugaristhe simplest and surest
remedy for constipation either mother or babe can take. If you
write again to the Work-Box and give your name and address in
full, and tell your condition before and after the birth of each
babe, we will answer your letter by mail, and be more explicit in
our directions than we possibly can bein the paper. For infor-
mation about hair-work, prices, &c., write direct to the NEw
YorK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, send name and address in
full, and send stamp, and ask for catalogue of prices.

HISTORICAL ITEMS.

Tue name of the village which stood on a portion
of the site of the present city of San Francisco was originally
Yerba Buena—good herb. In some mapsof the country it was
designated as San Francisco; but locally it was only Known by

the name mentioned. The herb it was called after is very fra-
grant, and is used to make a tea or medicinal drink. The name
was changed to San Francisco in January, 1847, by an ordinance
of the then Alcalde of the place, and under this designation it
has since been known to the world.

THE name “Golden Gate” first appears in the
“Geographical Memorr of California, ” published by General Fre-
mont, in the spring of 1 The term was descriptive of the
wealth which the commerce of the Pacific would certainly gire
to the future great city. The name was probably suggested by
the Golden Horn of Constantinople. After the discovery of the
auriferous character of the country the name of “Golden Gate”
became all the more appropriate.

TuE* term ‘‘corn-crackers, common at the South,
grew cut of oneof therural customs of the first settlers of the
United States. Before milis were established, when the back-
woodsmen, or those who lived in the interior, remote from the
ports of entry, were unable to procure trasportation, they adopt-
ed a way by which they cracke d corn with huge rocks. It was a
common proceeding with all classes.

Ina Baltimore theater bill for 1807 appears the
name of Mr. Warren, the father of William Warren of Boston,
Mr. Cone, who left the stage and became a preacher of the Gos-
pel, the grandfather of Miss Kate Claxton, and Mr. Jefferson, the
grandfather of Joseph Jefferson of Rip Van Winkle fame.

Ons of the first locomotives used in the United
States was the “John Bull,” imported from England by the Al
bany and Schenectady railroad in 1830. The “John Bull” is still
“alive” Itis kept asacuriosity at the Albany Iron Works, near
Troy.

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