1879, bw Street & Smith. in the Office of the Idbrarian of Conoress. Washinaton.

 

C.

Entered at the Post Office New hp, N. Y., as Second Olass Matter.

 

fintered Accordina to Act of Conoress. in the Year

D.£

STE

 

4 OF

Vol. 3

FIGE No. 31 Rose 8,
0. Box 2734 New York.

t FRANGIS §. STREET

New York, October i

3, 1879.

a

 

FRANOIS §, SMITH
=

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Covies Five Dollars.

NTE 2 OASIS

 

—

 

 

TAR OF MY SPIRIT.
BY JOHN F. COWAX.

Ah! whence is this love-light so warm
That flashes on sorrow’s cold tide?

*Tis the thought that, though distant thy form,
Thou art nearer than all else beside—
In my heart's deepest shrine dost thou ’bide.

What rapture is this in my soul
That cheers with its presence divine ¢

What tumults of ecstasy roll?
"Tis thy heart, love, that throbs against mine,
Their tendons each other intwine.

*Tis not memory, love, ’tis thy life,
Deep, deep in my heart-chamber lies.
Thy spirit has won in love's strife ;
Thy breathing turns mine into sighs;
Onr tears, mingled, flow from my eyes,
Yes, thou art my love and my light—
Thy memory brightens my heart;
Though thy form is forbid to my sight,
And we wander in distance apart,
Still the star of my spirit thou art.
oo ioe

THE

Churchyard Betrothal;

Coals of Fire.

By Georgie Sheidon (Bertha Allyn,)
AUTHOR OF
“NORA, THE IRISH CHARITY SCHOLAR.”

“The Churchyard Betrothal’” was commenced in No
30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNPLEASANT MEETING.
The palace of the American Consul was bril-
tant with a thousand lights, gay with countless
flowers, rich and rare, and making the air heavy
with their perfume. The music was bewilder-

ing asit floated dreamily upon the soft night
air, while brave men and fair women came and
went,
hours away,
trouble.

It was ten o’clock when the duke and his party
made their appearance.

There was a little fiutter of excitement when
they were announced, as there always was, fer
the beauty of the Lady Alicia created a sensa-
tion wherever she went. She came in now, lean-
ing upon the arm of the duke, while the duchess
was accompanied by Mr. Lenox.

Her grace wore black velvet and blazing sol-
itaires. She was a woman who would have been
noticeable among a thousand, with her grand
figure, and noble carriage, and her fair venerable
face.

without a thought of care or

The Lady Alicia was simply elegant, in her |

ereamy white silk, with its garnishings of price-
less lace, a bunch of scarlet salvia at her throat,
and asingle graceful spray among the waves of
her golden brown hair.

“Who is she ?” asked 4 voice sharply, from the
shadow of a heavy curtain, as the dnke’s party
moved slowly up the room.

“I TOLD YOU I-WOULD HAVE MY REVENGE. AND I WILL.”

laughed, and chatted, and danced the

| heiress of the Duchess of Dillingham,” was the

reply.
“Tho Lady Alicia Vaughan—indeed!” re-
i turned the voice. “And-who is the young man
| with the duchess ?”

“Mr. Archer Lenox, a young artist recently
come to Florence, and who is rapidly rising to
distinction,”

ing cadence in its tones.

“What is he to them?” was the next query,
rather more sharply put.

‘‘He is lately betrothed to the Lady Alicia.”

“Aha! do you know them ?”

“Yes, well.”

‘Will you introduce me %”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

“Ido. One likes to make new acquaintances,

and their beautiful niece, that I long to know
them.”

And the Countess of Rutherford arose from
i

mings of rare point, whilg her ornaments of
topaz set in pyrest brilliants, flashed ominously.

made their way toward the duke’s party.

She was presented first to the duke and duch-
ess who were now standing together, talking
| with some friends. And thus the Lady Alicia
| had & moment in which to recover somewhat
| from the great sbock that well nigh congealed

the blood in her veins, which the sight of that
wicked woman gave her. Fe
She knew now that she must confront her—
she saw that Clara, for some purpose of her own,
was determined upon a meeting, and that the
battle which she would now have to fight would

 

 

 

|
:

“Mr. Archer Lenox, and an artist—indeed f” |
énd this time the voice held a scornful, mock-| that was thatshe made no sign that she had
| ever known her before, and she resolved if pos-

| old father.
|
| in gay tones:

and I have heard so much of his and her grace, |

the shadow of the curtain, where she had been |
sitting, watching the arrivals, shook out the |
folds of her elegant white satin, with its trim-/}

She took the arm of her escort, her black eyes |
glowing maliciously, and that ugly little spider |
beginning to crawl viciously, and together they |

=F

SS
his noble head a little more“ proudly, as though
her flattery did not please him.

She laughed softly at the gesture, aiid the
sound of it made the Lady Alicia’s heart trem-
ble with a mighty fear, and she was conscious
that those basilisk eyes were searching both
their faces, as if to read just the relation which

| they bore to each other.

She was grateful to Clara for one thing, and

sible before the evening was ever to seek her
alone. and learn something regarding her dear

While these thoughts were surging through
her brain the countess was saying to her lover,

“You artists are such a modest set of men one
cannot compliment you and get any satisfaction
out of it. I hear you bid fair to become dis-
tinguished, I tell you ofit, and you very coldly
say, ‘thank you,’ and drop it.”

Then, without waiting for hint to reply, she
turned to his companion, asking:

“Have you beeti in Florence long, my lady %”

‘Between three and four months.”

‘Indeed! It is a delightful city, do you not
think so ?”

“‘T have found it so,” replied the young girl,
her delicate cheek flushing, as she remembered
all she had found in Florence.

“Doubtless,” replied the countess, with a
; meaning glance at her lover, then added, ‘‘Do

you prefer it to old England?—I perceive you
are English.”

It wag a crue] shaft, and Alicia*paicd to the
hue of death, but she returned with a trifle of
hauteur in her manner:

“T think Italy a delightful place in which to
spend the winter.

‘T agree with you,” said Clara, glibly, though
| her eyes flashed, and the spider began to work
'spitefully again, ‘‘yet give me dear old Eng-
land in the spring time and summer. Did you
ever visit Montague in Sussex county?’ she

went on, flashing a glance of triumph at her
victim.

“No? Ah, itis delightful there; it has been
my home until quite recently, and I love every |
inch of it. When wereturn from our tour we

 

shall settle at Rutherford, which is not far from
Montague. I really regret that my husband,
the count, was called away this evening, for I
am sure he would have been delighted to meet }
you, Lady Alic—Lady Alicia. However, we |
shall probably meet often now, as we intend re-
maining some time in Florence.”

Did that cruel woman mean to break her
heart, that she ran on in that heartless way |
about her dear old home? She knew she was
playing with her as a cat does with a mouse; |
she knew she was willfully torturing her, and
her heart ached, her pulses throbbed, her brain
seemed on fire.

Yes, she was triumphing over her, chanting |
the praises of her beloved home, and boasting of

ithe footing she had gained there, and even of |

} | the conquest of the man whom she believed her |

“| |father that she might gain a position in the

father had intended her to wed.
She could see now that the vile girl had urged
her to fly that she might win, and to desert her

i | world.

She conld not bear it; she felt she should
|scream if she remained longer under the influ-

i | ence of those evil eyes,or within the sound of her
!

| be harder than any previons contest had been.
| But she resolved to meet it bravely—she would
not shrink, there should not be even so much as
the flutter of an eyelid, to betray that she had
| ever met the Countess of Rutherford before.
Clara had paid her compliments to the duchess,

and now turned in expectation toward the Lady |

Alicia, a half sneer upon her ruby lips, a bale-
ful glitter in her evil eyes.

The fair girl set her little pearly teeth hard,
drew in one long, deep breath, and with her

head proudly erect, went throngh the ceremony |

of an introduction.

For an instant their white-gloved hands met, |

for an instant they gazed into each other’s eyes

| with a look that burned itself into their very |

soul, then with a movement full of grace, the
| countess turned to greet Mr. Lenox,

“It gives me great pleasure to meet Mr.
Lenox,” she said, in her softest tones, when she

| had been presented.

one 80 vifted.”

Her eyes were gazing into his with a lurid, |

purplish light, that almost made him shiver,
| strong man though he was.

“Tt is the Lady Alicia Vaughan, neice and | “Thank you,” was all he saidjithongh he lifted

“T have heard of his won- |
derful achisvements in art, and longed to know |

| treacherous voice,

“Excuse meone moment; I wish to speak with
her grace,” she compelled her stiffened lips to
articulate to her lover, and then turned away
weak and faint.

Mr. Lenox was about to follow, but Clara, af-
ter one quick, searching glance around to assure
herself that they were attracting no observa-
tion, laid her hand upon his, saying, in tones of
concentrated passion :

 

“T wish to speak with you privately.”

 

 

 

| the salon.

aes
MINNIE.

BY WARWICK CALDWIN.

Saucy little plage ded vixen,
Wever still unless asleep ;
Sweet and loving, but not trusting,
Yet shé does her promise keep.
She’s happy when I kneel before her,
Maddened with a youthful love,
Swearing with impassioned vigor
By the many saints above,

It gives her joy to make me jealous—
Yet tis easy that to do.
Coquettish? Well, I think, a litth;
But she’s as a sunbeam true.
Never does she say she loves me,
But will auswer with a kiss
From those lips which curl like rose-leaves,
Ripened with a schoolgirl's blige.

Happy, careless, thoughtless Minnié,
Darling little black-eyed dear !

How quickly are her faults forgottes
When her silvery voice I hear!

Though she seems to be 80 thoughtless,
And her faults seem not a few,

Never was & sweetheart dearer
Than my little darling true.

> o~<

THE

DETECTIVES CLEW;

OR, THE
TRAGEDY OF ELM GROVE.
By 0. S. ADAMS.

[“The Detective’s Clew’’ was commenced in No. 43.
Back mimbers can be obtained from any grew 8 Agent in
the United States and Canada.[ ¥

CHAPTER
YREE.

XY.

What next?
That was the question with Carlos Conrad, as

he stood alone by the railroad track, the cool

train started. Hosprang finobserved on the
platform of one of tho cars, opened the door, and
walked coolly in. Ho took a vacant seat, pulled
his hat down over his eyes, and settled himself
into a cowfortable position.

The train waa soon under headway and tear-
ing along at the rate of forty miles an hour to-

yard Dalton.

Carlos realized that he was incurring a great
risk. He might be rushing into the very arms
of pursuers—for that there would bo pursuers
was, of course, not to be doubted. It was even
possible that the officer from whom ho had es-
caped had discovered his loss in time to transfer
himself to the returning train, the one on which
Carlos was now riding. He might lay his hands
on bim at any moment.

Carlos was aware that he faced this possibil-
ity, as also that of there being those present at
the Dalton depot who would recognize him.
This latter danger, however, he considered not
to be imminent, on account of the lateness of
bthe hour,

But he wasinareckless mood, and was not
dismayed by the prospect.

The conductor came through the car and
touched him on the shoulder, at the same time
peering into his face.

“Did I see your ticket, sir ?”

‘No, [have none. Can I go through on this
train to New York ?”

“Yes. Where did you get on?”

Carlos hesitated.

“At Hillsdale,” he said, after a pause. “I did
not have time to buy a ticket. What is the
fare ?” ¢

“A dollar and sixty cents tothe Junction,”
replied the conductor. ‘‘There you change
cars.”

' ‘Where is the Junction ?”
“Thirty miles beyond Dalton.”
“Will there be any delay ?”

 

night air blowing softly about him. The moon,

==

eS

“MY NAME IS GEO

euemetnmane

shone brightly, and objects on which the light

Without a word he gave her his arm, leading | fell stood out in bold distinctness, while those
her through the crowd to an anteroom beyond | in the shadows were rendered doubly obscure.

He stood in irresolution. He did not know

| Once there she turned upon him like a tigress, | which way to turn, for with day-light would

/ and demanded, sharply :
| ‘How does it happen, sir, that you are intro-
| duced to me as ‘Mr. Lenox?”
| “Because that is my name, madam,” he re-
' plied, coolly.
| “Bah! do not try to keep up that farce, for I
know you, even if yon have shaved off that
very becoming beard which you used to wear. I
must confess, however, that it has not improved
your looks,”

“T suppose you do récognize me, Lady Ruther-
: ford; Iwas not aware that I had taken any
pains to conceal my identity from you.”

“Then why did not you recognize me without
the formality of an introduction?”

‘For the simple reason that I did not wish my
identity betrayed in the presence of others.”

“Why not?”
, “Because I am only what I appear to be here,

’

| @ poor artist, striving to make his own way in
ithe world.”

Continued on Seventh Page.

|
|
|

i him, no means of disguise.

come pursuit, and probably capture.

He half regretted the step he had taken.
had no refuge to fly to, no friends to conceal
To the right and

lines of railroad track, in
were fields, and woods, and
He felt friendless and al-

left were the long
front and behind
distant farm-houses.
most hopeless.

While standing thusin gloomy reflection, he
saw a bright light far down the track. It was
the head-light of a locomotive just coming
around the curve. It was coming from the di-
rection of Hillsdale, and must have met the
train which Carlos had so recently quitted. As
if approached, its speed slackened, and, moving
slower and slower, it finally drew up at the
tower to take in a supply of water.

Obeying a sudden impulse, Carlos ran back
into a field, took a circnit around the water-
tower, and came up beyond it to the track where
the passenger-cars stood.

The whistle sounded, the bell rang, and the

FFREY HAYWOOD. NOW LOOK AT ME!”

He |

“About five minutes.”

 

 

The fare was paid and the conductor passed on.
Carlos now ventured to look around the car.
No one appeared to be taking particular notice
‘of him. Many were asleep, a few were trying
to read by the flickering light of the lamps over-
| head, and others were staring patiently into va-
caney.

There was nothing alarming in the aspect, and
‘now, seeing that he was not pursued, Carlos be-

gan to feel anxious and nervous again. The
roertainty of calamity is not nearly so disquiet-
| ing as a sense of its proximity, with a possibility
lof escape. The suspense attendant on this lat-
ter condition was soon augmented by the ap-
proach to Dalton. He had begun to feel that he
might possibly reach New York unmolested, and
in that city he hoped to find a safe retreat. Hope
and apprehensiveness struggled for the mastery
within him, and when the cara drew up at the
Dalton depot the conflict was at its height. But
by a violent effort he calmed himeelf, and be-
trayed no anxiety.

An incident now occurred that filled him at
first. with surprise and terror, and afterward
with wonderment and perplexity.

Geoffrey Haywood stepped aboard and entered
the same car that Carlos occupied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ak:

NEW YORK WEERL Yor

 

5 ee

oes

<4 = 9-

 

emotions of the latter’ may be imagined
\ than described.
comer ae bound.

But Mr. Geotirey Hi iywood seemed to be oecu-
He dropped into
looking |
neither to the right nor the left, buried himself | ever.

pied with affairs of his own.
the first seat that presented itself, and,
in meditation.

And after the cars
fairly under weigh, it became apparent that the
presence of Curlos was in the farthest
remote from his thoughts

With intense relief, Carlos furtively watched
his Ag god movements.

. Hay wood’s journey was not a long one.
He tee off at the next stopping place, still pre-
serving his pre-oceupied air,
greatly atthis ction: What. ‘coi
of this Short journey at suc mo
He could dé@¥ise no solution to the query, :
endeavorimg to dismiss the subject from his
mind, he ¢ ongratulated himself on the fact that
his greatest danger was now past.

The journey %o New York was accomplished
without further’ incident. At the junction,
where the change was made, there was the usual
bustle and hurry, but noone was as yet on the
track of the) escaped prisoner. Abouty seven
o'clock in the morning the train reached the}
city.

Immediately on alighting, Carlos astonished
a vociferating hackman by promptly accepting
his tender of a conveyance.

“T want you to take meas quickly as possible
to Duncan & Mishler’s, No. — Broadway Start
immediately, without Ww aiting for any other: ‘pas-
sengers, anc 1 your pay shall be fiye dollars.”

“Yes, sir,’ responded the hackman, with alac-
rity. He sprang to his seat, while Carlos drew
back in the carriage, conces ling himself as well
as pessible from the observation of outsiders.

In obedience. to a word and a crack @f the
whip, the horses plunged forward, and rattled
through the noisy streets at a good pace

About half-past seven they halted before one
of those palaces deyoted to trade that Abound
in all their glory on the principal thoroeghfare
of the city of New York.

Dimican & Mishberavere importers} as has been
mentioned, and this was their wholesale store.

Carlos paid the hackman, and, walking upa
short flight of stone steps, met a porter witha
feather duster in his hand. He was just about
finishing his work of sweeping and dusting the
store in prep aration for the day’s business.

“Good morning,” said Carlos. ‘I suppose Mr.
Dune an is not here yet this morning.”

“No, sir,” replied the porter. “He
down till nine o’clock.”

Carlos paused a moment in hesitation.

“Did you haye a good trip, sir?”
porter.

<A: good trip ?” e
the man’s annie

‘Yes, sir. I mean did you sell many goeds ?”

a
«

wont be

choed Carlos, not certain of

It immediately struck Carlos that the porter |

mistook him for one of the traveling
“drummers” of the establishment.
to humor the error.

“Oh, Lhad fair success,” he replied, carelessly.
“Mr. Carter came in from the West day before
yesterday,” said the porter, ‘and said he found |
trade mighty dull. He started out again last |

night. 7
“Ah,” replied Carlos,
luck. But I
lv. IT wonder if there would be
my waiting in his private office.
v ery 7 urgent.
uf guess yon can wait there, sir,” replied the
porter. “You’ ll find yesterday evening’s paper |
on the desk.”
‘Thank you,” replied Carlos.
Tie passed through the _ store,
,4 flight of steps to an elevated portion in the
rear end. Here he opened a door, and entered a
small, e legantly- furnished apartment, whieh
was the private sanctum of Mr. Duncan, the
senior partner of the firm.

A brief retrospect is here necessary. Carlos had
arrived from Eurepe but three days before the
visit.of himself and Leonard to Dalton. He had
immediately calledon his cousin, to whom he an-
nounced the death of his father and confided the
errand on which he was bent. Leonard had in-
troduced him to Mr. Duncan, who had invited
the cousins to his house.

' For Leonard, in his capacity of foreign agent
for the firm, enjoyed not only the business con-
fide once but the warm personal friendship of his
employers, and Mr. Duncan, being of a genial,
social nature, delighted in nothing more than
Phase Mata the hospitality of his house to his
ricnds,

agents, or
He resolved

ay
cs

1y objection to

Mr. Mishler, the junior partner, was perhaps
equally pleasant and sociable in his way, but he
was unmarried, exceedingly industrious, and
was constantly occupied with certain det ails of
the business that were entrusted to his special
supervision. Carlos had only met him once or
twice casually.

Conse quently. he waited i in Mr. Duncan’s pri-

yate oifice, feeling that that gentleman was the
only acquaintance in the gre: sat city to whom he
could go in his present trouble. Indeed, there
was noone else to whom he would feel at liberty
to apply for any service whatever.

He patiently aw: aited Mr. Duncan’s appear-
ance, glancing over the newspaper to which the
porter had made reference, but taking no_ heed |
of the words over which his eyes wandered.

Promptly at nine o’clock Mr. Duncan arrived.
He seemed surprised to find Carlos sitting there,
but after an instant’s hesitation recognized him,
and with a cordial exclamation advanced to-
ward him with extended hand.

Carlos sprang past him and closed the door,
and then turned and took the proffered hand.

c beg your pardon,’ he began, and then
stopper

“How do you do! How do you do!” exclaimed
Mr. Duncan.

His words and voice were cordial, though he
looked sharply at Carlos, as if puzzled at his de-
meanor. He wasa tall, portly man, with a rud-
dy, though fair complexion, and a clear, pleas-
ant eye. His face was smooth, with the excep-
tion of gray side-whiskers, and he had a highs
noble forehead. He stood looking at Carlos, in-
quiringly, and the latter began to speak hur-
"ri iedly, and rather incoherently.

“Tam in great trouble,” he said, “‘and I have
come to you, I seareely know why. I thought
that you might not believe—that is, that you
would be willing to listen—at all events that
you would shield me for a few hours, and not
pronounce judgment too jhastily.’ "

“What do you mean!” asked Mr. Dunca
astonishment.

“Mr. Duncan,”

-

n, in

said Carlos, suddenly stepping
back a paee, and speaking slowly and distinct-
ly, ‘‘are you aware that you have just shaken
hands With one who is under accusation of mur-
der ?”

2 Sood Heavens, no!
Please explain y ourself.

“You won't turn me off and deliver me into the
hands of the officers ?”

“T don’t understand you: No, of course I won’t
do anything of that kind. You are a friend of
Leonard Leste Yr, and his friends are my friends. |
Come, sit down here.”

Mr. Duncan took a chair, and Carlos sat in an-
other, near him.

“Yes, I will tell you all.
danger of interruption ?”

“None whatever. But wait.”

He stepped to the door and locked it,
turned to his seat again.

“There. Now out with your story.
are in trouble. Let me hear what it is.
Thus commanded, Carlos gave a faithful ac-
count of the terrible experience he had passed
through since the Monday on which he and
Leonard had set their feet in Dalton. He omit-
ted no important particular, and concluded by
relating the unexpected means of escape that
had been offered him, and his night journey to

Yew Nork.

Mr. Duncan evinced cox roe rabl le excitement
during >the recital. He rose, stared at the nar-

rator, uttered an e xclama wn or two, and |
fing ly sat down, planted his hands on his knees,
anc dr ank in every wore

“Wel il
exclai ned, vehemently, on the conclusion of the

narrative, ‘I never heard the like,”

Carlos sat in silenee. He had finished his tale, |
and his first anxiety was to know the reception
it would meet with.

He waited to hear what Mr. Duncan wouk 1|
have tosay after his first wonderment had found
vent. But that gentleman, although excitable |
when his surprise or sy impatiry was aroused,

said nothing at all for some momenta.

Jam not aware of that.

But, first, are we in

and re-

I see you

J

He watched the new-

shad started again, and were

degree

Razlos marye led

asked the |

l “T hope he’ll have good
wish to see Mr. Dunean particular- |

My business is |

and walked up |

upon my soul, this is marvelous!” he |

CHAPTER XVI.
oA, REFUGE,

Me

he finally spoke “And now what do
tend to do?”
“That I cannot tell.

wt have even

again. you In-
I have formed no plans what-
doubted the wisdom of
flight. ,

i oe know about that.
perhaps not.’

“Do you doubt my innocence ?”’

“No, Lean’t say that Ido. You don’t look like a
man capable of performing sucha deed. And Leon-
ard gave a very good account of you. No, [haven't
the les ast doubt of your innocence. But if you had
stood the trial, and been acquitted, it mig zht Dave
been better.”

“That is what I shang. ome ee ‘But the
OY, a is Siti and everybody in Dalton believes

sae : Wer yioae Sites t the secret few

; r, and I do not e xT they will come
forw ard to etal and themse slves in order to save
me.”

“You believe, then, that the real murderer
Dalton ?”’

“Yes, or some one associated with him. The mur
der was done by parties who knew something of my
uncle, and who had some secret purpose to serve,
ee why the anxiety to obtain that fragment of pa-

bearing the finishing words to something that he
; written?” *
P att might have. been for fear if would furnish a
clew to detection.

“No—the only way in which it could be used in that
way would be to match ,it to the larger paper from
which it was torn, and that could e asily be de-
| stroyedy”

"Erie; butitis strange. The words ‘seven o’clock’
do not amount to mueh. They probably hayerouly a
sasual meaning.”

“Perhaps; but I must caution you not to repeat
them where they willbe heard. Leon: wrd> said in his
note, as I told you, that they would give the murder-
er just the information he wanted.”

“Yes; I had forgotten that. But it is utterly inex-
Siléabia”

“It is indeed,”

“Let me see,” said Mr. Duncan.
acquaintances here in New York?”

“T have none atall. Most of my life has been spent
across the ocean, except a few years when I was a
good deal younger than_I am nows and during the
three days I was here previous to going to Dz ulton, I
made no acquaintances except in_your own family.
| I do not think that Iwas even in the store here often
| enough for the clerks to know me. The porter mis-
took me for one of your traveling agents ?”

“Did he? That circumstance may be used to ad-
vantage. We will not ie ceive hinx. Let-lhim think
tl
aging tales.

Perhaps; you did right,

lives in

“Wave you many

 

‘
t

“This is marvelous!” repeated Mr. Duncan, w sony

any |

lesson, for he already had two

pupils,
| patiently waiting for more.

During his absence Carlos found oceupation in look-
ting over some piles of music, of which Mr. Werner
valuable collection, embracing most of the
) standard compositions, as well as many ¢

had a
not so well knowh.

Thus employed, the
rapidly.

When Mr. Werner returned, they talked more, com-
and dislikes in musical matters.
And in the eyening the same occupation. was re-

paring their likes

newed, varied by playing some duetts.

At le ngth, by some casual remarks, each discovered

that the other could play chess, and as this was a

favorite game with both of them, they were soon ab-

sorbed in a friendly contest.
While thus engaged, a knock came at the door.
Both players sprang to their feet.

“ers on the stairs.
Carlos turned pale with an

sree. that
naturally rushed on his mind.

Werner quickh

interpreted his expression, and his eyes flashed w ith ey

excitement,
“J will see who itis,’ he said. |
Opening the door to the exient of amere erack, he
ejaculate da question in German.
Carlos heard a familiar voice say?
— *f’sullvight. I want to see the young man you
have caged in here.””
_*Vot you say? Tno understand English mooch !”
*Tt must be recollected that all the conversation be-
tween Carlos and Mr. Werner had been carried on in
German.
he voice rejoined:
* “Bring young Conrad to the door, then,
derstand me.”’
“Tt-is Mr. Dune
added in German:

oer

an!” cried Carlos, Th
“Let hii in; he is my friend!”

“Ah,” said Mr. Werner, opening the door, “your’

pardon, Mein Herr!”

Mr. Dunean é ntered, an unaccountable expression
of joy beaming from his face.

He was followed by a solemn, rather seedy-looking
gentleman, with gray sideaw his! kers, Who wore spec-
tacles ,and carried a cane. Carlos regarded him with
a dot ibtful look.

“Allow me,” said Mr. Dunean, his eyes twinkling,
“to introduce you to my frie nd, the Reverend Mr.
Withers, Mr. Withers, this is Mr. Conrad. And this
is Mr. Werner.’

CHAPTER: XVII.
4 GLAD MEETING,

The Reverend Mr. Withers expressed his pleasure,
in a hollow, sepulchral tone, at meeting the gentle-
men.

Carlos replied rather stiffly.

Mr. Werner contemplated the proceedings curious-
ly, yet courteously.

 

lat you are a travel fh gent, and. he’ll tell no dam-

“Ah! yon are inclined to befriend me,
ean I thank you?”

“Yes, I am inclined to befriend you, and as for
thanks, never mind them now. You are a stranger
| here, and in Dalton. These facts are fortunate. Will |
any one there be apt to conclude that you have come
to me?”

“T think not. Noone there knows enongh about
me to form such a conclusion.”

“Do not be too sure of that. It would be strange if
something did not appear at the examination that
|; would throw the scent this way.”
“Yes, I had forgotten about that.
;member much about the
| stupid, I think.”

i ‘Well, there is not much cause forimmediate alarm
on that score, Lapprehend. It will take time for the
Dalton authorities to communicate to the New York

| police what they know about you and your connec-
tions, and before such communic ation jis had T think
we can find a safe hiding-place for you.’

“Where will it be?” asked Carlos.

“Ohy I don’t know yet. I believe’’—musingly—
“that [ will consult Mishler.”

“He is your partner. Is he a safe man ?”

“Sate t I should say so! And closc-mouthed as a
|mummy. The course I have named seems the only
| available one just now. And then I shall wait for
Leonard to turnup. He knows how to take care of
| himself, and I do not doubt that he will putin an ap-
| pearance soon.’

‘“‘Possibly ; but he wrote that he was a prisoner and
helpless.”

“Yes, [know; but my conviction is as I have sta-
ted. It is not easy to outwit Leonard.”

The merchant’s eyes twinkled, as if experience had }
filled him with confidence in the pluck, shrewdness,
and good eee of his foreign agent.

“T’ll call Mishler now. You sif in the corner here
and look in this ledger.” Mr. Duncan opened a large
account-book and spread it on a small writing-table.
“Tf any outsider comesin, you can pass as an ac-
countant in my employ. Don’t look up from your
work, and nobody will see your face.”

Carlos teok a seat before the table, with his back
toward th door, and prepgred to bury himself in the
columns 0 figures. before dim. on an insti uit’s warn-
ing.

Mr. Mishler soon entered in obedience to a call
ifrom Mr. Dunean. And,as soon as the latter had
briefly stated the leading facts of the case, the two
great merchants were absorbed in. a discussion as to
the best means of secreting a fugitive from the law.

A conclusion was ut length reached.

Mr. Duncan introduced Carlos to Mr. Mishler.

“You need trouble yourself to make no explana-
tions,” said the latter; “I understand all. 1am going
out, and in ten minutes you will please follow me and
stop into a close carriage which will be standing out-
side.”

Carlos, at the end of the time named, proceeded as |
Mr. Mishler had direeted, and the two were s00n rid- |
ing up Broadway amid the crowd and bustle of that
ever busy street.

But little was said by either gentleman. Mr. Mish-
| ler was habitually a silent man; he was thoroughly
devoted to business, and seldom spoke unless he had
something to say, and then his words were few and
ee sentences compact. He was a German, but his

Bug lish pronunciation would not have betrayed the
fa Carlos had already told his story to Mr. Dun-
rect who in turn: had imparted it to Mr. Mishler; so
| there was little occasion for conversation.

After a lengthy drive up Broadway, the carriage
turned on a cross street, and in a short time drew up
before a brown-stone front which had nothing to dis-
tinguish it from. its neighbors except the number
over the door,

“Some German friends of mine live here,” said Mr.
Mishler. ‘They let rooms to single gentlemen. A
musician named Werner, who has just arrived in this
country, occupies an apartment.in the third story, I
will put youin his charge. He ig trustworthy.”

“And what about the other occupants ?”

“Ttis none of their business; but they will think
you have come to see about taking piano-lessons of
Mr. Werner.”

“Yes, that will do, for 1 am something of a musician |
myself.’

A servant admitted them in answer to a ring at the
| door-bell,

Mr. Misbler led the way to Mr. Werner’s room, and
ina moment they were in the presence of the musi-
cian. Ho was about the same age as Carlos, and was
tall, slim, and straight as an arrow.-. He had delicate
though manly features, a pale complexion, and
deep eyes, Which bespoke an intense and romantic
nature.

Mr. Mishler addressed bim rapidly in German for a
few moments, explaining briefly that Carlos had
reasons for wishing to be unknown forafew days,
and requesting Mr. Werner to give him the shelter
of his room for a short time,

There were a few questions and answers, and then, |
the matter being decided, Mr. Mishler took his |
leave.

“I speak German,” said Carlos, addressing the |
musician in his own ‘canal Lze, “proba rly better than |
you do English.”

“Ah, Lam glad,” replied Mr. Werner. ‘I have been |
in this country only a month, and know very little of
your tongue yet.”

**We will get along very well together.”

“Yes. Have you ‘heen™ speaking disrespectfully of
your emperor—or president, as they eall him—that |
they desire to imprison you?”

“Oh, no,’ replied Carlos, smiling. ‘‘They do not |
imprison people for political offenses in the United |
. States. Oursis what we callafree country. ButI}
| am accused of a crime of which Lam innocent, and |
jam secreting myself because it is difiicult to obtain |
| evidence that will acquit me. I hope to overcome
the difficulty before long.”

“Yes? You have my sympathy.
lea irn to speak German so well ?”

“In your own country. I was there
years, and at one time attended the musie
tutte art." |

“Indeed! ‘There is where Iwas trained in the di- |
vine art. Will you play for me?’

And he opened the piano.

“Tshould much prefer to hear you. [am tired
and weak from travel and anxiety. It would gratify
me muchif you would consent to let me be the lis-
tener.”
| Mx. Werner good-naturedly complied, and played
of course, from. Beethoven. It was’ one of thos¢
grand sonatas which are the peculiar glory of that }
great master. The performance was a fine one, and
Carlos expressed his approval enthusiastically.

! Then, on further invitation, he seated himself at the |
| piano and played a short, solemn extract from the
une composer,

“You play as well as Edo,” erled Mr. Werner,
at ke ast, you have. But you are not im practice.”

No,” replied Carlos.

“Yon ahall be my pupil,” said Mr. Werner.

“Willingly,” replied Carlos. ‘Indeed, that must
| be my. excuse for being here, if any inquiries are
| ins ade. pi '
| a5 ‘A capital arrangement,” declared Mr. being
| The day was passed very pleasantly. Mr. Werner
| y a frugal liver, and frequently pur¢ ftinaad his own |
| ‘ rovisions, taking his meals in his room. On this
| occasion a double supply was bought, which Oarlos |
shared with him. Afterward they had a pleasant |
| smoke and ehat together.
i About two oO ‘clock Mr.

[see. How

|
|
|
|
|
|

|
|
|

. But f do not re-
testimony. I am rather

{
|
'

 

 

 

 

 

Where did you

for some |
school at |

’
3

 

ge

“or,

vas

Werner went ou? to give a

 

| it from my lips,

| Withers.
| to

| you are prepared to believe

judge that 4 was unpr

| night before.

ih

| sce you.

Mr. Duncan seemed struggling to suppress an ex-
hibition of merriment. In this he was not successful,
for he soon burst into a fit of hearty laughter.

Thenit was that the Reverend Mr. Withers went
through with a most surprising performance. He
seized Carlos by both shoulders, shook him violently,
and exelaimed:

“Don’t you know me, old boy ?”

Carlos sprang back in amazement, and gazed at the
speaker as if he would look him through and
through.

“Know you!” he faltered.
miliar.’

“Does it? I should think so.
igain. Now do you know me?”

A look of inteligence and gladness gradually crept
over the face of Carlos He could not be mistaken—
he was not. It was his cousin, Leonard Lester.

The reader has already recognized the disguise in
which Mr. Stark, the detective in the Boston custom-
house, had arrayed him.

The violent hand-shaking and extravagant ejacu-
lations of joy which the cousins indulged in, need not
be here recorded.

When the first greetings were over, Carlos hastily
informed Mr. Werner who Leonard was, and ex-
plained his enthusiastic welcome of his appearance.
Mr. Werner smiled brightly, and offered a brief con-
gratulation. 3

“Where did you come from, Leonard, and what are
you fixed up in this ridiculous style for?’ asked
Carlos.

*“T came from—— Where did I come from,
Duncan?” appealed Leonard to his employer.

“Your voice seems fa-

I'll let you hear it

a

“You will have to tell the whole story to answer |

| that question,” replied Mr. Duncan.
“I suppose I will. Andthough you have just heard
I suppose I must satisfy Carles at
once.”
“Certainly.’

“But first fell me why you are rigged out so out-

| landishly ?” eried Ca ‘los.

“Outlandishly !” repeated Leonard, in a tone of
mock reproach. “I thot 1zht I presented a highly re-
spectable appearance. But wait. I'll come to it in
the course Of my story. I will be very brief now,
and giveDniy the main points. Phe details I will re-
late when we haye more time.” !

It is not necessary to repeat Leonard’s story, as the
reader knows it already. It will be remembered that
when we left him he had made the journey from Bos-
ton to New York.” We will take up the thread of his
narrative at that point.

Carles had already Mr.
saying:

“You will pardon us for speaking in English; we

can talk mére readily and to the point. All shall be
explé ined to you afterward.”

“Tf arrived in New. York,” said Leonard, “about two
hours ago—it is now ten o ’clock, I believe. IT at once
proceeded to Mr. Dunecan’s house, and requested to
ses him alone, giving ny name as the Reverend Mr.

apologized to Werner,

recognize
known.

me at first, but I soon made myself
And,as he had already heard your story,
that he gave me ri vther a
warm reception. Well, I told my story. While I
was telling it I saw that he had something on his |
mind that he was impatient to rey eal, but you may
epared for the first question he
asked, Ww hich was ‘if I would like to sec my cousin
Carlos? ‘Of course I would,’ I replied, not dreaming
what wasto follow. But you know what followed. He
brought me here, and here I am. It is safe. to say

that nothing more surprising e¥er happened during
the whole course of my life. And now here we are,
all together, with business of the most important
kind before us.”

“Yes, business of the most important kind,” re«
peated Mr. Duncan, emphatically., And he muttered
in an undertone, half to. himself: * “And Fl wager
that he’ll Ty it through. I said it wasn’t easy to
outwit him.”

“After a good night's rest we will proceed upon it
in earnest,’ continued Leonard,

“After a good night's rest!” exclaimed Carlos, who
seemed anxious to do something at once.

“Yes,” replied Leonard. ‘We all need it; or at
least you and I do.» And there is nothing to be done
to-night.”

The wisdom of this course was apparent, and was
soon admitted by all.

“T suppose you are safe enough here,” said Leonard
to Carlos. “I shall gotoa hotel. It will be prudent,
perhaps, for you and [not to be seen together, at all
events until [have consulted with Mr. Stark. What
connection can you,a pupil of Mr. Werner, be sup-
posed to have with me, the Rev. Mr. Withers?”

“Just 80,” said Mr. Duncan. “You are right.”

“And,” resumed Leonard, “I should like to stop
where there is a te legraph office near at hand.’

“There is a telegraph office in the United States
Hotel,” said Mr. Duncan.

“Very well, I will put up there.
night, Carlos,

»OF
at

And now good
I will see you to-morrow, probably.

| Guten nacht, Herr Werner.” DF
| . They separated, Carlos remaining with Mr. Werner,

Mr. Duncan going to his own home, and Leonard pro-

| ceeding to the U nited States Hotel.

The next day was Sunday, but, feeling that no time
must be lost, Leonard dispate hed fn mnessage to Mr.
Stark, early in the morning. It bore the following
eautious wording:

Mr. STARK, Custom House,

The property is fould.

(Signed) Rev. Mr. WITHERS.

He had confidence: that its meaning would be un-
derstood by Mr. Stark; and he was not mistaken.

In an hour a reply came, which read as follows:
REV. Mr. WITHERS, U. S. Holel, N. ¥.:

I will be with you today. Meet me at the place
where [ told you to call. STARK...

Leonard estimated that Mr. Stark would have to
make some preparations before leaving Boston, and
that he would reach New York in the evening, on the
same train that had brought ‘Rev. Mr. Withers” the
8o he was in no haste to show himself
at the appointed place.

He passed most of the day in his room, reading the

daily papers, and reflecting on the matters in which
@ Was SO immediately eoncerned.
He reviewed the situation formed plans to suggest to
Mr. Stark, and arranged his thoughts to be submitted
to the detective in the most coneise manner possible,
He sent a note to Carlos, informing him that matters
were progressing, but stating that he thought it not
best to call on him during the day.

Inv the latter part of the afternoon he walked to No.

— Tweltth street.

He was met at the door by a woman,
smiled, and greeted him cordially.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Withers!

Please Walk in.”’

She was'a comely woman, aged about forty yes
rather portly, and had a wholesome, shrewd-looking
face. She was dressed in- biack. Leonard evinced
sone surprise at ber ready reeognition of him,
though he remembered that Mr. Stark had predicted
that he would be known,

saston:

who instantly
We wiil be glad to

rs,

The woman-urged him not te delay going in, andas
hall, she closed the door

soon as he had entered the
and locked it.

“Mr. Stark sent you, of course,” said.
are to wait in this room, and we are not to have any
conversation with you until he comes.

she

a lunch %”

“No, thank you. That is, not at present.
’ I

ai was

uaint gems
me pussed

They had been so
intent on the game that they had not heard any foot- |

He’ll un-

and then hie

tt is perhaps not surprising that he failed |

“You
Do you wish

I will

wait until Mr. Stark comes, and then we can take it
together.”
“Very well,

I hope you will pass the time pleas- |
antly.

There are books and papers.”

hall, and here the woman left him alone.
ed, with wonder and admiration, on Mr.
tem of arrangements, and patiently
arrival of the detective.

The latter made his appearance shortly after eight
o'clock, After brief greetings, a lunch was brought
in, and the two Were left togethe r.

“You say you have found him,” said Mr. Stark, im-
mediately entering on the business in hand.

“Yes; he is staying with a musician named W erner,
ie gr reat distance from he re—perhaps ten minutes’
wa
“How did he escape?”

Leonard related briefly the | adventures of Carlos.
Myr, Stark made no comment.
“What steps have you taken !” ere Leonard,

, except to advertise the
“Have you much confidence th
put in an appearance?”

“We must wait and see,” was the. non-committal
answ eles

“Some measures ought to be put in operation at
once.’

“Undoubtedly.

He reflect-
Stark’s sys-
awaited the

t the owner will

Have you anything to suggest ?”
“Youre replied nard, after some deliberation.
“This Snags, of whom I told you, will probably take
alarm at my flightamd get out of the way.’ Besides,
as I further mentioned, he and Roake are probably
the tools of others whom they would not betray. 80
it is desirable te do something more than merely ar-
rest them, and seize the smuggled goods—even if the
former could be accomplished,”

“Go on,” said Mr. Stark, as Leonard paused.

“This deaf and dumb fellow who attends to the
boats at Rocky Beach is evidently in the employ of
the villains, and he is a poor ignorant devil. My idea
is that they have got possession of him in some way,
and impressed him with the belief that he is in a
sense their property.
one without ambition, or at least without the knowl-
edge. that there is any possibility of changing his
condition. Yet there is a discontented expression
ebony! his face, and he has a bright eye, and not a bad

ea °

“Yes,” said Mr. Stark, as Leonard again paused.

“Wel 1, ” resumed Leonard, “if we could get posses-
sion of him, and cheer him up, and make him believe
he is somebody, perhaps he could impart some valu-
able information. He must be possessed of some.
And there would be no use in pumping him where he
is, for I believe he stands in a sort of terror of his
masters.”

“Can he talk in any way, either by the dumb sig
or by writing?”

“That I don’t know.”

“The experiment may be. worth trying. We will
considerit. And now I[ have something to propose.
Has your cousin plenty of nerve ?”

“Yes,” replied Leonard, smiling, ‘when. he is set
on in the right way.”

“What can he do?’

“Tn the way of business, do youmean ? Not much,
Iam afraid. His father brought him up very indul-
gently. But heis a good musician.’

“Just the thing. We'll fix him
Dutchman. I Delieve you said he
guage f”

“Like a native.”

“We'll send him to Dalton as a music teacher, and
let him take observations.”

Leonard was not prepared for this novel proposi-
tion, and he considered a moment before reply-
ing.

“Do you think it would be safe 2?” he asked.

“Yes, if he has a respectable amount of tact.
you take me to him ?”

“Yes. As I said, itis only

1¢ is stopping.”

“Then eome on.’

So Leonard cat Mr. Stark started out and turned
their steps in the direction of Mr. Werner’s place of
abode.

ns

up
spoke

as a young
the lan-

Can't

a short walk to where

CHAPTER XVITI,
FREY HAYWOOD’S SECRET
Leonard Lester,

GEOF

Leaving

JOURNEY.
Carlos Conrad, and Mr.
| Stark toge ther, concocting their plans, we will turn
} again to Dalton and its neighborhood.

| Every oue believed Carlos guilty.
| (of which only the merest apology

 

 

 

The evidence
for a synopsis
was given in the chapter devote od to that purpose)
pointed to no other conclusion.

Cansequently the se utime nt on the subject was
well nigh unanimous, unless exception be made of
the few whose sympathies were excited by the pris-
oner’s pale, refined face, and those who attacked im-
portance to Mr. Royalton’s closing speech, hinting at
new and surprising developments.

Mr. Geoffrey Haywood, when the examination
was concluded, passed through the erowd with the
air of one who had: done his duty, and with an ex-
pression of very becoming and impressive sadness.

He proceeded to his store; which was of course
anes and the doors and shutters of which were

aped in black. He stepped within, and soon
Sata bending his footsteps in the @irection of
|Ehf Grove. ‘He paid Florence Darby, ‘the late
| Colonel Conrad’s ward, a short V isit, offering words of
consolation, and informing her that he had made ar-
rangements for attendants during the night upon
the remains of Colonel Conrad, which lay in state in
the parlor.

He suggested that she permit him to send Tom,
with a horse and. buggy, to bring her friend, Mabel
Cummings, to bear her ¢ ompany for a few day 8 dur-
ing her loneliness and sorrow. To this she assented,
and then Mr. Haywood took his departure, announe-
ing that he would call during the
succeeding day.

It was now after eight o’clock in the evening.
Hay wood again proce ceded to
himself w ithin, where he remained for some time.

He heard the train arrive and depart which was to
| convey Officer George Johnson and Carlos to Hills-
dale. Another hour passed.

Then Mr. Haywood emerged from his store again,

carrying a small satchel in his hand, and pr oceeded
to the railroad depot.

Within ten minutes he was on board the train which
was Garrying Carlos from Hillsdale and on to safety.
But; as has been before: stated, he had no knowledge
or suspicion of the presence of the escaped prisoner.

The station at which he alighted was perhaps @
mile from thé village which it was designed to ac
commodate. At that late hour there were no hangers.
avound present; there were oniy the baggageman,
switch-tender, and an old woman who climbed aboard
the train.

Mr. Haywood alighted the opposite side of the
track from which the depot stood, and quietly step-
pe beneath a shed, After the train departed again,
the baggageman and switch-tender went within doors,

and no living seul was in sight.

Then Mr. Haywood stepped cautiously forth, and,
after a-glance all around, walked briskly down a road
that led in an opposite direction from the Village. It
was a road that was but little traveled, as was indi-

sated by the thrifty growth of grass.

He proceeded half a mile, and then climbed a fence
and made his way across a field. Another field was
traversed, and then there appeared a thick clump of
woods. r. Haywood plunged into the woods, and,
with a readiness which indicated that the locality
was familiar to him, made his way to an immense
tree.

With surprising and undignified activity, he
caught hold of a low-growing bough and swung him-
self | up on one of the thiek branches. At this eleva-
tion there was an aperture in the trunk of the tree
which afforded access to a capacious cavity. Pro-
ducing ® small dark lantern from his pocket, and
drawing the slide from the glass, Mr. Haywood pro-
eeeded to make a change in his toilet.

He divested himself of his black coat and donned a
long linem duster which he took from the satchel. For
his “glossy “beaver” he substituted a rough-looking
slouch hat. Then, after taking a brown mask from
the satchel, he put therein the discarded garments,
andthrust the satchel into the hollow place in the
trée. The dark lantern he disposed of in a similar
way. Next he tied his long whiskers back under his
chin and fitted the mask over his face.

These preparations being completed, he descended
to the ground. Resuming ‘his walk, he soon emerged
from the woods, and came to an open space.

He was near the sea-coast, and the sound of the
wind and the waves could be distinctly heard. He
walked with caution, listening and peering intently
in every direction... .

Soon he came to the edge of a high bluff, ani began
a steep, precipitous descent. This brought him to
the ocean’s edge.

He now had a walk of a mile before him, and pro-
ceeded at a rapid pace, feeling secure against unwel-
come meetings.

In fifteen minutes he was at Rocky Beach.

Why he should have taken this circuitous, labor-
ious, and secret route to reach a pointthat was a
pleasant four miles’ ride from Dalton, will duly ap- |

rear.
: He halted within afew rods of the rocky cavern,
and blew a signal on a small, shrill whistle.

No answer came.

Mr.

ed, to his evident vexation.
The next instant he was-startled by the sound of
rapid footsteps. Roake and Snags came running
from the cave, uttering cries of anger and alarm. They
me almost upon Haywood.
“Here he is!” shouted Snags.
“What’s:the matter, boys?”
low tone.
Leet s the boss, you fool,’ éxciaimed Roake.
Both the:men stupped suddenly, uttering suppRess-
ed imprecations;
“What is the trouble?” demanded Haywood.
“Trowble enough,” replied: Roake. ‘The bird has
flown.”
“What! you’ don’t mean Lester?”
es e85 that’ sjust whol mean.
| the slip.”
“How in Satan's name did that happen ?”
“Why, wehadto getinthe goods, and there was |
ho place to keep him except—you know where,

-

asked Haywood, ina

He has

 

 

 

 

 

 

ve

.'!

Leonard had been shown into a room adjoining the |

He has a hang-dog look, like’

|

 

}

 

forenoon of the

his store, and locked |

 

 

 

 

 

|
|

He. blew again. and the signal remained unregard- |

| in a trance for over forty-eight hours.

| at the ex

 

gave him some wine that was fixed, and he went to
| sleep.

But the effect passed off sooner than we ex-
| pecte d, inl while we were all up in the loft he stepped
| out.”

“Curse the luck! How long was it before you dis-
overed that he was gone ?”

“T don’t know. I told Ratter to go down yn shut.
the door, but he waited some little time, being hard
at work. When he did go down he yelled up the news
to us, and Snags and I rushed out, leaving the others:
up there. But here we are talking, when we ought
to be after him. I wonder which way he went.’

The three men commenced an active search in va-
rious directions. In a moment Suag’s exclaimed, w ith
an oath:

“One of the boats is gone!”

All three rushed to the spot.

“Yes,” exclaimed Roake, ‘‘and it’s the Gull—the
fastest one we’ve ‘ There’s not another yacht
nares that can catchit. There is no use in pursuing

im

at rons ato give up that way,” replied Hay-

ood ave gone a great distance. Take

: after him.”

Cc

ust be left untried. Go!”

the “boss” in earnest, for:
Roake instantly pre 1 to start.
“Tl take the litt leetwing,” he said, “for I
came, do anything ‘With this unwieldy old hulk
—

Ne sotorgemythaiarcer 5:
to the one that Le

was one of’ the regula
for the accommodation of vis

Roake ran up the beach ‘few. rods, sprang into
the Fleetwing, and set sail, leaving Snag rs and Hay-
wood on the shore.

Snags soon spoke.

“Boss,” said he,-in a mysterious denis, “Tmust know
who you are to- night. I must see you without that
mask. on, too.”

“What do you méan ?” demanded Haywood.

“Taneah that ’ve worked in the dark long enough.
Ihave never seen your face, nor heard your real
name. You have given all your orders to Roake,
and allyour confidence. He has been the favored
one.”

“Well, Snags,” said Haywood,
know I cannot be too cautious.
by a few.”

“Notif those who have a right to know it are kept
in the dark. However, we won’t argue that. I’ve
got something to'tell you. I haven’t told Roake yet,
I pie to wait and see you. Roake sent me to
Elm Grove that night, by your order, not to do what
I did do, but to see what was going on. I was to
steal into the house, open Col. Cohrad’s private desk,
and see if I could find any papers of importance—a
will, ior instance. Iknow why Iwas sent. It was
becattsee Roake had not the courage, and, besides, he
wouldn’t know a will from a search-warrant. Is not
this all true ?”’

“All true,” assented Haywood. g

“The murder was not in the plan,’ continued
Snags, with a shudder. “I did it in self-defense, for
the colonel saw me and turned on me. Thad nothing
to do but the thing I did do, and it will haunt me aH
my life. Butnever mind thats WhatTI have to tell
you is the at I did sind something.”

ae Ah!

Hay wood was betrayed in the act of showi
prise.

“Yes, found something that you would
see.”

“Was it a will ?”

“No, it was a letter, ora part of one.°
he had made a will—a new one.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Haywood, in agi

le

r yaoht that had stood close
had nm. The Fleetwing
boats. - t at Rocky Beach

soothingly, “you
A secret is best kept

ne

ng sur-

like to

But I think

| tation.

“Because theletter spoke of it, among other things.
It was addressed to Timothy Tibbs, Daiton.”

“Yes, hislawyer. And there was an envelope d
rected to him lying en the table.”

“Was there?” said Snags. ‘I didn't notice that.
The letter was what I saw, and secured.”

“You took it, did you? Where is it now ?”’

“That is the secret that I offer in exchange
yours.”

“That of my
mean %”

mt ”

Taywood reflected.

a am I to know thatthe Jetter will be of any.
value to me ¢”’ he asked.

“You can take my word for it, or I will repeat part
of its contents toyou. I baveread it often enough
to remember it pretty well...But first I must tell you
thatit is not complete. In pulling it from his hand I
tore‘it, leaving a fragment in his grip. He was hold-
ing it and reading it over. That missing Picco con-
tains some impor tant words, too, but probably they

“an be guessed at.’

“Well, wel], I haven’t much time to spare.
the contents of the letter, as nearly
member.”’

Snags therenpon whispered a few words in ee
wood’s ear, to Which the latter listened with grea
intentness. They seemed to be of vital import, judg.
ing from their efiect on a A wood.

“Give me the letter!” he exc li uimed.
fragment torn off—where is that ?

“Carlos Conrad has it.”

“Ah! -Why did you not.take it from him?”

“Because he was too lively forme. Roake has?
you of his flight and my pursuit, and my catching

wrong man ?”

““Yes.”

“Well, ce see the secret of Colonel Conrad’s last
message lies between Carlos Conrad and myself. Put
what I know and what he knows together, and some-
thing will be revealed that you want to know. My
share is for sale at the price Ihave named.”

an well. You have told Roake nothing of this?”

“No,”

“Then give me the letter.”

“Yhe price first.”

snes drew the letter from his pocket and held it
aloft

“My name is Geoffrey Haywood. Now look a
ine.”

Haywood tore away the mask and turned his face
fullon Snags. The light of the moon enabled the
latter to take a satisfactory view of the countenanee
of his hitherto unknown * boss.”

He made no comment, but silentl
letter. Haywood, replacing the mas
earefully in his pocket, and said:

“You got all the goods in?”

“Yes.”

“Good! You had better send the menoff,and set the

cataract going immediately. I must be off. Ihave less
than an hour to reach the station and catch the tr ain
that will take me in Dalton before daylight. If you
wish to see me at any time, drop a note in the post-
office, mention the time and place, and sign your

name Bulltinch. Good-night.”

And Haywood hastened down the beach, to retrace
his steps through the fields and woods, and make his
return trip to Dalton.

He was unconscious that a skulking form followed
him, watching his every movement, and that when
he stopped in the woods to cast off his disguise, a pair
of eager eyes were fixed upon him.

He accomplished his return safely, and, as he sup-
posed, secretly, and breathed a sigh of relief when,
after atta be through the silent and deserted streets
of D he locked himself within his own store.

[TO BE GONTINUED.)
THE OCEAN DETECTIVE; The
Trail of Death, by Richard J. Storms, wil! be
commenced week after next.

>eo~

THE FORTUNES OF THE PRESIDENTS.

i-

107

x

identity—my name and face, you

Repeat
as you can re-

“And the

id
the

§

delivered the
, put the letter

er,

Washington left an estate worth ,000.
John. Adams died moderately well o Jefter-
son died so poor that if Congress had not given
oe for his library he would have been

bankrupt. Madison was economical and died
rich. Monroe died 80 . that he was buried

ense of his relatives in this city. John
Quincy Adams left about $50,000, the result of
prudence. His son, Charles Francis Adams,
gained a large fortune by marriage. Jackson
died tolerably well off. Van Buren died worth
some $300,000. It is said that during his entire
‘administration he never drew any portion of his
salary, but on leaving took the whole $ 5100,000
in a “Yamp. Polk left about $150,000. Tyler
married a lady of wealth and accomplishméuts,
and died rich. Taylor left ‘about $150,000.
Fillmore was always an economical man, and
added to his wealth by his last marriage. Pierce
saved about $50,000. Buchanan left about
$200,000; Lincoln about $75, 000 ; Johnson
$50,000. — Baltimore Gazette.

b-6-4 a

Almost Buried Alive.

Here is a narrow escape from burial by a live per-
son: A wind-storm at Roxabel, N.C., a few days
sinee, destroyed the dwelling which Mrs. Adelaide
Burton oceupied. The lady was enveloped iu the de-
bris and, as supposed, killed. Herbody was removed
from tne timbers by which it was. covered and pre-
pared for burial. As the friends of the supposed de-
ceased lady were in the act of removing the casket
to the hearse, she revived, and raised her head, and
asked to be informed what they meant by their sin-
eular proceedings. She was intormed thatdshe was
being prepared for burial, having been killed in the
fall of her house. The sudden revival of the lively
Corpse ¢ created great astonishment: among the large

gathering of her friends who were in ‘attendance to
Winness the last sad rites. Mrs. Burton had remained
She arose and

;next day began superintending the removal of the

debris of her house, preparatory to aaneg a new
reaidence erected.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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HAUNTED LIFE.

By BERTHA | M. CLAY,

AUTHOR OF
MAD LOVE,” ‘A BITTER. ATON
“THROWN ON THE WORLD,”

artistic |

 

YEMENT,”’
ete.
{“A Haunted Life’. was commenced in No. 4l. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXII.
JEALOUSY. ‘

The doctor’s handsome face clonded; there seemed
no chance yetof speaking even one word to Lady
Vera; his eyes lingered on her, be had never seen her
look so beautiful,

She woré a dress of cream-colored brocade, with
rose-geraniums on her white breast and in ber hair.
The very sight of those flowers always set his heart
on fire; if was the sweetest, most subtle, most grace-
ful way of telling him ‘how she loved’ him. He never
saw the tempting dishes, the rich wines, the elabor-
ate services of gold and silver plate; he saw only
that one fair face and the rosé-geranium on the white
breast,

“You do not tal Dr. Ryder,”
well-contented voice near “As a rule,
gentleman

’

self to me.”

said a
when a

k much to me,
him.

Then he remembered the existence of the rich Miss |

Dent, and turned to her with an apology.
“Do not apologize,” she suid,
future. Have you tried these ortolons ?—they
excellent.
ing—what are you dreaming about?”

“T should be very remiss if I ow ned
thoughts were anywhere but with you,” he
ing his best to be gallant and attentive.

The little lady laughed aloud. :

“Do you know,” she said, “that you have a whole
tragedy in your voice? Indeed, now I look at your
face, I see a tragedy there.”

“My life has beon in common grooyes—until now,”
he said.”

Miss Dent thought the words implied a compli-
went to her, and smiled approval.

“Until now,” he repeated, and his eyes sought the
lovely face that held all the light of the world to
him.

“And now ?” said Miss Dent, but she started a lit-
tle when she saw the look in his eyes—started, and
said to herself that he was not quite like other men,
and liked him better than ever.

The longed-for chance caine at last. Dudley was
nearest to the door, and held it as the long proces-
sion of ladies went out. His eyes met hers, with a

yerinthem she could not refuse—she must an-
er. For one half moment their hands met, and
that silent clasp was a volume in itself.

“On the terrace, in half an hour,” said Lady
“T will be there.”

“Bless her faithful, loving, tender heart,” he said
to himself, as he restuned his seat.

It seemed to him as though the half hour would
never come. Never had the conversation of gentle-
men so ood tely wearied him; what did he care
for horses, dogs, races, shooting, or fishing.

At length it was over, and he made his way to the
terrace. One or two of the gentlemen went out in
the.grounds to enjoy a cigar, so that ho was not
missed.

She was there; her rich dress and shining jewels
hidden by a ric h bk: wk lace mantilla. Nothing hid
her love-lit eyes or shining face.
his arms and thought death even should never part
them. ¢

y darling,

are

that my }
said, try- |

Vera. |

I thought the time would
“Has if seemed so long, Dudley ?”. she whispered.
“Long ?—that isa weak word. Why, my darling, I

should go mad if Thad to sea you often

fashion. To look at you and not go near
other men crowd round you and admire you, to hea
your sweet words given to all around, and none to
me—T could not bear it often,”

She looked at him shyly.
“Do you not know,” she
apoak to you before others?”

“No,” he replied, ‘‘I do not quite
me.’
With a gesture of ineffable grace, sho

said, “why T so seldom
understand,

laid

disorders |

Latest Style ‘Curden, Bouquet, iaue, Fl loral, etc., in |

—MUNN }
Patents, with full }

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New Or- |

100,000 tickets, two ($2) |

Breech-Load- |

Agents |

EXYK ss Beard Elixir. A wont nderft 11 discovery—forces |

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Re: store sand des ve lope 8 |

It is highly recommended |

Boston, Mass. |

Pint Bot- |

W all Street }
| with a. faint laugh.

THE

[ white hand on “his shoulder; it was a caress in it-
self sweeter than any other woman could have given

im.

“T will tell you,” she said. “You are alone in the |
| world to me, there is no one like you. If youarein
;}a@room full of people, I see only you, I hear only |

your voice; but I never dare speak much to you, lest |
iy tell- tale face should tellmy secret. I can ‘Hear |

that my voice takes quite another tene when it ad- |

dresses you. I should betray myself, for I should be-
| tray my love,”

“Do you love me so much, Vera?” he asked,

“So much that I am often trish towed at the great- |

| ness of ny own love. I say to myself it must end in
| a tragedy, ius all great loves do,”
“Not all,” he said.
“Yes, all. Tell me of any great human love that
j}ended h appily . ShallI quote Juliet’s. for Romeo,
| Desdemona’s for the Moor, Mary of Tudor’s for Philip
| of Spain, Marguerite’s for Faust? Ft almost seems to
me,” she continued, with a sigh, “that happy love is
commonplace,”
“Then I hope we shall be
| replied.

very

sommonplace,” he
“We must be happy.” "I wae

The moon was shining brightly, and the shadow of |

| the steep wall and the tripled’ trees fell across the
terrace. The western wind that whispered round |
| them was laden with sweetest perfume. from the
| gardens below. She raised her beautiful head sud-
| denly.
“Dudley,” she : said, “I—I have bee ‘n jealous, dear,
| for the firs st time in my life to-night.’
‘‘Jeulous !” he repeated, vaguely.
i; “OF whom, you should sz ay. People are santuaae of
| other people, not of things,”’ she corrected.
“Of whom, then, my queen, my darling ?’’
“Of you. Ido not like Miss Dent. Ido not like
| her just because you took her down to dinner, and
she tried to talk to you.”
|; “Butmy darling
| told me to take her down,

“Of what?

Tobayed you most un-

I was longing to have had a place nearer
you. The only comfortin the whole matter to me

| Was that I obeyed your commands.”

|} “Tam very sorry you did obey them. Never

; again, when itis anything to do with a lady.

| promise me.”

“My darling, Ido not know what to promise.
you mean that if, in the future, you tell me to
any lady down to “dinner, I must refuse ?”

She laughed a little.

“No, not that,” she said.

“Why are these sweet hands
asked, bewildered by her mat uner.
| “Are they trembling?” she asked, as she closed
| them over his; “let me ste addy y them. Dudley, I

have been jealous, anditis anew pain. It is papa’s
| fanit; he talked nonsense about you and

Miss Dent.”

“Itmust indeed have SE
young doctor. “Miss Dentisless than notl
me. What can she be? I have eyes, ears,

| thoughts for one only.”

“It was nonsense,” sbke continued,
| was; yet, like so mauy other
| re asonable, and my héart has grown faint w ith jeal-
} ous pain. Papa said he liked you so much,

do so
Now

rembling, Vera ?”

been nonsense,” sai
riz ig to
and

“and I knew it

Now, Dudley, think of it—married to Miss Dent!
was enough to make me jealous, wasn’t it?”

He thought her more charming for this pretty little

saprice and weakness.

“My darling!” he cried, all his honest love rising
from his heart to his lips; ‘no, you might be the only

It

woman in the world for all the thought I give to an-}
Lord Beaufort meantit as a jést, not se- |
He feels kindly toward me, |}

another.
riously; how could he?
and would like me to marry a rich woman, thatis all.
Ah, my love, how I wish that I were a great king,
that Imight choosé you as my queen;
that you were poor and lowly,
| you and serve for y ou twice
| can I prove my love ?
my life for yon y
“Tamnot jealous now,”
content,
like 8 you. ;
kes me!’ he repeated.
do not say these things tome. I cannot bear them.
Let us end it; let me go to the eurl and tell him how
| madly I love his daus site r—may 1?”
| “Not just yet,” sh e answ ered. “We
| little longer—not yet 4.8
“He pleaded and prayed, but it wasa
aid her fair arms round his neck.
“Not yet, Dudley; wait until I say it may be.’
“But, Ve ra, it pi iis you and it pains me. How ean

seven long years. How

“but Miss Dent is very rich, and she

must w

ll in vain; she

| L help itif lam compelled to talk to other ladies ?— |.

”

it is no pleasure to me.
“T did uot know that I could beso foolish,” she said,

and talking to you, I thought I should hay é gone inad

| with pain—now I can lz Wieh at it.’

| “Ytisan unnatural state pf things, Vera, and will
| always lead to unpleasant complications.
| but persuade you to let me speak to Lord Beaufort!

[shall wonder soonif you love me too little for
; that.’

“Tt is be cause Tlove you somuch,and Lam afraid |

| of losing you,” she replied. “But L promise you,

Dudley, our engagement shall not be a secret much | tl
Weamust not stay too long to-night—I have |

longer.
so Inany visitors to amuse,’
“Let me kiss away the
words,” said Dudley.
And the memory of those kisses, given by moon-
light. under the sweet-scented trees, were
fore evermore.

ousy of a ¢hild,
“Dudley

* she said, ‘‘“now promise me that you will
not talk to

that dreadful Miss Dent, I know just
meé so,”’

“T will not speak one word to her,” he replied,

“One word!
will not talk to her as though you enjoyed it, will
you?”

“Tecan safely promise that,’’ he
amusing to see how, during the
evening, ha evaded Miss Dent,

As generally happens, the more he avoided her the
more the lady liked him.
handsomest and most distinguished-looking man she
had ever seen,

“T can afford to please myself as to whom I marry,’
she said, “and why should I not?

She made the earl quite h: uppy by her praises of his
young friend,

“It is just like you, Lord Beaufort,” she said,

suid, and
remainder of that

“to

gui se.
“T do not consider the guise so very humble,” said
the earl; and even that evéning, in some vague way,

”

 

| Lady Vera seemed to.take an intense dislike

takes me down to dinner, he devotes him- |

“but do better for the |

Dinner is not exac tly the time for dreaimn- |

He clasped her in }

never |
and in this |

you, to rn {

Tell |

One |

it was spread among the numerous guests that Miss

| Dent, the great city heiress, admired the young doc- |

| tor.
Miss Dent did trouble herself a little to understand
why, allat once, and with such little reason for it,
to her
he was growing tired

As for Dudley Ryder himself,

of a false position, and he n rade up his mind to spare |
“a would |

neither prayers nor entreaties that Lady Ver
make their engagement know. ne

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN HEIRESS SLIGHTED.

Never surely was proud lady so sorely tried. She

longed to take Dudley Ryder’s hand aud say to the |

whole world, “This is my love, the man I have cho-
sen from the wide ‘world to marry, and T exult in my
choice;” but she knew
bear, the ridie ule, the contempt, the
ther and friends. ‘Sho loved the swee t bower of peace
into which her love had brought her, and did not wish
jit to be disturbed, Her greatest. fear of all was

| that her father, knowing it, would forbid her eyer to
: see or speak to ‘her lover again.

“We are
evening,
selves?”

And he answered as
fore:

“I do not like the secrecy
anything than bear that.”

Now that this new element of jealousy was intro-
duced into the affair, it seemed impossible to go on
any longer in the same fashion.

The earl was delighted with the idea. He firmly
believed that the young doctor was gifted far beyond
the ordinary tun; he wanted money, that was all,
and if he could m: irry a great heiress who could at
once put him ina good position, his genius could
show itself, and his fortune vas made. The
a Kindly interest in the young doctor; he admire d |
him extreme ly ; he wishe (him well w ith all his heart ;
he would have done anything for him, and it see ined |
|tohim that he was doing re ally the be st thing pos- |
sible in trying to bring about a marriage with the
rich city heiress, Miss Dent, as: Miss Dent herself
showed every sign of preference for him.

The earl really studied how much and how often
he could bring them together, and the result was that
every evening found him at Alton Priors. It was not
all pleasure, as he found. Lord Beaufort t always in-
sisted on placing him near Miss Dent, who, in her
turn, was always delighted to geo him, while the
beautiful face of his brilliant love clouded at every
word he spoke tothe heiress. It was in vain that he
| protested every time he saw her alone, his utter in-
| difference to Miss Dent, even his vehement dislike to
her on account of the trouble she gave him.

Lady Vera was not happy, she loved him too well
to endure that, even in jest, any other woman’s name
should be associated with his.

The earl gave a dancing party, and, as a matter-
of-course, the young doctor was asked. Lady Vera’s
face grew white with anger as she heard Miss Dent
say:

“T shall save All the waltzes for Dr.

“‘so Very happy, why need we disturb
he bad so often answered be

, 1 would far rather face

 

tyder.”

Captain Anson, to whom she was speaking, affected |

to be in despair.

“Why are you so cruel?” he said.
you save every waltz for Dr. Ryder?
at least ?”

“Not one,” said the heiress, triumphantly,
sure the doctor di: meces we ll—these erect, military-
looking men always do.”

“Why shonld
Give me one,

NE she

Vera, it Was you yourself who |

Dy >|
he |

that absurd |

d the |}

women, [ am quite un- |

and he |
should be so pleased to see you married to Miss Dent. |

how I wish |
how I would work for |

How can I show that I would |

she said, with a smile of |

“Oh, Vera, even in jest |

ait a | | x
| “she boasted that she ‘had saved every waltz for you. | *

“When I saw her looking at you |

If I could |

memory of those hard

with her |

} It was so strange and wonderful for him to see this
proud, brilliant beauty with the pretty, petulant jeal- |

how papa’s eyes will gleam if you do, and it will hurt }
Ah, yes, that you must do; but you |

it. was |

She pronounced him the |

| have discovered sich true merit under such humble |

all that she would have to |

nger of her fa- |

earl took |

“TF am |

 

x ORK W.

“Am not lan erect, military-looking
the captain.
“Not so much so as “the doctor,” laughed the heir-
ess. “Now mind you must not quarrel over me;
| nothing brings a lady into such dreadful repute as
two gentlemen quarreling over her—now promise.”
He laughed at her vanity,
pledge.

Lady Vera, who had been standing with great
i oe orn'on her beautiful face, could “keep silence no
| longer.

“You need not fear,” she said, “IT have never
Doctor Ryder waltz; there will be neither quarrel
nor duel, Miss Dent.”

“What a tragedy queen,” thought the city heiress.
But it never occurred to her that Lady Vera took
| more than usual interest in the doctor.

man ?” asked

|
|

|

“This will never do,” ti houbhs the eal
have a neryous fever soon;
cheer her.”

He bethought himself of the morning’s letters and

| their contents; he took some from his pocket-book,
| while outside the great trees threw up their branches

but gave the required |
| like lost souls erying

like giant arms tossed in despair, the wind wailed
out in pain, darkling clouds

| came over the sky.

“We shall have a storm.” said the earl, “and a very

| heavy one.”

seen

; burn.

Dudley Ryder was perhaps a little surprised when |

lone of the grooms from Alton Priors rode up to the
| surgery as though for dear life, and gave him a little
inote. It said merely:
“Dudley, you must
one. Some one here
| not give her one.”
“My beautiful, jealous love,” he cried to himself,
his héart beating; his eyes wet with tears.

not waltz to-night with any
has saved every one for you; do

Lady Vera held out her hands to him.
“They burn,” she said; “my eyes burn, my lips
Do storms bring fevers with them, papa?”
Aud the words of her lover’s favorite song crossed
her mind
“For I myias am my own fever and my own pain.”
Lord Beauford looked anxiously at her.
“Tneverheard that they did. You are tired, my
dear, with a sleepless night. See, I have pews in my
lette rs that will amuse you, I have one from Miss
Dent.’
For Miss Dent had returned to town more desper-

| ately in love with the doctor than she would have

He kisse sl i

| the spot where her hand had touched it, he kissed the |

| namé that looked so fair in his eyes; he said to him-
self that hé would rather never dance again than
cause her for ohe moment even the shadow of pain.
The groom had been told that he need not wait for an
answer; Dudley determined to give the ansyer by
his own conduct.

as he

drawing-rooms, and s0 as soon a entered Dudley
saw the complications before him.
beautiful; she had an exquisite dres
trimmed in the most artistic fas! with
sweet and fresh; with this > wore @ Inag-
nificent “set of emer: ilds, green and brilliant, flashing
with light.

white lace

j

| leaves,

waiting to take him to Miss Dent.

She turned to him when they had been talking ‘for
some minutes

“Doctor Ryder,” she said,
will think very kind. I have
you.”

In ons moment he knew all about it, understood hi
| darling’s hasty littie
| line of his defense.

“T do not waltz,” he said.

“That does not matter. I can teach you in three
isthior eee s. Youmustlearn. [have refused so many
partners be

| dance with me.”

“You are very kind, indeed,” he said, “very kind,
but [am sure you will forgive me if I say that I have
| no desire to learn ”

The great heiress poute d her lips after the manner
of a grieving child.

“You are very unkind to me,” she said,
| are the first person who has ever been
| me.”’

“You must not think
paused, better to let her know -at once that
thoughts were thrown away on him. ,

‘‘People always seem so pleased when I favor
them,” said the placid little lady, “but you do
| Seem to care about——”

“T appreciate all kindness,’
“But net mine in

 

saved every waltz for
3
note

He looked at her with a smile.

’

unkind to

that,’ he eried, and then

he said, simply.
particular,” she retorted,

it not so?”
wandered discontentedly to where the tall statuesque
figure in the trailing white lace stood.

He smiled. She spoke so entirely in
i neouor ehild it was impossible to help it.

I admire all ladies
“And love none,” she interru
He shook et head,
“He would bea wise man who could say that truth-

fully, Miss Dent. a

“And you are ‘not wise,” she
wrest some admission from him.
| his guard.
ye e might all be a little

; “I among the fitmilie VN
ie bowed as he left her;
| ty of saying a word to Lady Vera,
| miss it, even if Miss De nt were offended forever.

“You understand,” said the brilliant young beauty,

| better than little ones—is
the tone of a

pted.

said, detern
But Dudley wa
W iser than y

we are,

| I was determined it should not be.”

j; said. “My quee 1, you look so beautiful,
| long to kiss tl Ee white hands, and I maynot;
just to touch the clustering hair,
| ‘Promise me five minutes, Vera.’
} An hour later they stood on the
soff shadows of night falling
; profound silence reigning.
| TJ shall never be able to bear it
| said; ‘sometime or other I shall
reason, and rush to clasp you in my arms! Imagine
| the consternation, Vera. But then Iam only a mor-
tal man, and I cannot look on the beauty all” my own
| without longing for one word. Do you see any end
to our probation, Vera ?”’
Not just yet,” she replied. “Do not talk
at—tell me how much you love me.”
She looked so fair and so statuesque, standing in

so
I long
and I may not.

moat terrace, the

much longer,” he
suddenly lose my

about

creen |
at | 80 blind to his own interests; I am qui ite sure Miss

“Thave done what yeu} about?’ 2

cause I—I felt so sure you would like to | favtasn
| t C

round them, the most |

The great ball. room had not been }
thrown open, the dancing was to bein one of the large |

Lady Ve ra looke d |

He had but one minute with her, then the earl was

cared to own. It was October now,
summer had been a long
were beginning to fall.
At the mention of Miss Dent’s name, a faint color
flushed in her face; then outside the skies grew
darker and the wind wailed more terribly, The earl
went on:
“T shall always hope that Dr. Ryder will come to
his senses and propose to the heiress,” he said, not
ing that his daughte r shrank from the words as
xh they had been nettles that stung and blistered
ide
**T Gi umnot imagine,”

and though the
and brillic unt one, the Jeav es

he went on, “show he could be
Dent g gave him every encourag seer it.’
“Did she?” said. Lady Vera; “do you
papa? ey
“Tam sure of ri

believe that,

it, my dear; I happen to know that

she has written to him and ths it he will receive her | wan!

| le tter to-day.’

and had resolved on the |
, 5 © | it be to renew her overtures.

| quickly.

“What can she have found to have
aid Lady Vera, and the earl in his
sik shtedne 88 Was pleased to think that he had excited
her attention at l St.
“Tdo not know,” he replie sd with a smile,
wants her

“She neyer will over that,” said Lady Vera,

not, my dear? There could be no better
for him than that he should marry a rich
like Miss Dent. She is avery nice, gentle

“Why

woman

| creature, rather affected perhaps, but still y ery pleas-
j ing. ad

“and you j

all her | ht;

”

“She is a parvenu,
“And, my dear, wha
what is he?”
“Oné of nature’s
ing eyes.
The « e si laughed—a quiet laugh of unmixed de-
» people laugh sometimes when a tragedy

said Lady Ve ra, proudly.
is the doctor ?

gentlemen,” she said, with flash-

opens,
1 VU}

not |
RAY } own battles, and my idea

} You are shive ring ag
a | l } } |
“t t nigh § , . 7 .
know quite well that you like tall, elegant women | * though some Tever Varus mie!
and her eyes |

“That is true,”

he said. “but we need not dispute |
over them, Vera.

We will leave them to fight their

is that the lady will win.

ain--are you cold 2"

“It is a wretched day,” she said, “and Iam cold,
”

She rose impatiently, and laid her book on the
table. She went to the window, and looked out on
the bending trees and gray mist.

**Papa,’’ she cried, suddenly ,» “do you believe in

| prese ntiments 2?”

“No, not the least in the world, Vera,” he replied.

| Why?”

ined to |
Son |
on | all aw ay,

he

but he saw an opportuni- |
and he could not |

 

the dim shadows, with the trailing white lace and |

green leaves—so fair, so tender,
he was bewildered w hen he looke ad at her.

“Tell me, my love,” she said,
me.”

“Tellme to count the sands on the sea-shore—tell
me to number the leaves of the forest—tell me to read
aright the mystery of the stars; it would all be tar
easier than telling you how dearly T love you.”

“Ts it so much?” she said; and his answer seemed
to give her conteit.

It, was only five minutes, yet it sent him back to the
| dancing-rooni with his heart on fire.
| done that he should be so unutterably blest that he
should have now for himself this pearl of great price,
| this beantiful, brilliant woman who would have
| graced a throne? The night lived in his mind be-
cause of her unusual tenderness and gentleness. He
| hardly remembered Miss Dent, who believed that she
was inflicting tho most severe punishment on him by
refraining from speaking to him.

He saw Lady Vera again for one happy moment,
| just to say sood- night.
minute in his own.

“My queen,” he said, “you have made meso happy!

der and sweet to ine ?”
“Because I love you,

”

she replied, and those words
went home with him; they sang in his ears, and
haunted his brain. She loved him, that beauti ful,
| noble girl with lustrous eyes and clustering hair.
The boughs that bent before him, the
trembled in the wind, the blossoms that he brushed
whispered to him that she loved him;
sighed it, the stars seemed to rep reat it—loved him,
and would one day be his. Was it any
his heart beat and his brain whirled }—that
tered her Ek aloud, as though it held the sweetest
music on earth ?—that he flung himself on the cool,
long grass, and cried aloud with the fire and fever of

his love?
| If she would butlet him tell
|} afraid of bimself; he felt sure he

often without betraying himself. Why would she
|notlet him speak? She loved him so well, and he
| would work for her as no man had ever
}; woman yet.

“Love is above all,” he said to pe
ter than houses or land, than gold or f
| will have a world in that.”

No doubts came to him, no fear;
in the summer heavens was not brighter than his
ove, the stars not more true, the sun no warmer.
|; What had he done? Oh, dear and gracious Heaven!

what hadhe done that he should be so supremely

blessed?

 

he earl. He was

eould not see her

“love

fame, and.she

the light dawning

CHAPTER XXIV.
BEFORE THE TRAGEDY.
| The little rift came in the lute at last.
; that the earl should be told and secrecy
would not have it.

“Tt was too soon,”
be parted.”

Ho bagan to wonder, at last, if she were ashamed
of her love. He drove the idea away with many in-
dignant words—his peerless, noble love, no such ig-
noble idea could come to her; she was far above such
paltry sentiment as the starsS were above the earth;
still ees him. ass than once they had had
some high words 5 he had knelt to beg her pardon,
she had wept bitter fours , and they had made friends
again. The quarrels of lovers mean but a renewal
| of love.

Lady Vera was alone one
pretty rooms where
| tures, made a little
in.

“You are not looking w
cried.

“No, I have not slept, papa.
terrible dreams.”

“Dreams of what. child?’ he asked.

Tt was not usual for her to make such complaints.

“T cannot tell you—of horrors, all horrors of sight
and sound; nothing that I ean quite remember, but
terrors that have left me ill and tired, as though I
had seen a ghost.’

“You must rouse up, my dear—have a long drive

aride. Iam sorry Frank has gone— he was a bet-
ter companion for you than I am.”

“No one could be that, papa,” she said, languidly.
“T will not gO out to-day—I am tired, aud not in the
humor 7% it.’

Then Lord Beaufort thought to himself that he
would sit with her and try to amuse her; he did not
like the tired, languid look in her beautiful face. He
was of a sy mpathetic nature,
ininntes to have caught her spirit of de pression.”

“There must be something wrong in the air this
morning,’ he said; “there is no sunshine, and the
skies are gray—we shall have a thunder-storm, I
fear.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“That must be the cause of my strange sensations,
Do you know, papa, I feel as though some one lay
| dead in every roon in the house?”

so happy, Dudley,” she said to him one |
our. |

He insisted
ended. She

she declared, “and they should

morning in one of those
flowers, and statues, and pic-
fairy-land, when the earl came

1] this morning, Vera!” he

Ihave had the most

 

“how much you love |

What had he}

worked for |
| up my dinner-party and spend the evening with you,
is bet- | ’

and seemedin a few |

so ‘impassioned, that |

 

He held her hands for one |

ts s | air Ww i j > >
“Shall we find one five minutes this evening?” he | air will really drive thes

fair! [|

“Because, if I believed in
say that this day would be the most miserable of my
life. Leannot tell you the indescribable Ww eight at |
my heart, the dumb pain that oppresses me.’

“A good. long w alk in the fresh air will take
’he said; “it is nothing but

them myself, I should |

it
nervous de-
pression.”
St have
vay on the
Lady Vera.
And the earl laughed as
“You love me best,”’ he
ull like dying, Vera.”
“Then I will go out,” shes

heard of people feeling in this strange |
day those they loved best died,” said
rain.

said, ‘but I donot feel at

said, ‘‘and try if the
e black shadows away.”

She went from the room, and afew minutés after- |
| ward the earl saw her pass by the window with her |

favorite dog. She looked up at him and smiled, but |
the smile was unlike her own;
weary,as though she were tired and her’spirits
failed her. Lord Beaufort shook his he ad gravely.

“I do not believe in presentime nts,” he said, “but I

| do not like to see that look on Vera’s face,”

That same day another little note found its way to
the surgery, and it said:

“DEAREST DUDLEY :—I_ shall be quite alone this |
evening. Papa dines at Eversham. I will be on mg
terrace at eight. I have felt ill and depressed all da
and hope to hear some of the words I love best frows
you to cheer me. VERA.”

She wanted to kuow why Miss Deft had written;
not that she distrusted ber lover, but this woman had
no right to send him letters. She w ould have been
still more indignant had she
had written a love-letter, perhaps delicately vailed,
but a love-letter for
to say how much she admired him, and how she felt
there were times when a lady was really justitied in

| showing her preference for one of the other sex: ; an
| unmistakable kind of le tte rs

As he. read it, Dudley’s. one great feeling was of
gratitude that Vera should never seeit. He intended
to destroy it, but thé moment he had finished reading
it, some one came into the surgery: he put it hastily
in his pocket and forgotit. His first honest feeling
had been of annoyance; he did not like Miss De nt,
and had never shown her the least civility, except
when the earl had, in some way, compelled him.

“T will not tell Vera,” he said; ‘‘she will be angry,
and it will only make her miserable. I will write an
answer just as cool and frigid as wor ds can frame,
but I need not vex my di wrling with it.’

Vera had also been thinking deeply about this very
matter. Was this the first time Miss Dent had writ-
ten, or had there been a correspondence of which he
had never told her? She would not, could not so mis-

| judge him.

Why are you so proud ‘and cold to every one, so ten-
| to herself;

“T will see what he says this evening,” she thought
“is he brings the letter

| I shall know that it is the first, and I shall laugh at |

| in his heart.
les YS s that |
| the long Walk and the fresh air.
as he passed by, the blades of the long rush grass, all | ,
the night wind |

it; but if he hides it from me, not aware that I know
—but he will. not, he has truth in his face, honer
My love! why should I mistrust him 2?”
She came. back home but little the better, despite
There was no air—
a warm mist seemed to hang like
eyerything; the distant sound of

a@ far-off storm

|

“Vera will |
T must do something to | the gospel according to St, John.

 

 

1D 6) —
ae Z—~

 

written to him |
short- |

Think of that, }

known that Miss Dent |

all that, for she had. not liesitated |

and reads it to me | ;
| at breakfast,
| boarders got

|man saw the mischief-maker

| to be around.—s
“unless |
When a willful heiress |
own way she generally has it,’’ he replied. |
| York

After this he read two verses of

 

gave out the hymn.

Joe’s eldest boy, during the meantime, had conclu-
ded to have a little fun, The dog w anted a drink,
and he gaye him scalding water.

Just as Joe was in the inidst of a fervent prayer
the dog setup a howl. His wife kicked at the brute
and overturned the pan of water, Joe had his boots
off, and whe n the water came in contact with his feet
he yelled out:

“Goodle mity! Gh, Lord!’ He gave a jump and
landed square on the cat’s back, This slightly in-
creased the music, and not being used to serv ing asa
pack mule, pussy took exception to the liberty, and
by poe her teeth and claws soon made her presence
felt. As the needle-like fangs came in contact with
his scalded foot Joe yelled:

“Gosh! Somebody take ’em off, quick!”

The old lady rushed to the rescue of 1ee but the
water had become slippery, and in her haste she fell
flat on the floor and hit Joe square on “the ankles,
which sent him to grass, and his head eame in con-
tact with the bed-post, while his feet knocked two
teeth down the old lady’s throat,

The old lady didn’t know but that Joe had struck
her on purpose, so she got up, and after getting the
teeth out of her mouth started to her father’s. Joe
got up too, and after giving one unearthly yell started
after her. In the haste he made, and blinded by
blood, he stumbled over a chair and landed flat on
top of the dog and knocked one of the boys down.

{fearing the racket, the neighbors rushed in, Joe

vas taken to a police-court, but after hearing all
tha facts in the ease, his honor concluded that Joe
wasn’t drunk, and had him conveyed home on a
stretcher. A Bazoo man went out to y¥ ie Ww the dam-
age. Joe was lying in bed waiting repairs; his wife
is at her father’s; One, of the boys was in ie d with a
very sore body; the dog has gone ona tram ip, and
the eat has “chang a her boarding-house . Things
were lying scattered around everywhere. The Bazoo
outside the door and
went to interview him. The only thing he had to say

“Tswar! who’d
water would h

He

a thunk such a small amount of
aye caused such a row ?”
will start for Leadville before Joe
talia Bazoo.

gets a chance

A Patent Watermelon.

The Dean of Pompoonik University read in a New
paper some time ago that a man in Georgia

had greatly improved a& watermelon by feeding it

| swee te ned water by means of two bottles and a piece
| of tape.

| embark

He firmly beheved the yarn, and thought he would
in the business and secure a niche in the

| temple of fame by placing on the market something

|
}
;
|

|

:
|
|

|

| Was trying t

fresh |

|

it was languid and |

| the Faculty had ¢

 

; in the week I bought sirloin,

a heavy weight on |
| stone.

| filled the atmosphere; every now and then from the |

wonder thi it j
he ut-|

 

| colored ribbons ;
loosened,
| pale, but beautiful as a dream;

 

varm, heavy mist rose
and wailed until it fell again,
with the day?

The earl came to his daughter’s room to see how
she was, and say good-by before he went to his din-
ner-party.

“You have sO my
walk,” he said; ‘“‘has it driven the shadows away

“Not quite,” ahi! replied, “put I have found
that they live in mist rather than in my fancy.”

“Vera,” said Lord Beaufort, “I will cheerfully give

What was the

prescription of a long

‘out

if you will.’
3ut she had her promised interview with her lov-
er, and answered, eagerly:

“Nay, I should be ashamed of myself, papa, if I
encouraged my shadows; I shall fight them, one and
all.”
He looked at her, and a picture of her as she stood
there photographed itself on his brain. She wore a
pretty dresssing-gown of Indian muslin, with cream-
the heavy coils of hair had been
and lay on her shoulders; her face was
her eyes were shad-
owed, and the rich, fresh tints on her cheeks had
grown pale.

' “T hope she is not going to be ill,” he thought.

She was leaning over the massive rail of the balus-
ters as he kissed his hand to her in farewell, and
there came to him no thought of how or when he
should see her again.

“Do not sit up for me,’ “T shall be late, I
know.”

‘Mind the mist and the ra

He laughed.

“T will take care of myself, Ver:
some color in your face and some
when I return.’”

And that was the night of the tragedy.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE OCEAN DETECTIVE; or, The
Trail of Death, by Richard. J. Storms, will be
commenced week after next.

’ he said;

in,” she replied.
,if you let me see
light

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{ Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of
the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by send-
ing for publication anything which may be deemed of
sufficient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary
that the arti¢les
long as they are pithy, and likely
minor defects will be remedied. }

to afford amusement,

Interrupted F anally Prayers.
Joe Brown lives not far from Sedalia, Mo.
married man and keeps house.
three children. There is also a dog
suppose, plenty of rats, Joe is

and eat, and, We
very pious.

prayers.

But they didn’t have prayers Tuesday
No, indeed! Joe can’t pray worth a cent now,
summoning the
the clock that was ticking so Iustily on the mantel,
Joe found out that he must push things this morn-
ing, for time wen’t ever wait on religion.

After getting the fax:iiy seated around him, Joe

morning.
After

in your eyes |

should be penned in scholarly style; so |

a whirl of wind that cried |
matter |

 

| recollect his hame just now.

 

Joe is a |
He has a wife and |

; them

| knife-blade

| a brief
| traction,”
| prove the colored man

; were

reaHy worth eating. He borrowed a half gallon of
whisky anda vou of pounds of sugar and mixed
‘thoroughly. He bore the jug to a convenient
melon pach, pic ked out a plump melon, and ran his
throughits stem. Hethen took about
half a yard of eandle-wick, tucked one end in the
hole made in the stem, and inserted the other in the
| Jag. of sweetened whisky.

At the end of a week the melon had grown fully
six inches in length, with a corresponding addition
in circumferénce, and the jug was empty.

The Faculty were called together last Mond ay even-
ing by the dean, w ho premised them a rare treat.

After discussing Professor Izikslumis’ new theory
| concerning the philosophy of wind, the dean brought
;out thenew watermelon and the smiles of his co-
| laborers in the éducational ‘field, He then delivered
speech on what he called “caterpillary de-
revealing the methods he bad used to im-

The family _buteher-knite was thrust.to the hilt in
| the neck of the green beauty, and its interior was
soon displaye f to the glittering row of white angels
that guarded the por tals to exch African throat. The
fragrant slices were passed around, and the room at
once resounded with the hearty smacking of sable
jaws, commingled with little coo ings of § satisfact tion,
such as babies sometimes make when they get what
they have been long crying for.

In less than twenty minutes most of the Faculty
under the table lying as quictly as some men
do when the wine has been too he: ids . Dr. Petekity]
to stand on his headin the center of the
dthe Emeritus Professor of

iged in yelling at the top of

i table, and the dean an
: sentelbow ism were eng
their lungs.

At the end of half
| tered up courage enough
look in, he found the
sweetly.

The next day, when their headaches had worn off,
issembled in the chapel and adopted
the following resolutions, offered by Professor Steev-
wilyuims, Ph. P.:

an hour, when the janitor mus-
to open the door and
entire Faculty slumbering

de
wot ever

Desolved, Dat de thanx uy dis Fakllty is doo 2
|} dene fur inwentin’ de bes’ wattermilyun

| growed.

Desolved, Dat it air de dooty uy de Guvernment 2
| mak everybodee bi de pattint an’ raze de saim kine.
KINDERKOOK ROUGH NOTES.

How to Run a Bourding- House.

“Another boarding-house busted up, I see,” sighed
a venerable Detroit landlady, as she laid down her
paper. ‘Well, it must have been extravagance on
the table. That’s what bankrupts seven out of ten,
and even then the boarders are crying ‘Hash!’ and
complaining of poor meals. NowI run a boarding-
house twenty-two years, and-I made money and
heard no complaints. How did I doit? Why, it’s all
in planning. For instance, a neck-piece of mutton
ean be cut to look like a rib- -ro re and a little extra
fire makes it just as tender. Lawd save you! I’ve
been complime nted a thousand times in ae se lection
of choice spring lamb, when the meat
four years old, and the toughest part at that ! The
idea of spring chicken on a boarding-house table is
absurd—ay, almost wicked. In my palmy days I
could take a tough old hen, pound the body with the
potato-masher for ten minutes, and set before my
boarders a feast to make every he sart glad. Now I'll
venture that there aren ’t ten landladies in this city
who can bake a pig’s head and slice off the meat in a
manner to make everybody believe that he has the
choicest cut in the pig’s body, and it’s a wonder to me
that there aren’t more failures. Lots of landladies
buy niee, fresh butter, and thus tempt a man to eat
five or six biscuits or half a loaf of bread. What
economy! I always have my nice butter on the table
when we had little but toast, and the
along on old butter the other two meals.
It is allin the planning—all in the planning. I used
to have beefsteak every morning, Three mornings
which is ver y nice, you
know, and the other four mornings I bought neck-
pieces and rubbed the case- -knives over the grind-
Give a boarder a sharp knife and a tough
steak and he’ll never make acomplaint—never. He’ll
put the blame oa his teeth, and the more steak he
leaves on his plate, the more rabbit pie you have for
dinner.”—DETROIT FREE PRESS.

es A Tricky Judge.

A cement had sent @ marble Venus to some inter-
national exposition or other, and when it reached
its destination, lo! one of the hands had been knock-
ed off. The furious artist brought suit against the
railroad company for damages, and the judge ws ho
was the brother of the railroad conipany’s president)
decided as follows:

“If a work of art is one of, transcendental merit its
value is not impaired by mutilation. Thus, the Ve-
nus of Milo, though both arms have been broken off,
is nevertheless of priceless worth. (Ruskin, IV.,
11-44; Matt. Arnold, 8. T. 1860, X., et seg.) On the
other hand, a statue of commonplace -and inferior
character is robbed of most of its value by such an
accident. It remains for the artist, therefore, to aid
the court in appraising the value of his statue.”

“Oh, the statue!” said the artist, hungrier for gain
than for glory ; ‘“‘the statue didn’t amount to much—it
was what you have called a commonplace and in-
ferior piece of work—in fact, I may say it was alinost
worthless.”

“Mr. Clerk,” said the judge, “the plaintiff swears
that his statue was almost w orth less, consequently I
Will allow him five frances damages, which, on his
own showing, is very liberal, the judgme ut not to

sarry costs. [ thought I had ‘him either w ay. Call
the next case.’

The Student Caught.

One of the students at B——’s College introduced
in an essay a piece of his own wost flow rishing style
asa classical quotation. Having contrived to dupe
the professor by his trick, he repeatedly assumed the
form of quotation in order to appear well versed in
classical lore. But once the professor was puzzled by
an exceedingly stupid passage which the ingenious
scholar had introduced as a well-known remark fr om
one of our greatest and most admired writers.

“Biggs, can you tell me the name of the gree

writer?” asked the professor.

“Oh, excuse me, sir—but—I am very sorry. I can't

“But I know him quite well,” replied the professor.
The famous author who has written that classic al

piece of nonsense is known by the name ot Bis
MMA KANER.

oer

Getting Uneasy.

“What isthe matter, Alfred? What do
go interesting in the river that you stare
fixedly ?”’

“My wife isin bathing, and took a dive from that
boat out there, and she has been under such a time
that ’'m getting uneasy.”

“How long has she been under?”

“About two hours—it wasn’t quite 3 o’clock

find
it so

you

at

when

| she went in.”

Last |
| Tuesday morning, as usual, Joe called the family to |

family around him, and looking at }

A Boy Who Forgot.

He was told to remain after school, when the teach-
er, trying to impress upon his youthful mind tbe sin-
fulness of not speaking the t truth, asked him if they
did not tell him, in the Sunday-school, where bad
boys went who told falsehoods. C hoking with sobs,
he said:

“Yes, ma’am; it’s a place where there is fire,
don’t just remember the name of the town.”

put I

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

CSG ee
2 oO >ve—<

New

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 13, 1879.

mann pane ARPA EA ey

Up We Go!

That season alluded to by the late lamented poet,
Bryant, as ushering in “the melancholy days,” is
again upon us, but it brings with it tous anything
but a sad aspect.
and our friends have
home,” and allthe happy recollections that cluster
around it. The days are shortening fast, and soon
the long evenings will be here, and the NEW YORK
WEEKLY will be read aloud by some member of the

The summer vacation is ended,

returned to ‘home, sweet

cheerful family circle. Business is reviving all over
the country—the mills and factories are in full blast
again—tho cheerful song of well-paid labor is heard
in the land, and subscriptions are pouring in upon us
We never commenced a fall sea-
son with brighter prospects, and it shall be our

by the thousands.

endeavor to deserve the patronage which is pouring
Mrs. LEwIs’ great story, “AMBER, THE
ADOPTED,” has taken the people by storm, and we
have been obliged to print edition after edition to
“THE INDIAN DETECTIVE” has
also found many admirers. So also have “A HAUNTED
Lirs,” “THE CHURCHYARD BETROTHAL,” “THE DE-
TECTIVE’S CLEW,” and “A BITTER LiFE.”’ Added to
which our varied departments are more than usually

in upon us.

supply the demand.

interesting, and we are constantly adding new fea-
tures of a pleasing character to our pet journal. Not
the least of these are the series of papers which
“RICHELIEU ROBINSON” is now furnishing, and
which have already met with high praise from
“mouths of wisest censure.” KATE THORN'’S con-
tributions, also, are growing more and more piquant,
and our humorous matter, and our sketohes and
poems generally go to make up a family journal
which has no equal.

Thus far “we sail before the wind,” but we shall
not relax our exertions on that account. On the con-
trary, we shall keep ‘pegging away,” as good old
Abe Lincoln used to say, and shall continue to add
attraction after attraction till the whole world shall
fallin love with the New YorkK WEEKLY—till young
men shall sigh for it, young ladies shall cry for it,
and the old folks will be willing to die for it. Look
out for future numbers!

> Ot

A NEW STORY

ANEW AUTHOR

will be commenced

Next Week! Next Week!

A deeply interesting and artistically constructed
story will be commenced next week, under the title
of

From Deep to Deep;

THE HEIR OF ASH-HURST,
By DUNCAN McGREGOR.

This is a story certain to please both old and young,
but of a character to especially captivate the boys
and girls. Itis by an experienced author, who com-
mands a graceful and vigorous pen, and whose de-
scriptive powers are unexcelled.

The present production is his first story for the
New YoRK WEEKLY—in fact, his first story for any
paper, all his previous works having appeared in
book-form.

The title of DUNCAN MCGREGOR’Ss new story is very
suggestive, and indicates the downward path of a
man whose natural inclinations lead to

A LIFE OF SIN,

and whose career is therefore from bad to worse—

FROM DEEP TQ DEEP.

The story illustrates, almost with the vividness of
reality, the lonely life of a man who is forced, for

AN ATTEMPTED CRIME,

to take up his abode on an uninhabited island in the
Pacific.
marvoned upon an atoll—that is, an island of coral

Southern He discovers that he has been
formation surrounding a lagoon, or lake. There he
is joined, after some months, by two others, one of
whom is a scoundrel like himself. Their daily life is
deseribed with great skill and exact fidelity ; and the
young people will be so fascinated by the author’s
graphic descriptions of attractive incidents that
many of them will in imagination be transported to
the scenes so artistically presented.

The island life of the characters is merely a single
feature of this charming story. An ingenious and
extremely fascinating plot unites the most thrilling
and exciting events, both of rude and civilized exist-
ence; for after a few chapters the scenes alternate
between tho island abode of

THE DOOMED MAN

and the homestead of his ancestors, where an impos-
tor has succeeded in installing himself as

The Heir of Ash-Hurst.

This instructive and entertaining story will be
eommenced neat. week.

>e~<

New bonnets are very large, and are almost ex-
actly the shape of the old-fashioned bonnets called
the ‘‘scoop-shovel bonnet.”

x

SCHOOLGIRL FRIENDSHIPS.

Do girls ever go to school without making vio-
lent friendship? Did ever any girl stay for four
years at one school without having, at least, one
intimate, and half a dozen other friends, who
were ready to play second fiddle at all times, and
under all circumstances ?

Oh, how attached they were! How they vowed
eternal fidelity! How they swore, in schoolgirl
phraseology, that nothing on earth should separ-
ate them! Nothing should make them prove
false! The stars might fall, the heavens dis-
sores the earth melt, yet their love would stand
irm

How they always stood with arms around
each other! How they always kissed every
morning! How, they dressed alike! And the
roomed together, and buttoned each other’s
dresses, and done each other’s back hair, and
marked up their school books together, and
drew pictures of the girls they did not like, and
worked book-marks with hearts hitched together
to give each other, and deplored the time when
school should be over, and they should have to
go apart.

But they would write! oh, yes! Blessed be
the mails! and blessed be cheap postage! Let-
ters would keep their hearts from breaking!
The correspondence should be constant, and
often, and a.great deal of it! Six cents’ worth
of postage on every letter! There would be so
much to say that three cents would never pay
for transporting it.

And then they would visit each other. Three
months in a year on each side! And talk allthe
time! So many things to talk over! And no
new friendship should come between them. In-
deed not! Perish the idea!

And neither of them would have a beau!

Certainly not. Atleast, not until the other
could have one too, and they must be twin
brothers! And love must prevail all around!
And they must all live ina double house after
they are married! And each havea baby the
same day! And one baby must be a girl and
the other a boy, and they shall grow up to wor-
ship each othe, and by and by get married, and
be Hine te than the angels!

We have never heard any provision made for
the future of the rest of the babies which will
be likely to put in an appearance, s0 we Suppose
they will be left to chance, »

No doubt all this sentiment is consoling to
young ladies; in fact, we know it is, for when
we left school we had thirty-three female cor-
respondents, and all of them devoted, and ready
: die for us, if we needed their services in that
ine.

But after a little the postage tax became too
heavy, and the seething pot of friendship sim-
mered down, and the girls got beans, and our
love distress cooled, and to-day we do not know
where a half-dozen of those devoted friends are
shedding the light of their presence, and we do
not know as we care to know. i

Now and then aschoolgirl friendship outlasts
time itself, and reaches beyond the grave, but
as a general thing it seldom continues beyond
the marriage of either party. ’

But while it does last, there is earnestness in
it, and it is productive of adjectives, and pet
names, and worsted tidies, and sugar plums, and
a source of postal revenue, and a shining exam-
oe of the transitory nature of all things mun-
dane.

But we wonldn’t throw cold water on school-
girl friendships—certainly not; let them flour-
ish—they make Latin verbs easier to learn, and
French idioms less SRNR, to commit to
memory. ATE THORN,

—_—__—__>e+

RICHELIEU’S RECOLLECTIONS.

BY HON. WM. E. ROBINSON.

THE DECATUR-BARRON DUEL.

On the 22d day of March, 1820, the disastrous duel
between Commodore James Barron and Commodore
Stephen Decatur was fought at Bladensburg, the
celebrated dueling ground near Washington, in Mary-
land. Commodore William Bainbridge acted as
second to Decatur, and Captain Jesse D. Elliot as
the friend of Barron.

The excitement created by this affair was second
only to that_which followed the similarly disastrous
meeting at Heboken between Aaron Burr and Alex-
ander Hamilten. In each of these cases the chai-
lenged party was killed.

The origin of the difficulty bétween Barron and
Decatur dated back for thirteen years. On the 22d
day of June, 1807, the United States frigate Chesa-
peake having completed her preparations for sea, at
Norfolk, sailed for the Mediterranean under Barron’s
command. Asshe weighed anchor from Hampton
Roads a British squadron lay at anchor in Lynhaven
Bay.

One of the ships of that squadron, the Leopard, got
under way and preceded the Chesapeake to sea. The
Leopard soon hailed the Chesapeake and sent a de-
mand on board to seareh our vessel for certain de-
serters alleged to be on board, serving as part of her
crew.

Commodore Barron gave a written refusal to their
extraordinary demand, and the Leopard opened a
fire on the Chesapeake, killing three and wounding
eighteen of thecrew. The Chesapeake somehow, had
put to seain an unprepared condition. So mueh so
that she could not fire a gun, but one, and that was
ignited by the application of a live coal. The Chesa-
peake struck her colors, and was boarded by an
officer from the Leopard, who mustered one crew and
took from them four men alleged to be deserters from
the British Navy. Having done this the Chesapeake
was left with Commodore Barron.

Great indignation pervaded the nation. The
ofticers of our navy felt deeply the diasater, and none
more so than Decatur, who had so often and so sig-
nally vindicated the honor of his profession and his
country. A court-martial was ordered for the trial
of Conimodore Barron, and Decatur was appointed
amember, contrary to his request to the secretary of
the navy to be excused therefrom.

The court found him not guilty of all the charges
against his firmness and courage, but under the
fourth charge found him guilty of neglecting to clear
his ship for action, after receiving from the British
officers a communication clearly intimating that if
the men were not delivered he would use force. He
was sentenced to be suspended from all command in
the navy, without pay or emoluments, for five years
from the 8th of February, 1808.

The men thus taken from beneath our colors were
earried to Halifax and tried by court-martial. One
of them was condemned and executed, the other
three were sentenced to receive five hundred lashes
each. a punishment in some respects worse than
death, and one of them did soon afterward die. The
British Government afterward disavowed the act,
recalled Admiral Berkley, who had ordered the out-
rage, reduced the captain (Humphreys) of the Leo-
pard, to half pay, and restored the two men left liv-
ing to our flag, and to the ship from which they were
taken.

Commodore Barron, thus left without employment,
and without pay, resorted to the merchant service
as ameans of support for himself and family, and
was abroad when war with England was declared.

3ut his suspension expired in February, 1813, and
asthe war was brought on principally to avenge
he insults offered to our navy and flag,and as
perlaps the greatest insult offered to both was in
she case of the Chesapeake, then under his command,
one would naturally suppose that he would promptly
offar his services to his insulted flag before the ex-
piration of his sentence, the remainder of which, un-
der such circumstances, the government should, and
probably would, have remitted. He remained
abroad over five years longer than his sentence, re-
turning in 1818, when the war was long since over.
Part of the delegation in Congress from Virginia, on
his return, asked the President to restore him to ac-
tive service, anditis said thatarequest had been
made that he should be putin command of the ship
of the line Columbus, then (1819) in process of equip-
ment, as the flag-ship of the Mediterranean Squadron.
This the navy commissioners, then consisting of Com-
modores Rodgers, Decatur, and Porter (father of the
present admiral) resisted. and Decatur opposed it
quite actively, but, as he contended, from feelings of
public duty alone, and without any personal enmity
whatever. He thought that Commodore Barron’s
conduct since the affair of the Chesapeake, and par-
ticularly his absenee during the whole time of the
war, should bar his readmission into the service, and
that the officers who had distingnished themselves in
the war should not be excluded from service to make
room for him. Other officers had expressed the same
opinion no less explicitly than Decatur

This dificulty, fomented by professed friends, soon
ripened into enmity, and on the 12th of June, 1819,

Barron wrote to Decatur, informing him that he had
heard that he, Decatur, had said that he could insult
him, Barron, with impunity, and demandedif this
were true, that be should avow it.

Decatur replied, on the 17th, stating that before
Barron demanded the i:.formation he should have
stated the name of his informer; but whatever he
may have said or thought of his conduct, he never
eonlad have had the egotism to say that he could in-
anit him, or any other man, with impunity. To this
Rarron, on the 25th, responded that this declaration
of Decatur relieved his mind from the apprehension
that he, Decatur, had so degraded his (Barron’s)
ehuracter as he had been induced to believe.

 

Here the correspondence should bave stopped, but

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

Decatur, perhaps afraid that his letter might be
understood as saying too much, replied, June 29th.,
that he meant only to deny tle specific language and
particular expression attributed to him by Barron’s
original informant, and added that as to the motives
of these informants, or his motives in making the in-
quiry, it was to him a matter of perfect indifference.
Even here the matter probably would have ended,
but Barron, laboring under the impression that his
punishment for the Chesapeake affair was too vigor-
ous, and perhaps jealous of the high honor heaped
upon Decatur, continued to brood over his griev-
ances.

At the end of four months from the first corres-
pondence he wrote a long letter to Decatur, dated
October 23d, recapitulating his wrongs, and giving
a8 new ones that Decatur had shown their former
correspondence to friends in New York, and had
boastingly observed that he would cheerfully meet
Barron in the field, where he hoped he would act like
a& man.

This he complained of as ungenerous under his
cruel and unmerited sentence, and said he considered
it as an invitation to meet him, which he accepted,
and claimed the choice of weapons, place, and dis-
tance, but suggested that if this choice fell to the lot
of Decatur, personal courage would lead him to dis-
dain any unfair advantage, which Decatur’s superi-
ority in the use of the pistol, and his own defect of
vision, increased by age, would give him.

To'this Decatur replied, October 31st, making a full
statement of the opinions which he entertained and
expressed about Barron, and the reasons for enter-
taining those opinions, but again disclaimed all per-
sonal pay

Among other things he states that he had been in-
formed, giving the names of his informants, that
Commodore Barron, proceeding in a merchant brig
to Pernambuco, had informed Mr. Lyon, the British
Consul there, that even if the Chesapeake had been
prepared for action he would not have resisted the
attack of the Leopard, because he knew, as the Presi-
dent knew, that there were deserters on board the
Chesapeake, and that the British intended to take
them, that the President (Jefferson) caused the
Chesapeake to go to sea unprepared, for the express
purpose of having the ship attacked and disgraced,
for the sake of involving the United States in a war
with Great Britain.

He denied that he had said he would meet him in
the field, or that he had given a challenge, but he had
frequently said that if called out hewould meet him,
but did not wish todo so. He did not think that
fighting duels, under any circumstances, could raise
a man’s reputation, and had long since discovered
thatit is not such a criterion of personal courage
that he should regret the necessity of fighting any
man; but one who makes arms his profession is not
at liberty to decline an invitation from any one who
is not so far degraded as to be beneath his notice. He
would not consider this to be Barron’s case, although
many thought so.

He concluded by saying that it appeared to him as
if Barron had determined to fight somebody, and had
selected him. Altogether this long letter was not
calculated to allay the feeling of hostility which had
been kindled and inflamed in Barron’s heart against
the writer. ;

On the 30th, Barron wrote a long and bitter answer.
He denied having made the statement alleged to
Consul Lyon. He also disclaimed any wish to fight a
duel, considering dueling a barbarous practice, but
some cases may justify it, and his was one of them.

This was received by Decatur as he was leaving
Washington for the North, and his reply was written
on his return on the 29th of December. It is quite
lengthy, and answers all the points in Barron’s long
letter, and concludes that he will pay no further at-
tention to anything from him other than a direct call
to the field. Another note from Barron to Decatur,
dated January 16th, 1820, was answered by Decatur
on the 24th, stating that he hardly knew what the
last letter meant, but if it was meant as a challenge
he accepted it, and referred his adversary to Commo-
dore Bainbridge as his friend.

Decatur wrote to Commodore Bainbridge, February
10th, putting the matter in his hands, and indicating
Bladensburg as the place of meeting. On the 20th,
Captain Jesse D. Elliott wrote Bainbridge as Bar-
ron’s friend. On the 8th of March, Bainbridge wrote
Decatur that the place, weapons, distance, and mode
had been prescribed by him, but that he had agreed
that the distance in place of ten should be eight paces
which Barron seemed to desire.

By a melancholy coincidence the agreement to fight
was signed on the 8th of March, the fourteenth an-
niversary of his marriage, and he and his wife passed
the evening in gayety at the White House at a Presi-
dential reception.

On the morning of the 22d of March, Commodore
Decatur, who had carefully kept all this trouble from
the knowledge of his wife, rose early, and making
some excuse for his absence left his home, on Presi-
dent Square, crossed the square, and walked along
Pennsylvania avenue to Beale’s Hotel on Capitol Hill,
where he took breakfast with Commodore Bainbridge
and Mr. Samuel Hambleton, who there awaited his
arrival with a carriage, in which, after breakfast,
they drove to Bladensburg. The ground was mea-
sured by Commodore Bainbridge, and the seconds
proceeded to load the pistols. The choice of stands
was won by Bainbridge, who informed them that he
would give the word quickly—“Present! one, two,
three’—and they were not to fire before the word
“one” nor after the word ‘‘three.” Commodore Bar-
ron asked Commodore Bainbridge if he had any ob-
jection to pronouncing the words as_ he intended to
give them. Barron then said to Decatur that he
hoped, on meeting in another world, they would be
better friends than they had been in this; to which
Decatur replied, “I have never’ been your enemy,
gir.”

Having taken their stand, Bainbridge pronounced
the words as agreed upon, and at the word “two”
both fired so exactly together that only one report
was heard. Barron fell wounded in the right hip,
Decatur stood erect for a moment, pressed his hand
on his right side, and fell. He remarked, “I am mor-
tally wounded, at least I believe so, and wish that I
had fallen in defense of my country.” The parties
lay wounded near each other, both supposing them-
selves mortally, and, it is said, that mutual regrets
were exchanged, and Barron expressed his forgive-
ness.

Soon a number of Decatur’s friends, who had come
from Washington, stood around him. Among them
were his fellow-commissioners of the navy, the illus-
trious heroes Commodores Rodgers and Porter, and
Gen. Robert Goodloe Harper, whose wife, the daugh-
ter of Charles Carroll, had gone on to join Mrs. De-
catur. Doctors Trevitt and Washington pronounced
Decatur’s wound mortal. The ball had_ passed
through the abdomen, and some large blood vessels
appeared to be severed. Commodore Rodgers, seated
beside Decatur in the carriage, had him borne rapidly
home, where they arrived at half-past 10 o’clock,
where Mrs. Decatur and his two nieces still lingered
at the breakfast-table. He refused to enter till the
ladies were removed up stairs, as he could not bear
to witness the agony which he knew his condition
would give his wife. He took his will from his pocket
und signed it in the presence of Commodore Rodgers
and Doctors Trevitt and Sims as witnesses. It be-
queathed all his property to his wife. They had no
children, At half-past 10 o’clock on_ the evening of
that fatal 22d of March, the hero of Tripoli and the
brightest star that ever shone in our naval history,
sank in death and faded into darkness. »

The next morning John Randolph, of Roanoke, af-
ter an eloquent culogy, moved that the House of
Representatives should adjourn til Saturday, and on
Friday should attend the funeral. Mr. ‘Taylor, of
New York, rose and stated that he yielded to no one
in respecting. the memory of Decatur, but with the
most painful regret he was constrained to say, that
as he had died in violation of the laws of God and of
his country, he could not vote forthe honors proposed.

This John W. Taylor, of Saratoga County, was con-
tinuously in Congress from 1813 to 1833, a period of
twenty years. Henry Clay was then speaker, and on
his resigning in October following, Mr. Taylor was
elected in his place, and served for the remaing time
of that Congress, till March 4, 1821. Our Senators
in Congress were then Rufus King and Martin Van
Buren. The motion of Randolph was withdrawn on
Taylor’s objection.

On Friday the 24th of March, which had been ap-
pointed for his funeral, Mr. Randolph proposed that
the speaker, officers, and members of the House
should attend the funeral of Stephen Decatur from
his late residence at four o’clock that afternoon,
which was modified toa simple motion of adjourn-
ment, which was immediately and unanimously
adopted. A similar motion passed the Senate, and
both forthe purpose, though not expressed, of attend-
ing the funeral.

At four o’clock he was carried from his beloved
home, which was enriched by many munificent testi-
monials from public bodies for his services to his
country, and endeared to him by so many happy days
with his devoted wife.

The procession was imposing. It was headed by
the marine corps, as an escort and firing party, with
its band. Then followed the seamen and officers of
the navy. “hen came the clergy, preceding the
hearse, The pall-bearers were Commodores Rodgers,
Tingey, Chauncey, Porter, and McDonough, Captains
Cassin and Ballard, and Lieutenant MacPherson, all
of the navy, and Generals Brown and Jessup of the
army. After the corpse came the relatives, then the
President (Monroe) and his Cabinet, John Quincy Ad-
ams, Secretary of State ; William H. Crawford, Secre-
tary of the Treasury; John C. Calhoun, Secretary of
War; Smith Thompson, Secretary of the Navy;
Return Jonathan Meigs, Postmaster-General; and
Wiliiam Wirt, Attorney-General. Then followed
Chief-Justice Marshall and the associate justices of
the Supreme Court, the officers of the army, the
mayor and civie authorities of Washington, the for-
eign ministers with their suites, and a vast concourse
of citizens, embracing a large proportion of the popu-
lation of Washington, with delagations from distant
and neighboring cities and districts.

In a beautiful grove, on an eminence near Washing-
ton, in the grounds once owned hy Joel Barlow, and
named Kalorama, the remains of Stephen Decatur
were deposited. There they remained till 1846, when
they were removed to Philadelphia by the consent of
his wife, and deposited in St. Peter’s church-yard
near the dust of his parents.

 

-were the two fine frigates Guerrierre and Maced

Stephen Decatur was the beau ideal of the naval
hero. Slightly above the middle height, his figure
was graceful and vigorous, his waist was slight, bis
limbs long and well rounded, his whole figure indi-
cating vigor and activity; his hair and beard black
and curling, his brow lofty and well arched, his eyes
large, black, and lustrous, his maternal grandfather
a native of Francé, his father an officer in the Revo-
lutionary ayy, his mother of Trish parentage. He
was born in 1779 in Worcester County, Maryland,
where his mother had taken refuge during the Brit-
ish occupation of Philadelphia. Among his school
companions were Somers and Stewart. He entered
the service under Commodore Barry. On the 7th of
February, 1804, he headed the expedition on the In-
trepid, which entered the harbor of Tripoli, and de-
stroyed the frigate Philadelphia under the guns of
the harbor. In all the tales of fiction and romance
there is nothing equal to this achievement of the
young American hero.

Another such act of heroism was the encounter be-
tween him and the assassin of his brother James, at
the bombardment of Tripoli. Stephen sought the
boat in which his brother had been murdered, leaped
aboard, with ten followers, and rushing through the
contending combatants, he confronted the assassin.
The Turk was at once gigantic and ferocious, and be-
fore him Decatur seemed but a Bey At the first en-
counter Decatur’s weapon was broken at the hilt. He
sprang upon the Turk, seizing him by the throat.
They rolled to the deck, Decatur being uppermost for
amoment. The Turk soon got him under, and, rais-
ing a dagger, lunged it at Decatur’s heart. He
warded off the blow, and with the other hand fired a
oo” into his enemy’s throat, instantly killing
nim.

In June, 1805, he returned to America, the hero of
two hemispheres. Landing in Norfolk, a party, in-
cluding Miss Susan Wheeler, daughter of the mayor
of that city, visited his ship, the Congress. He had
gone ashore, but among the objects that attracted
the attention of Miss Wheeler was an Italian minia-
ture of the young hero. That night he met her at
her father’s dinner-table, and on the 8th of March,
1806, she became his wife. She was a lady of rare
beauty and accomplishments.

On the 25th of October, 1812,in the war with Great
Britain, he captured the British frigate Macedonian,
which, a third of a century afterward, America sent
back laden with provisions for the starving poor of
the country of Decatur’s mother. The British had
threatened to recapture the Macedonian, even if they
had to follow her into a corn-field!

On the 14th of January, 1815, Deeatur put to sea
from New York on the President, and was soon over-
hauled by the British blockading squadron. The
fight which followed has seldom been equaled in na-
val warfare. After vanquishing the Endymion, the
chief ship, he was overpowered by the remaining
vessels of the squadron. Before this the treaty of
peace had been signed at Ghent. Had the cable been
in existence, the battle of New Orleans would not
have been fought, and the President would not have
encountered the British fleet.

Equal in brilliancy was his conduct in the Mediter-
ranean, in our difficulty with Algiers, in 1815. His
capture of the Algerian frigate, and his dictating
peace on board his own ship, were master-strokes of
seamanship and diplomacy. In Decatur’s squadron
o-
nian, both captured from the English. ‘Sir,’ said
the Algerian Prime Minister to the British Consul,
“you encouraged us to make war upon the United
States. You told us that in six months the Americans
would be swept from the seas by your navy, and now
your navy is here under their command making war
upon us.” ‘

In seventy-one days from his departure from New
York he had compelled three hostile powers to sue
for peace on terms of his own dictation.

“What Achilles was to Greece, or Nestor to Troy,
that Decatur was to America.”

Commodore Barron belonged to a distinguished
Virginia family. His father, James, as Decatur’s, was
a commodore In the Revolutionary (Virginia) Navy.
His brother, Commodore Samuel Barron, was a dis-
tinguished officer in our navy. Another Commodore
Samuel Barron, of the same family, was distinguished
in the recent war as a Confederate officer. Commo-
dore James Barron, the younger, was born in Virginia
in 1768. He was lieutenant in 1798, and stood
well as an officer till the affair of the Chesapeake.
He recovered from his wound at Bladensburg.
A court of inquiry which he demanded after
the duel, found the charge of his havin
made certain remarks to Mr. Lyon, the British
Consul, had not been proved, but the court
found that his long-continued absence from the
United States was contrary to his duty as an of-
ficer, thus sustaining Decatur’s opinion. He, how-
ever, was afterward, in his long-protracted life,
intrusted with many important commands on shore,
and, it is said, was offered, but declined, the com-
mand of the flag-ship of the Pacific squadron. He
died in 1851. :

In looking over the protracted correspondence pre-
ceding the duel, it would seem as if both wished to
fight, and yet professed reluctance to do so. Decatur
declared to Commodore Rodgers and others that he
did not wish to take Barron’s life, and told Bain-
bridge that he would wound himin the hip, the ex-
act spot where he hit him.

Decatur seemed to anticipate death, and his whole
anxiety was about his wife. He had sent for her
father to come from Norfolk. He had requested Mr.
Harper to bring his wife from Baltimore to sustain
her. He had drawn his will, leaving her all, but was
afraid to ask for the three requisite witnesses for
fear of giving suspicion of the duel till that affair was
over. His sister, Mrs. Mc Knight, bad lost her hus-
band in a duel. and he had adopted her children—one
of them, Lieutenant Stephen Decatur Mc Knight,
served gallantly under Porter, on the Essex, and re-
turning from Valparaiso ov aSwedish brig, met at
sea the United States ship Wasp, Captain Johnston
Blakely, and went down in the mystery surrounding
the fate of that famous vessel and her gallant com-
mander. RICHELIEU.

. a

A telephone is now used in amine at Leadville,
Col. By it ordersare communicated from the mana-
agers above ground, and constant reports are re-
ceived of the progress of the work. Should an acci-
dent occur in the mine, prompt notification by the
telephone would secure immediate relief, and per-
haps save human life. -

> @

WASHING DISHES.

“Victim” asks Kate Thorn if she thinks there
can be found one person who likes to w
dishes, and asks an introduction to one so saint-
like in disposition. Now, Mr. Editor, as Kate
Thorn is in entire ignorance of my existence,
will you kindly allow me to introduce myself to
you, to Kate Thorn, and to ‘‘Victim ?” i stand,
J hope not, the sole representative of those who
do like to wash dishes. I do not like to be dif-
ferent from any one else, but I speak frankly
and honestly when I say I love to wash dishes.
I mean by dishes anything from the many inde-
scribable articles of glassware to the yellow
earthen dishes used in the kitchen.

When I was a little girl, Serge and
nursing babies fell to my lot, and ‘*Victim” may
believe me, or not, but on company days I was in
my glory, for all the choice old china, etc., that
our mothers treasured up were ali ‘‘on duty,”
and after dinner the baby was allowed to go in
the parlor and I washed the dishes. I remember
yet the cupboard with its glass door. where each
dish and glass seemed to smile from its particu-
lar place. The paper I used to cut for the
shelves. Thescollops cutin them if not noted
for their accuracy, the eee cut.in the
aforesaid scollops would do credit to a Chinese
spelling-book. 2

“Victim” may curl her lip and say I have
strange taste. Perhaps I have, but if I were to
be made Queen of England that particular
plebeian taste would cling to me. am not
compelled to wash dishes for a living. but if I
were in search of a situation in a hotel, for in-
stance, I should undoubtedly ask for the posi-
tion of dish-washer.

T confess that washing pots and pans is out-
side the boundary line of my preference; but
even that would be preferable to making beds
and sweeping. Deliver me from being a cham-
bermaid, but I again repeat that if my choice
was given me in the many departments attached
to housekeeping, I would certainly take the
dish-washing.

Ihave been a constant reader of the NEw
YorkK WEEKLY for several years. I admire Kate
Thorn very much, and hope she will not think I
have‘ntruded by introducing myself to you, to
her, and to “Victim.” RIA.

at

Why do the Brooklyn Prospect Park Commission-
ers allow cats to roam through the Park, destroying
the squirrels, and rabbits, and birds? We have seen
cats in the morning carrying off squirrels in their
mouths.

>~e<___—

THE impecunious young man ,who invested the
savings of ayear in a summer wardrobe, with the
hope of catching an heiress at Newport, has returned
to his desk, a disappointed and dejected being. He
is now deeply interested in the appearance of last
season’s ulster, and thinks that with care it may be

 

encouraged to do service during the fall and winter.

2 DEX, uO a,

SOS

 

Correspondence,

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

Enquirer, West Farms, N. Y.—1st. Phryne was a noted
Athenian courtesan, famed for her beauty and wealth.
She lived in the latter part of the fourth century B. C.
The name is pronounced /fri-ne. 2d. Clytie was the
daughter of Oceanus, changed to the plant heliotrope. 34.
Hira (now Misjid-ali) is a town in Asia, near the banks of
the Euphrates. 4th. Hyblais the name of three ancient
towns of Sicily. 5th. Hippias was the son of Pisistratus,
and succeeded the latterin the government of Athens,
6th. Himjar is supposed to have been the founder of the
city of Mareb, in Arabia. 7th. Sebastian Leforestre Van-
ban was a celebrated French military engineer, who died
n 1707, He devised and constructed most of the fortresses
which protect the frontiers and coasts of France, and was
the originator of the system of attacking fortifications by
regular approaches. 8th. Euclid was a celebrated philos-
opher and mathematician who flourished at Alexandria
about 300 B. C. The ‘Elements’ of Euclid are used as
text books in geometry.

S. S. 8S., Milwaukee.—l1st. To become familiar with the
history and politics of the country, read Bancroft’s ‘‘His-
tory of the United States,” “Benton’s Thirty Years’
View,” and “Abridgment of the Debates In Congress,”
Greeley’s “American Conflict,’’ Draper’s “History of the
American Civil War,” G@. T. Curtis’ “Constitutional His-
tory of the United States,” biographies of oer men,
and the daily papers. 2d. By going into mixed gatherings
of both sexes your bashfulness will wear away with time.
3d. See paragraph headed ‘‘To Purchasing Agency Cor-
respondents.”

Otto Goodrich, Providence.—list. The article doubtless
refers to the sweet-scented geraniums which are found in
all gardens. They were Cmnely of Tepes growth, and
are peculiarly susceptible to frost. 2d. Dussauce’s “Prac-

tical Guide for the Perfumer,” is a good work. We will
furnish it for $3. s

Granville.—As the questions involve an interpretation of
British law, we cannot answer them. We suggest that
you consult a lawyer, and take his advice as to the course
ne — hd pursue to secure your rights in the courts in

ngland.

Mrs. M. S. S.—The widow of a revenue officer killed in
the performance of his duty is not entitled to a pension.
Pensions may be given in certain cases by special act of
Congress.

Wicome.—l1st. See paragraph headed “To Purchasing
Agency Correspondents.” 2d. They are the same. 34d.
Mrs. is an abbreviation of mistress, and is pronounced
mis-sis.

Maria, Aurora, Ill.—lst. Castor oil and brandy will pro-
mote the growth of the hair. 2d. Put a teaspoonful of

spirits ammoniain your basin of water when you wash
your body in the morning.

Constant Reader, New York.—As a general thing the

husband should be the senior of the wife a few years. It
is impossible to fix what you call ‘a proper proportion of
ages.”

Celestia, Girard, Pa.—We cannot furnish complete sets
of the NEW YORK WEEKLY for 1871, but we can send you
the dates of April 20 and 27,

Selina.—The Art Amateur is published at 571 Broadway.
A letter addressed the paper by name, or to Montague
Marks, will reach its destiuation.

J. M, F.—\st. The fare from New York to San Francisco
steamer, cabin passage, is $136; steerage, $65; from
ew York to Cincinnati, $18.

Pittsburg Boy.—A night-glass, such as is used at sea, is
&@ spy-glass so constructed as to concentrate a large amount
of light. in order to see objects distinctly at night.

D. Schroder, Walbridge, O.—There are a number of good
sporting rifles, but we cannot designate any one manufac-
ture as the best.

Rifle Shot, Iil.—Ii1st. It can be obtained at an
where artists’ materials are sold.
ment will answer your purpose.

Jennie Mills.—Ether will generally remove all kinds of
stains from silk. Apply it very carefully—a little ata
time-—-with a clean cork.

dv

store
2d. Any aquarium ce-

E. A. M.--There are three or more orphan asylums in
Milwaukee, and we presume atone or the other of them
you could obtain a child for adoption.

U. 8. Grant., Mobile, Ala—Write to J. W. Scott & Co.,
146 Fulton street.

W. B. F., Warsaw, Ind.—Write to the publishers. We
know nothing of the book.

A. E. H.—Write to the Clerk of the Probate Court of the
county in which the party died.

E. P., North Whitefield.—All MSS. are charged letter
rates of postage, six cents an ounce.

Katie H., Boston.—Avoid all food which contains much
starch or sugar, and take as much exercise as possible.

Querimonious, New York.-1st. Try bathing in cold
water nightand morning. 2d. No.

W. K. Randel, Monmouth, 01.—The story was finished,
but rather abruptly, we must admit.

E. H. Wood, Newark, N.J.—Al that is necessary for you
is to go to a dealer in magnets and buy an induction cord.

F. P. C. F.—Books will avail you little without experi-
ence and instruction at the hands of a good scenic artist.

Nina Russel.—Address the Clerk of the Probate Court or
the Register of Wills, Dublin, Ireland.

Rubdini, Boston.—ist. It gives it a natural sound.
Yes. 3d. Itis natural tosome singers. 4th. No.
.

G. E. Orge, St. John, N. B.—You need the services of a
physician who can give you his personal attention.

Oskee.—We know of nothing that would aid the person
referred to.

2a.

A Constant Reader, Cincinnati.—lst. We cannot inform
you. 2d. Quite fair.

C. H., Brooklyn, E. D.—Rusty nail water will sometimes
remove freckles. It is harmless.

K. Sidney, Brooklyn.—We can furnish you with a prepa-
ration for removing superfluous hair for $1. :

Julia, Rochester, O.—There are three State prisons in
New York, at Sing Sing, Auburn, and Clinton.

C. C. F., Rochester, N. Y.—lst. The name Montague is
pronounced mon-ta-gu. 2d. Yes.

Madda Mendersen, Buffaio.—Very yee indeed, consid-
ering you have had no tutor and but little practice.

H. A. B., Newark, N. J.—They will return again. —
Vio Violet.—We do not know his present address.

C. H. L., Chicago.—We cannot inform you.

J. K. L.—We know nothing concerning it.

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS

In response to the queries of our correspondents who
send no address, we give the prices at which the following
articles may be procured through the NEW YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency: Warren’s ‘‘Household Physician,”
$6; Graham’s “Hand-book of Phonography,” $2; *“Wrest-
ling Joe,” 20 cents; shoulder-braces, $1.50 to ¢3; Cop-
ley’s “Alphabets,” $3; “Art of Lettering and Sign Paint-

 

 

 

 

ere’ Manual,” $8.50; Geib’s ‘“‘Tuning the Piano-forte,”’
cents; “Tuner’s Guide” (piano-forte, organ, melodeon),
$0 cents.

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Jessie and Nellie.—ist. The gentleman could not con-
sistently take offense at what you seem to consider care-
lessness on the part of the two young ladies. Their neg-
lecting to invite him to call again after having been out
riding with him would not be sufficient cause for anger.
That the young ladies have not seen him since ot grime f
owing to some circumstance which has prevented his call-
ing to inquire after their health, or to see that ae suffered
no inconvenience from the ride. Etiquette would uire
that a gentleman calls within a day or two upon a lady or
ladies whom he has had the pleasure of escorting toa place
of amusement, or has taken riding, to inquire after their
health; therefore if any occasion has been given for feel-
ing slighted it has been to the young ladies and not by
them. 2d. The young lady should wait in the vestibale of
the church until her escort has given the attention to the
“horse” that she speaks of.

Reader.— 1st. A girl should use her own judgment as re-
gards the dresses she selects for hetself; if her betrothed
expresses a decided preference for a certain style, she
may if she wishes to do so, and the style is becoming to
her, adopt that style, but itis not necessary for her to ask
his advice about her manner of dress. 2d. The letters are
destroyed after they are answered. 3d. Married. 4th.
Those matters are usually governed by circumstances.
A gentleman that visits a young lady when he is intoxi-
cated before he is married to her, would very likely to be
less careful of his appearance after marriage. -

Mrs. W. H.—Visits of ceremony are those which are
paid after receiving attentions at the hands of your ac-
quaintances; after dinner or supper ata friend’s house;
after attending an evening party, etc., and they should
invariably be of short duration, and one should never
take either children or dogs when making them. Hand
your card to the servant at the door, and ask if the lady or
ladies arein. A lady should always thank a gentleman
for a friendly escort. be it party, opera, or church.

Constant Reader, Racine, Wis.—1st. Any pleasant, kind-
ly wishes are all that is necessary when congratulating
a newly-married couple. 2d. When a second person con_
veys kind wishes to a party, the person receiving them
may simply thank the bearer of the message afid express
their kind regards in return to the one sending theirs.
There can be no rule to govern kind wishes or comphi-
ments of any kind, as they should always be regulated by
the intimacy existing between the parties themselves.

H. W. B.—If upon entering a parlor you are not imme-
diately recognized by the lady of the house, mention your
name directly, but it isenstomary to send up your card in
all cases where you do not possess the most intimate ac-
quaintance.

George.—A gentleman should never be introduced toa
heeca or old lady without her permission being first ob-
tain 5

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

FIREMAN JONES.
A TRUE INCIDENT.

BY FRANCIS 8, SMITH.

His hands were grimy, and hard, and streng,

His frame was sinewy, his arms were long,

His skin was bronz’d by the sun and the weather,
But his dauntiess heart was as light as a feather.
He was cool, alert, and self-reliant ;

He'd the eye of a hawk, and the grip of a giant.
He was a fireman brave on the train that sped
With the mail from Greenport to Riverhead.

The train was swiftly rushing down

The grade approaching Jamesport town,
And the stalwart tireman, humming a glee,
Stepp’d out on the platform carefully,
With his can, to oil the machinery.

 

Scarce had he reached a safe place there,

When a scream from the whistle rent the air.

His well-trained ear the warning knew,

And rigid his swarthy features grew,

And his heart beat fast, and his cheek turn’d pale,
When he saw ahead of him, on the rail,

A little child in sleep reposing,

Calm as the eve around him closing;

Deaf to the engine’s thundering sweep,
Unconscious he lay in his death-like sleep.

On sped the train, with brakes applied,

But all their strength the wheels defied ;
While Fireman Jones, with aspect wild,
Gazed forward where lay the sleeping child.
For one brief moment his heart stood still,
And all through his great frame crept a chill,
Ané& then, like a flash, rose his iron will.

To determine, with Fireman Jones, was to do,
And as onward the shrieking engine flew,
Down on the platform his can he threw,

And rushing forward, he flung himself clear,
And slid on the “pilot,” with never a fear.
One foot between the bars he placed,

And resting on his knee, well braced,
Forward his stalwart body he threw,

In advance of the “pilot” an inch or two.

 

 

*Twas a fearful position! A single slip,
A lurch, a tremor, a nerveless grip,
And he and the sleeping child would be
In an instant sent to eternity.

No quaver now in his heart of oak,

As the shrieking whistle the echoes woke;
No tremor now in his nerves of steel,

No terror to cause his brain to reel ;
Undaunted, he fixed his eagle eye

On the wee boy sleeping tranquilly,

And poised himself, with bated breath,
For the clutch that should snatch a prize from death.
He seemed like a statue kneeling there,
With rigid form, and fixed stare,

And glowering, fierce, determined air.

On sped the train! The trial has come!
Jones gives one thought to wife and home,
And bending forward, he seizes the lad,
And raises him up, with an outcry glad;
The while the thundering engine swept
O’er the spot where the little one had slept.

And there he stood, with the wee one preas’4
Close to his honest, brawny breast,

Till the train was stopped, and a crowd drew near
And greeted the hero with cheer on cheer;

While many & mother, with tears of joy,

Gazed on the rescued stranger boy ;

Aud for his preserver many a prayer,

Sincere and devout, was murmur’d there.

'T was bravely done, thou son of toil,
Begrimed with dust, and smeared with ofl!
A nobler conqueror art thou,
Although no laurels deck thy brow,
Than many 4 leader cover’d o’er
With honors won in bloody war.

No palace dost thou own—no bank—
No coat-of-arms to show thy rank—
Wo tailors rare thy form to deck—
No slaves to tremble at thy beck ;
But more, far more than these I see
In thy Christ-like humanity.

God’s signet on thy swarthy brow
is this “fy nobleman art thou!"

a |

THAT is the best part of beauty which a picture
cannot express.

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3e>-

INDIAN DETECTIVE:

OR

A HUMAN SLEUTH-HOUND.

A TALE OF STARTLING MYSTERIES.
By JUDSON R. TAYLOR,

AUTHOR OF

“THE YOUNG SWORDSMAN OF PALMYRA,”
“THE HEBREW HERO,” etc.

 

(“The Indian Detective” was commenced in No. 44,
Back numbers may be obtained from all news agents.}

CHAPTER XXI.
A RESCUR.

The Indian had arranged with Lucy that she
should watch a certain point, and if he should
send a signal agreed upon, she was to come to
the house.

Satisfied that the tavern was deserted, the de-
tective made the signal, and waited for one in
return.

The answering signal did not come.

The Indian signaled again.

Still the answering signal did not come.

Philip Scott was a practical man.

As previously intimated, he combined the best
qualities of the two races of men from whom he
was descended.

He thought that possibly Lucy had stepped
aside a few moments, attracted by the beauty of
the spot near where he had left her.

After a good interval, he pene again,

Still. no answering signal, and the Indian
started to go and see what was the matter.

It was barely possible that the villains who
had deserted the tavern might have taken refuge
in the woods and been lurking near the place
where he had left Lucy.

The detective had armed himself with a re-
peating carbine.

In starting for the tavern he had prepared for
an encounter with a number of men.

He reached the spot where he had left the girl,
and could see nothing of her.

A cold chill shot over his iron frame.

Death and mystery seemed to float in the very

air.
The detective began to study the ground.
Hanging upon a bush he saw the hat Lucy had

orn.
“Aha!” she has wandered off to admire the
scenery,” he muttered, and he started to follow
a slight trail that he had discovered.

He had gone but a short distance when he
came to a place where the long, rank grass had
been trodden down in a decided manner.

His alarm returned.

He beheld evident signs of some sort of a
struggle, and a closer inspection revealed signs
of blood.

No time was to be lost. The trail was an open
one, and he pressed rapidly forward.

The Indian had traversed fully half a mile,
when he approached a bluff that overhung a
rocky gorge.

At the bottom of the gorge flowed a deep, but
dark and sluggish stream.

The descent from the-rocky cliff to the water
was fully sixty feet.

The Indian emerged from the brush in sight
of the clearing at the brow of the bluff, when a
most startling and thrilling sight met his gaze.

He beheld Lucy Lavournais kneeling upon the
very verge of the cliff.

The girl’s attitude betrayed the fact that she
was prayin g: :

Quick as lightning the quick-witted detective
discerned her intention.

Swiftly but noiselessly he ran forward.

He had sin galarly. but correctly, measured the
beautiful girl’s intention, but he was just one
moment too late to prevent the carrying of it

out.

Philip Scott had traversed but half the space
intervening between him and the kneeling girl,
when the latter suddenly rose to her feet, and,
without a ory, or a moment’s hesitation, she
plunged over the cliff.

The Indian did not stop and gaze with hor-
ror, and give way to wild ejaculations.

On the contrary, he darted forward at a great-
er speed, throwing aside his weapons as he ran.
Straight over the cliff, at the same point where
Lucy had disappeared, went the detective, and
the girl had hardly sank beneath the dark wa-
ters en the Indian also went plunging down-
ward.

The girl rose to the surface, and at the same
moment the detective’s head also shot upward.
A few strokes and he had caught her in his
arms.

The latter offered no resistance, and the stal-
wart detective had but little difficulty in swim-
ming down stream with her to a convenient
point for landing. A

Carrying the dripping girl up the bank, he
stood her on her feet, and, in his usual quick,
nervous manner, asked:

“What did you do that for ?”

“T wanted to die.”

“Why ?”

“Oh, I cannot tell you.”

“Did you lie tome? Are you
ve a hand in the death of Marion

“ee Yo

Ww

qailty! Had

“What other motive could you have had ?”

“Oh, [am so unhappy! loved my cousin,
and where all was happiness before her death,
weet and trouble, and mystery have suc-
ceeded.

‘What if your cousin were restored alive ?”

‘‘What do you mean ? :

“Had you not haye leaped over that cliff, ere
now I could have answered you with certainty.”
ava you indulge a hope that Marion lives ?’

© Lito!
All Lucy’s manners were pretty and engaging,
and as the detective uttered the words above
uoted, she advanced with the water dripping
down over her beautiful face, and laying her
hand on the Indian’s arm, she said:
‘| thank you for saving my life!”
“Lam glad I saved your life.”
“You have saved life and soul, and I shall al-
ways remember you.” : :
ve must return to the mansion,” said the In-
ian.
‘But I came to aid you.”
“You cannot now.”
“Why ?”

“You are dripping wet. You must hasten and
ae your clothing. I am sorry you were so
foolish.”

“T will not wait to change my clothing. I will
go with you now.”

“Wait!” suddenly exclaimed the Indian,
adding: ‘‘Possibly a return to the mansion may
be avoided.

The detective remembered that there had been
plenty of female apparel in the wardrobe in the
room in the tavern where he had seen the wed-
ding-dress.

If the inmates of the tavern had fled in haste
they may have left the clothing.

“Come, I can find you a change of dress,” said
the Indian.

The detective was compelled to make a great
detour to reach the tavern again.

Ever cautious and guarded, when in sight of
ee tavern, he turned to his companion, and
said:

“If I leave you here a moment can I depend
that you will notrush off and do something fool-
ish again ?”

“You may depend upon me. I am too thank-
ful that you saved me against myself.”

The Indian ran away to the point where he
had cast aside his weapons when about to plunge
alter the would-be beautiful suicide.

Haying recovered them, he hastened back, and
found Lucy true to her word, waiting for him.

‘‘When I signal this time, will you come?” he
asked.

“T will.”

The Indian stole forward toward the tavern,
pe entering, found everything deserted’ as be-

ore,

At once he signaled Lucy, and the girl ad-
vanced, little dreaming of the terrible ex-
periences that awaited her in that deserted

tavern,
CHAPTER XXII.

THE HORROR OF THE COFFIN.

Together, the detective and his fair companion
entered the house.

 

 

 

 

 

Leading the girl up tothe door of the room
where he had seen the blood-stained wedding-
dress, the detective said :

‘In this room you will find a wardrobe, and I
trust clothing sufticient for the present.”

Lucy entered the room, and the Indian waited
at the door. ;

A moment passed, when a wild, piercing
scream issued from’ the room.

“Ugh!” ejaculated the deteetive, and he darted
into the room.

He had uttered the significant “ugh!” as the
conviction flashed across his mind as to what
had caused the thrill cry of terror.

His suspicion was confirmed.

He beheld Lucy lying upon the floor with the
blood-stained wedding-dress clasped in her
arms. ,

It did not take him long to restore her to con-
sciousness.

As she revived, her eyes fell upon the dress,

“Hold!” exclaimed the Indian, ‘“‘this is proof
that Marion lives! I have seen it before !”

“But it’s covered with blood stains!” said
Lucy, with a shudder, while her features were
convulsed with horror.

“Never mind; I speak truly !”

“See! see!” exclaimed Lucy, “there is the
mark of the dagger-thrust in poor Marion’s
bosom!”

“I tell you it all goes to prove that she lives,
and I know that I speak the truth !”

The girl stood for a moment gazing with start-
ing eyes at the blood-smeared garment.

“We have not much time to spare!” said the
Indian. “You must change your clotbing, and
in a few seconds I can tell you for a certainty
concerning the missing Marion.”

he detective left the room, and after a
reasonable time Lucy came forth clad in dry
clothing.

“It’s strange,” she said, “but the clothing I
found in that room fits me as nicely as though it
were made for me,”

The Indian had an idea that he could explain
the mystery, but at the time he did not utter his
suspicions. :

Philip had brought a masked lantern with
him, and he led Lucy to the entrance to the
cellar.

Turnin

“Miss
firmness ?”

“You can.”

“You are to encounter the severest test of all
your life.”

“T am prepared.” P

ae meet a most horrible sight ?”

os res, ,

“You are to gaze upon the face of the dead.”

“Marion?” whispered the girl, in a tone of
awe.

“You are to decide.”

“Oh, heavens! I fear it is more than I can
bear !”

“Then we will not descend. I must
one to aid me who has stronger nerves,

“One moment!”

‘Well ?”

“Do you doubt it’s being Marion’s body ~”

“T am almost certain that it is not.”

“And if it is not?”

“She lives.”

“Why are you so assured ?”

‘Simply because my chain of evidence will be
complete.”

“T will stand the test.”

“You will be firm ?”

“If it is not Marion’s body I will be firm; if it
is, I shall die, the sight will kill me!”

“We will chancé the alternative. Come!”

The Indian led the way down the cellar, hold-
ing his naked lantern in his hand.

It was a strange, weird sight which was pre-
sented at that moment.

The Indian had slid the mask of his lantern
back, and a sharp, clear gleam of light was
shot athwart the darkness of the cellar.

Forming the background of the startling pic-
spn were the two figures of the detective and

ucy.

_ The former’s dark face, glittering black eyes,
and clear, sharp-cut features made him appear
like a hard demon leading a beautiful lost
spirit down into the damp and darkness of the
inferno. ,

lt was a thrilling picture, and thrilling events
hung upon its purpose.

The detective led hiscompanion across the
cellar to the entrance to the vault.

‘Now be firm, be calm!” he said, in an assur-
ing voice, and he flashed the sharp gleam of
light from his lantern into the vault.

The girl gazed with starting eyeballs.

There lay the coffin, with its ghastly surround-
ings of skeletons.

‘he detective looked down upon the face of
his companion.

Her features were set and fixed-like as though
she had been suddenly stricken with death.

‘Be calm! firm! I know that it is not Ma-
rion’s body in yonder coffin, but I must have
your assusance.’

“Oh, I cannot gaze at it!”

“But you must! You have come thus far, you
inust not recede now!”

The picture presented at the moment was even
more thrilling and startling than when the pair
had been descending the stairs.

“Come,” said the detective, seeking by mild
force to draw Lucy toward the coffin.

“Oh, I cannot look!”

“You must!”

“T shall die!’

The detective forced her forward.

The lid of the coffin had been restored.

“Stand here—I will remove the lid.

“Oh, do not!”

‘Hold, Isay! You cannot leave now !”

The Indian handed Lucy the dark lantern,
aying:

“Hold that—it will be over now in a few sec-
onds, and you will have joyful intelligence for
me, | feel certain.”

“By a great effort the girl managed to hold
ot lamp while the detectiv removed the coffin-

id.

As he raised the piece of mohogany a cry of
dismay burst from his lips,

The coffin was empty !

It was evident that the villains had removed
the eorpse before their final flight.

The detective once more felt down-hearted.

The removal of the body was the most posi-
tive evidence in face of all other circumstances
fered Marion Bramley had been really mur-
dered.

If such were not the fact, what motive would
the murderers have had in removing it?”

“It’s gone !” said the Indian, looking in a woe-
begone manner at the terrified and trembling
Luoy.

to his companion our hero said:
avournais, can I depend upon your

get some

8

‘“*W hat shall we do ?”

“Tam resolved what Ishalldonow. Hereto-
fore [have not closed in on the assassins, as I
wanted to give them sufficient rope to turnish
me evidence, but now I am on their track in the
interest of justice. I shall fullow them as mur-
derers, and woe betide them, for like a sleuth-
hound will I trail them !”

“You are convinced now that it was the body
ge aden that has been taken from that cof-

n

“Truth compels me to answer you that lam
led to believe that your cousin was murdered !”

“Poor Marion!” murmured Lucy.

“There is still a slight hope!” assured the de-
tective.

The two passed from the vault and ascended
once more to the upper room of the tavern.

The detective was unconscionsly at the verge
of a startling clew that would settle all deubts
as to the murder of Marion.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A MOST EXTRAORDINARY CLEW.

Having the tavern to himself, the detective
determined to make a close and critical search
of the premises.

Despite all the almost certain indications of a
foul murder, he still indulged a remote hope that
he might trail for the living. :

The Indian passed from room to room in the
house, and at Netierth came toa small apartment
at the end of the narrow passage.

A close inspection revealed some curious fea-
tures in connection with the passage. The door
was finished on the outer side so as to match
with the wall of the main hall.

Upon elosing this curious door, he fonnd that
it opened again only by touching a secret spring,
and that when closed the most critical observer
would fail to detect it.

 

 

This little discovery appeared to him quite im-
portant, as it showed that the tavern had a con-
cealed room.

The door had been left open by some person
leaving the room hastily, or even the sharp cun-
ning detective would have failed to detect it.

The Indian passed into the room.

A close examination revealed the fact that it
was what is commonly called a dark room.

There was no ingress or egress, save by the
secret passage, and ventilation was carried to it
by a pipe connection with the roof, and piping
running under the floor.

A light was speedily procured, and a close ex-
amination followed.

At a glance the detective discovered that the
room had been but recently occupied.

His heart bounded with delight.

He cared not for the body in the coffin now; at
last he was upon a living trail.

He had been some time in the room when he
came forth and joined Lucy, whom he had left
at one of the windows, on the watch.

In his hand the detective carried some loose
strands of human hair.

Handing the hair to Luey, he said:

‘*‘Whose hair is that ?”

Lucy looked at the hair, when suddenly her
lovely face became aglow with excitement as
she exclaimed :

“Tt’s Marion’s !”

“You are sure ?”

“T am sure!”

“Thank Heaven!”

“Why do you exclaim thank Heaven ?”

; we because we are on a living trail at
ast !

‘*‘Where did you find this?”

“In a room that has been secretly occupied by
the living.”

“But the lady that was in the coffin ?”

“T care nothing for the body.”

“Pray tell me what you have discovered ?”

“T have discovered that the owner of that hair
was certainly alive within twenty-four hours;
and the body in the coffin had certainly parted
with life many days ago.”

“Then, after all, you think Marion lives?”

‘“‘T am satisfied that she was beneath this roof
last night when I was here; but wait, 1 have
further investigations to make.”

The detective left Lucy and returned to the
room.

He was gone some time, but at length he re-
turned.

Lucy noted at a glance that he had made some
remarkable discovery.

His dark face was absolutely illuminated with
delight.

For the first time, also, the girl observed what
@ remarkably handsome man the detective really
was.

The studied expression had vanished from his
face, and his real nature shone through his fea-
tures,

The girl at the same moment realized that she
was in the presence of a remarkable man.

A man as noble as he was handsome, as intel-
ligent as he was patient, enduring, and as brave
as he was strong and manly in physique.

“What have you discovered now?”
Lucy, eagerly.

“Ske lives! she lives!” exclaimed the detec-
tive, in tones different from any he had ever
before employed.

Again the lovely girl observed that the man’s
whole life and manner had been shrouded under
a professional mask.

The tones of his natural voice were rich and
musical; the grutiness of his usual manner had
disappeared, and he appeared as fascinating and
charming as he was handsome.

‘‘What have you discovered ?” asked Lucy.

‘Absolute proof that Marion lives!”

‘What proofs have you found ?”

The detective handed toward the girl a piece
of note-paper, on which wassome writing in a
light, handsome female hand.

ucy had not closed her fingers upon the mis-
sive, when she exclaimed:

“Tt’s Marion’s writing !”

‘“T knew it! I knew it!” cried the detective,
joyfully, “‘and under heaven within four-and-
twenty hours the missing girl shall be restored
to her friends !”

Lucy read the writing.

It was only a partly finished missive, and ran
asfollows: —

DEAR FATHER: I have eo through a fearful ordeal.
I am a prisoner in a lonely jplace, but I think not far
from our dear home. Oh, ‘Heaven! shall I ever see that
home again——”’

Here was a break in the letter as though the
fair writer had been interrupted. R

At a later moment she must have resumed
writing as the additional matter ran as follows:

“T have found a friend, and ible rescuer, from a
most remarkable quarter. I have a most wonderful
thing to tell you. should I ever again be clasped in your
dear arms. I have great news for dear Lucy, and you
ve start aghast when you see the bearer of this note,
an ”

Here the letter abruptly closed.
Lucy read and re-read the strange missive, and
at length, exclaimed:

asked

‘“‘What can be the great news that poor, dear |

Marion can have for me?”

“T can guess,” said the detective.

“T cannot.”

“We must return to the mansion. I have busi-
ness on hand now.”

“But tell me what you guess concerning Ma-
rion’s revelations to me.”

“The time has not arrived for my revelations,
and we have no time to spare; like a sleuth-
hound must I be upon the trail. of the villains
who are bearing Marion away.”

“They may yet kill her!”

“No, no, they dare not! They know now that
I am upon their track ; but come we must go.”

The detective and his companion started for
the mansion.

They had accomplished half the distance, and
were walking at a rapid pace through the
woods, when both were suddenly startled by a
wild cry of distress.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PERIL OF WESLEY FITCH.

The Indian was ever on the alert.

The moment he heard the cry, he said in his
quick, decisive manner:

“You stand here; if I am not back in ten
minutes proceed homeward alone; but be care-
ful and cautious as danger lurks on every side.”

The detective, pistol in hand, dashed through
the woods toward the point whence the cry had
come.

He had heard but the one outcry, and all was
still immediately afterward.

Our hero had_ recognized the ery as coming
from a man, and at once he had jumped to the
conclusion as to who was the victim of some
foul ontrage.

Reaching the spot from whence, as his keen
sense informed him the cry must have come, he
saw no one, nor at first could discover any signs
of a struggle.

He had not been deceived, however.

A cry of distress had fallen from some one,
and he was near the spot at least from where it
had issued.

Down upon his hands and knees he dropped,
as was his custom when on a still hunt for a
clew or.-trail.

“Tt was not long before he found a clew.

Blood! blood! and mystery and murder seem-
ed to be declared at every step.

He had crawled a dozen feet before he found
a few blood-drops on a clover leaf,

Forward he moved, his keen eyes fixed upon
the ground, until at length he found a slight in-
dentation in the ground indicating half a foot-

rint.

A little farther and he found larger blood
stains, and he knew that the blood-drops had
fallen within a few moments.

A little further and he struck a broad trail.

He found unmistakable signs of a struggle, as
though a fight had taken place between quite a
number of individuals.

There was no more need for him to creep like
a cat over the grass.

He rose to his feet, drew his revolver, and ad-
vanced at a noiseless but rapid rate.

As he advanced he became convinced that he
was on the trail of a fleeing party, who were
bearing an unwilling prisoner ue with them.

He came to another place where the struggle
had evidently been renewed.

On the ground he found part of a female wrap-
per, torn to shreds.

His heart bounded as the thought flashed
across his mind that he must have been mis-
taken as to the quality of the cry of distress, as

he was now assured that the prisoner whom the
fleeing villains were bearing along with them
was @ woman.

The shreds of the wrapper that he found was
not of fine material, but the latter fact amounted
to nothing, as the chances were that the captors
had dressed a certain victim iu coarser apparel
than the wedding-dress that she had worn when
first captured.

One thing astonished the detective, and that
was the swiftness with which the pursued must
have gotten over the ground, as he had tra-
versed fully half a mile in pursuit, and had
come upon nothing thus far but their trail.

The Indian, finding the trail broader and
plainer, increased his speed, and at length was
rewarded by signs assuring him that he was
upon them.

He heard voices in angry dispute.

A few steps and he was upon the disputants.

The spot where he had overtaken the party
was a rocky glen in the densest part of the
forest.

Down upon his hands and knees again dropped
the Indian, and once more, sleuth-hound Tico,
he crept forward.

A hundred feet had been traversed, when the
detective came upon a sight that caused his hot
blood to boil.

Gathered in a group, talking in an excited
manner, were a number of dark-faced, fierce-
looking men.

Our hero recognized the men ata glance as
part of a gang of gipsies who had been roving
through the State for a number of months.

Some months previously a mysterious murder
had been committed.

An old farmer had been found murdered in a
ae within a few hundred yards of his own
door.

The mystery of the murder had never been
solved, but it had always been surmised that
the old farmer had fallen a@ victim to a number
of gipsy assassins.

Philip Scott had been employed to ‘‘pipe” the
gipsies, but had never been able to ‘‘pipe” down
to sufficient evidence to warrant an arrest.

There were seven of the gipsies.

Five of them were gathered around two of
their number, who were standing face to face,
talking and gesticulating in a fierce and angry
manner.

Both men held long knives in their hands,
proving that the dispute was an important one,
and liable at any moment to terminate in a
tragedy.

It vas not the sight of the gipsies alone, how-
ever, that caused our hero’s blood to boil.

Lying upon the ground, bound after the man-
ner of an Indian captive, was Wesley Fitch.

The young man had an ugly wound in his
forehead, from which the nloott was oozing as he
lay pale and motionless upon the ground.

Seven to one was the odds against our hero.

The point with him was to rescue Wesley
Fitch.

The conspirators had evidently made a second
move in their deep game.

The Indian was a quick thinker.

He saw that two lives hung upon his coolness,
courage, and skill.

Should Wesley Fitch be slain, an immediate
motive was furnished for the murder of Marion
Bramley also.

While “piping” the gipsies the Indian had
managed to pick up a little of their jargon.

Not. sufficient to enable him to converse in
their language, but just sufficient to be able to
make out, to a certain extent, as to the subject
of their Conversation.

Pistolin hand, he crept forward.

He was soon near enough to overhear a por-
tion of the fierce words of the disputants, and
speedily made out that one was in favor of kill-
ing their captive then and there, while the
other was advocating delay.

He also ascertained that one of the men was
the chief of the band, and the direct cause of
the quarrel was a question of obedience and
discipline.

The detective determined to make an effort to
gain the spot where Wesley lay bound, and re-
lease him.

The young man released and armed would
peor the odds, in case the gipsies should show

ight.

Our hero made a detour, and at length
gained a point opposite to where the captive lay
bound.

As he emerged from the cover of a clump of
bushes he saw that the threatened fight between
the two gipsies had tided over.

The men had evidently arrived at some sort of
settlement.

The intended effect of their settlement became
almost immediately apparent.

The would-be assassin had carried his point.

CHAPTER XXV.
A GALLANT RESCUE.

The detective, as he watched, saw the gipsies
go through a singular ceremony.

They were drawing lots.

But one interpretation could he put upon the
purpose of the drawin &.

They were thus deciding who should advance,
and with his knife dispatch their captive.

The decision was too speedily arrived at for
the detective, still the latter was equal to the
emergency.

One of the
Fitch.

The assassin held a naked knife in his hand.

we knelt beside his victim and raised his knife
aloft.

The arm never descended that would have
struck the fatal blow.

A report broke the stillness of the forest, and
a bullet went crashing through the forearm of
the intending murderer.

With a yell the latter leaped to his feet and
retreated toward his eae

All the gipsies were thrown into confusion
for the moment.

They were cool, desperate, and cunning men,
however.

Their leader concluded that if the rescuers
were in force they would have slain themselves,
As they did not, the gipsy concluded that they
were not in sufficient force to do so.

He spoke a few words to his companions.

All hands of them made a sudden dash toward
the point whence the shot must have come that
wounded their companion.

They heard a noise that encouraged them.

For the moment they forgot their captive.

There was a cool, level-headed, brave man,
however, who did not forget the captive.

The gipsies had been drawn well into the
brush.

But one of their companions remained.

The latter had crept to the edge of the brush,
and had his attention fixed upon the doings of
his companions.

Suddenly, from the opposite side of the glen,
emerged the wiry form of the Indian.

Noiselessly, with his moccasined feet, he
crossed the space intervening between himself
and the captive.

Down in the grass he dropped beside Wesley
Fitch, and in a few seconds managed to cut the
thongs that bound him.

\ Wesley had been injured, but was not help-
ess.
The Indian thrust a weapon into his hands and

8a

gipsies advanced toward Wesley

id:
“Crawl after me.”

The young man obeyed, and both men mapn-
aged to crawl to the cover of the bushes with-
out attracting the attention of the gipsy who
had been left on guard.

Once in the brush the detective said :

“We must rise,and get away from here as
quickly as possible.”

“Are you not going to assist me to revenge
myself upon those rascals ?”

‘Not now.”

“But will you not arrest them ?”

“Nay, nay, we have more important work on
hand. Young man, Ihave positive proof that
Marion lives!’

Wesley Fitch clutched the detective’s arm,
and said:

‘Positive proof ?”

sé 48,

“Wonderful man, how much I am indebted to
yOu;

‘*Then obey me.”

‘What would you have me do ?”

“Hollow me.”

ant the gipsies, who would have murdered
me

‘Let them go; they were but paid assassins;
our game is to rescue Marion.”

 

“You are right; it is not the moment for me to

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ry > NIRW 226%

“Fe a4

a _d : _d pe

at a good figure. He is to be at the . dae wium from

twelve to one—said he wanted to go there to ‘study

the wonders of the great deep.” We'll me et at Park-

er’s, and you must have some of the best specimens—
if you know which they are—with you.

“Good enough. I'll be on hand.”

“But what’s the matter with you, old fellow? You
don't act like yourself. Been a goin’ it, rather,
haven’t you?”

“Yes, [ suppose so.”

“Why, that’s not your way. Anything wrong?”

“A great deal wrong. Do you know, I’m just blast-
ed fool enough, I find, to care more for that woman I
shook than I ever did for anybody else in my life.”

“Who? Claire? Little Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-
mouth!

fy: O RK K wv h EKLY

ree
al
“oe

miserable paid assass-
Itis their employer whom I should seek

17

goats revenge on a wee of
ins!
out!

“And it is their employer whom [Iam trailing.
Since I saw you last J have hit upon many iim-
portant clews, and struck several fresh myster-
ies; but tell me how did you chance to fall into
the hands of the murderous gipsies ?”

Wesley Fitch told a startling story. He said
that a messenger had come to his house, telling
him that a friend in trouble wished to se e hin
at onee.

The young man inquired who the friend was.
The messenger accurately described the detec-
tive.

“Are you sure he did not describe one of his
own gang! ?” asked the detective.

es he described you.”
smeimber, their, own people somewat resem-
ble my mother’s race.”

“He desor ibed you, and now Lremember said,
‘The Indian.’

“Then oe are ‘posted’ as to my being upon
their tr: ick, ” muttered the detective.”
~ Yes, joined Wesley; ‘“‘andI ove rheard them
cone octing a plan to ensnare you.’

he Me fondly hoped was contine a ly to the most | stuff couldn’t go into safer he sna than this 5B pillaging 10 fait since ai race save began to Ae seid love, ae suf-

ars
trustworthy of his customers. He obeyed, however, | dominie’s if we kept it a year. Any way, when we | fer; as always will be until life, and passion, and re-
without any further remonstrance. | get these two jobs off our lands, I’m eoing to strike | gret shall cease to be.
First fixinga bell onthe street door, so that it | for Paris with my whack of the swag. x “Maude!” ¢ -alled a voice from the parlor.

would jangle if any one entered, he led the way into | “I think I'll go along with you.’ “Ah! papa is home, Let us goin to him!” ex-
a large closet back of the bar, where he kept a stock} “Good enouch, old pard; we'll take Saturday’s | claimed the girl, disengaging herself from her lover's
of liquors and piles of rubbish. Part of the side-wall | , Steamer. And now I’m off to shear the shepherd ; encircling arms.
of that closet, upon the pressing of « secret spring, | you look out and mi ke ¢ hops of the lamb,’ | “Yes, ce rtainly. He

x | once.”

gave way, revealing the entrance to a narrow, dari |
passage-way, with brick walls and ecurth floor, run-| Bob and w iswi ui found the Re vy. J. Slocum in rapt ‘Before me! Oh, Selwyn, if you speak to him now,
I’li never forgive you,”

shall make up his mind at

*

 

|

“¢*The good little girl,
Who had a little curl,
And it hung right down on her for’head ;
And when she would,
She was very, very g00d,
But when she was bad she was horrid !' ”

“Come now, Bob, none of that. I don’t want any
of your chaff. don’t know whether it’s because I
love that girl or hate her, but. I feel as if I'd give my

ning lengthwise of the builning. | contemplation of the active and awkward “hermit”
“The cave” had been constructed by its former pro- crabs in one.of the Aquarium tanks. “But, my impatient heart-—
prietor, who was, like the present one, a thief+es- | “Verily,” said he, “it hath afforded me much food| « Well, wait until I’m out of mi room, any way.’
pec ially with a view to giving apparent perfect se- | for thought to be hold these strange creatures. See} “And iny bribe shall be?”
erecy to all done within its contines. Its floor was | how warlike, with his many quick-movying claws, | “This,” giving him a quick, light kiss, so sudden in
the damp earth; its walls were double and filled with | doth the front of one of them appear; yet his hinder | its bestowal that it was like the touch of the huin-
earth; the spaces between the floor beams overhead | part is soft, and, that his fellows may not literally | ming-bird to the flower; and then she was gone away
were packed in like manner. There were cnormous- | take a mean advantage of him behind his back by_de- | into the parlor, where she met her father with even
ly heavy padded double doors, three feet apart, and | vouring bis after portions, each is fain to inclose his | more than customary effusion, so that the keen-eyed,
there was no provision for ventilation except the vulnerable sections in whatever house he may find. | wide-awake old man, in giving her his paternal
chimney flue that arose above a furnace built against | See, there is one who seemeth quite at home in the | greeting, looked meaningly into her eyes, and simil-
the western wall. That furnace in itself offered a | bowl of a clay pipe; and here is a smaller brother | ingly said, “Oho!” at which innocent ejaculation she
reason for such extraordinary precautions for seclu- | domi¢iled in a thimble, while the majority wear snail : blushed crimson and incontinently fled.
sion, It was where the gang of thieves melted into | or periwinkle shells. And see how they do prey one / Mr. Selwyn Stephenson found it more difficult to
ingots and bars the gold jewelry and silver plate | upon another. Watch that big fellow perched upon explain the situation to Maude’s father than he had
soul to have her back again.’ they were afraid to sell in the forms in which it came | the house of a smaller one, and e iting him. The little | expected it would be. The right words eluded him
“Well, Charlie, if [might make a remark without | into their possession. But the ingenious constructor | Victim wags his feeble legs, as if in pantomimic . in the most exasperating way. A plain, matter-of-
Ww ounding the exquisitely delicate sensifiveness you | of that apartment had had the forethought to pro- | prayer for mercy, to which the big one pays no heed, | fact statement of the case did “not seem to do justice
manifest this evening, I'd suggest that, Viewing ‘her | Vide means by which he might hear all, and even see | but devours him piecemeal, And there—ah! that either to Maude or the immensity of his love for her,

“All right! Let them work their plan, but
the chances are that I will have them all ina
trap long before they set out to get me; but

in the light of a moist, unpleasant body, I should
hardly consider her an entice ing thing to wish to have
back again—in her present condition.’

a good portion, of what was done there, Standingin |
the dark passage-way already mentioned, he eould | t
cuuse to swing back noisclessly from its place a stone |

was good. How that hungry bass did dart down and |
take a mouthful of the big one’s legs. That was truly |
vengeance in kind.’

while a rhapsody on love, to the judicial-looking el-
| derly gertleman who listened so calmly and with
even, he feared, a lurking air of being amused, was

 

 

fk told you before to drop that sort of talk,”
swered Wiswall, controlling himself by a great
fort, ‘and now I tell you we’d better bid
‘zood night,’ or there will be trouble.’

“Why, old boy, didn't think you were so much in
earnest; ‘but since you are, why, I’ll stow my cackle, |
of course. I didn’t want to hurt your fee lings, and—
I’m sone. Come, let’s go up to the Tivoli.’

SNES

“Just for alittle while. IT wan’t tosee Lucy.
along, have a bottle with the girls, and shake off your
blues.”

“No. Goahead. Come back when you please and |
; you'll find me right here.”

“And getting full?”

“Never you mind.
row.”

At this moment, a flashy-looking
the Bowery gambler type, strolled
about the room, saw Wiswall, whom
and greeted.

“Say,” said he,
town again?”

“No. He's a foolif he is after that job.”

“He don’t take many chances on the cops nabbing
him—keeps very shady. don’t know what he’s
after, but he’s very anxious to see you, Charlie—asked
me to tell you so if I saw you.”

“Thank you. I wonder what he
for?”

“Damfino.’

“Where is he?’

“He generally gets around about midnight, to Larry
the Lifer’s.”’

“Ailright. I'll goand see him to-night.
go along, Bob?” ‘

“Cert. I'll be back here at half past cleven,”’
swered Bob, rising and going out.

The flashy-looking young man eyed the sleepin
drunkard, and asked Wiswall, ‘Friend of yours?
and, when negatively answered by a shake of the

an-
ef-
each other

how did you come to get that ugly wound on
your heac

“When I reached the woods, instead of meet-
ing you, as I had 7 oes ti I was confronted
by those five fierce gipsies

“What did you do ?”

“JT discovered at a glance that I had been
treacherously play ed with, and demanded what
the vy wante d of me.

“They told you, of course ?” said the detective,
with a grim sinile on his dark face.”

“They bold me nothing, but made an effort to
me,

*‘ And you showed fight ?”?

“I did, and would have disposed of some of
them had not my revolver made a missgo, and
before I could recock it I received this ugly cut
onthe head, and I knew no more until a few
moments before they stopped in the glen.”

“They had determined to slay you in cold
blood.”

“J know it, and had it not been for your gal-
lantry 1 would have been a dead. man.’

This whole conversation recorded above, tran-
spired in a few brief seconds, and while the In-
dian and his companion were stealing away from
the glen.

All further conversation was cut short by an
intimation that they were being pursued.

The detective was always thoughtful of
oe and cared little about meeting peril him-
se

He quickly told Wesley Fitch where to find
Luey, and commanded him to hasten to her and
lead her to the mansion.

“But yourself?”

“T will take care of myself.”

“Why not escape away with me?”

“No; the gipsies must be held in check.”

“You wou d meet them single-handed ?

“Certainly.’

“Never! Iwill remain with you!”

The Indian smiled as he said:

“You need have no fear forme. I ceuld deal
with a hundred gipsies, and I want to keep
them from following you. I can get along bet-
ter alone.’

“T do not wish to leave you.”

“A moment longer and yeu increase the peril
of both of us. Go, and I will easily draw the
gipsies on a false trail.”

Wesley Fitch realized that he could trust
the Indian to take care of himself, and hastened
away.

The detective had a grand purpose in view in
sending the young man off.

The moment the latter was gone the Indian
dashed offin alatteral direction, making con-
siderable noise.

It was not long before he discovered that he

SEZ

I'll be sober enough to-m

young fellow, of
in, and looking
he

wants to see me

Will you
an-

o
S

thereto, came forward, and giving
shake, facetiously admonished him:
“Change cars! Your station, sir! Step
Here’s your wife looking for you, with a club,
“One, two, three,
young man.
“Bounce it is,” replied the barkeeper, and they
two, each taking an arm of the unconscious man, |
raised him, mé urched him to the door, and pushed |
him out into the street. Then they returned to the
bar, and the flashy young man proceeded to count |
over a roll of bills, and divide them with the bar- |
keeper.
“The lush was well fixed, wasn’t he,”

the slumberer
lively !
*” etc,

bounce!” snggested the flashy

and looking it over.more closely, he uttered
ejaculation of horror and disappointment.

“Holy smoke! Man alive, every dolar
‘queer’.”’

Meanwhile, the poor inebriate, staggered, lurched,
and stumbled out of sight, around the ne: arest cor-
ner—and then, straightened up and walked off
e a and sol} berly as the Rev. Howard Crosby timed if |
could.

k

of it is

* * * * *

had drawn his pursuers after him. \ “Larry, the Lifer,” ag? uae Spceectes by his sou-
The Indian knew every foot of the ground, driquet, was one who had at one time been con-
i F |deumned in England for some high crime to a life of
and led the way toward a ‘point where he could penal serv itude, and who had, by means he neyer
sarry out the little game he had in view. | chose to explain, effected his escape to this country.
(TO BE CONTINUED.) | But though he had got his body out of durance vile,
his soul was always stillin the gloomy English pris-
on. By day he trembled with fear at thought of be-
ing re-taken, and by night he dreamed that he was
ouce more a prisoner for life. The sight of a stran-
ger, particularly one who would eye him sharply,
made him actually sick with apprehension. It would
only have been possible for ‘Larry the Lifer’ to
sever his connection with crime by ceasing to live,
but so great was his fear of being recognized, re-
captured, and returned to spend the rest of his day -
in prison, that he studiously avoided anything that
might bring him into undesirable prominence, and, it
was shrewdly suspected by those who knew him,
was accustomed to pay heavily certain detectives
for permission to remain in obseurity. He kept a
thieves’ resort, a low half-cellar den in the Fifteenth
Ward, was the adviser of thieves, and on certain oc-
easions their “fence,” but was extremely careful to
avoid direct participation in their operations.

Larry was a short, stout man, with thick neck,
stubbly red beard, short-cropped hair, low forehead,
snall, twinkling, uneasy pale-blue eyes, weak, sen-
sual mouth, and a sharp chin, indicative of lack of
force. A physiognomist would have pronounced

 

}

Ot

SITTER LIFE.

A REALISTIC STORY OF TO-DAF.

By J. H. CONNELLY.

Bitter Life’ was commenced in No. ae.
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.""}
CHAPTER XVII.
NEMESIS.

Bob Meredith did not, as he anticipated, arrive in
the city on Sunday. Itwas not until the suce ecding
Tue Si day evening that he stepped from the train in
the Forty-second street depot, and was one met by
Charles Wiswall. who had been advised by telegraph

pees
Ce

Back num.-

Come |

approached |

“did you know that Red Mike is in |

}

head, made a sign to the barkeeper, who, responding | :
a |

|
|
}
|
|
{
|
|
|

| You don’t know how you are trying my patience.
remarked tie |
latter, but upon taking up his share of the plunder, |

an |

|

in the back of the chimney, just upon a level with,
and shaded by, the fire-place arch,
known to “Larry the Lifer,” and was now, under the
pressure of circumstances, communicated by hii to |
the strange aspirant for the honor of appearing as
| his “Cousin Dan,” who was, as the reader will of |
| course haye understood, none other than the detec-
| tive Craft himself.

When Red Mie arrived, an hour afterward,
new barkeeper was introduced ‘to him
; “my eousil } Dan, just fromthe old country, one of the
| | right sort,’ ane tl of course he had no suspicions of his

real character; nor had Bob and Charley when they
came, halfan hour Inte r, still
| forescen they might, they retired to “the cave” for |
| their conference. Larry eres served them with
liquor there, rund when be returned to the bar “Cous-

 

the

chimney.

“A pretty time I’ve had hunting you up, Jim Ma-
said ‘Red Mike’—who was none other than |
Skipper Rackett’s missing hired man—as soon as the
outer door had been barred behind Larry, and the in-
ner one closed. “A pretty time. I didn’t dare to
show my nose in the street for fear of the cops, and
had to keep away fromthe old places where I was
likely to be seen. You were in clover, I suppose, and
didn’t come down to lishing kens iike this, as you
used to in old times, and here I was.”

“Why didn’t you send me a letter ?”

“How did I know where to send you a letter
two or three,
that’s all [ could do.”

“Well, now that you’ve found me—what is it?”

“Isthat your writing?” demanded Red Mike, spread-
ing before Wiswall a scrap of paper which he ex-
| tracted from tissue-wrappings in his pocket-book.
| Yes. How the duse did you’ get hold of. it?’

exclaimed Wiswall, excitedly, for at the first glance
he recognized a fragment of his last lette Yr to Claire.

“A gal tored it up yand chucked it out’n the w indow,
and I picked it up.”

“She! She!
could have been Claire.
And the raseal’s voice,

| goon,”

 

Claire is dead—dead—dead.”
at first a wild ery of astonish-

| ment, sank as he went on to a piteous moan, and he

pressed his hands to his throbbing temples.
“Well, pre-haps. But she don’t act like
‘dead, dead, dead,’” answered Red Mike,
grin.
“What! Do you mean to tell me that Claire is not
drowned? that she is alive?’
“What's it worth to you to know?”
“Everything--everything. Speak out plainly, man.

she

with, a

“Why don’t you talk business then? Is the girl
you want tall, slender, with dark-brown hair, eyes
like a deer—one that jumped overboard from the ‘Co-
lumbia.

“Yes, yes, it is she,” interrupted Wiswall, wild with
| impationee ‘and excitement. “It is Claire—Ishall see
| her again.

“Talk business first.”

“T’ll give you a thousand doll urs if
me to get my hands on her again.”

“So. Well, [might ask more from a stranger,
among pals that will do.
itas a blind, as it were, and make good with
other half, so to speak, on delivery of the girl.”

“Here is your money,” replied Wiswall, quickly |
counting out with Po haste the sum requ ired |
from a wellfilled walle “And now, where 1s
she?

Me At old Ben Rackett’s, on the Shrewsbury river.”

“Aha! lL have her ain. Yes, by Jove, TH}
have her
from me . easy. I’ll break her.
aiter her at once. Hurrah! Mike,
friend I’ve gotin the world. Come along.

He was wild with excitement.

“Hold on, Charlie,” interposed Bob, who had un-
til now kept silent, ‘‘that won’t do.
what we’ve got on hand for to-morrow.
wait.”

“Yes, but I can’t wait!”

“And I say that you'll have to.
much at stake for any slip up now, just when every-

thing is ripe.

“You eouldn’t go there now anyhow,” added Red
Mike. “There ain’t any late trains for there, and if |
there was you couldn’t ‘fetch the girl away if she was |
to kick against it, which I think she might, for
she don’t seem to be our style. You'd better go
down there in a boat.
water.”

“Can you ge

you will enat

30
ag

you're the

best |

She can

t a boat for the service ?”

as the detective had |

in Dan” posted himself at the observatory behind the |

That secret was |

| “It’s a game of strong eating
as if they were human beings
ar A} ly °

Wiswall was introduced as Mr.

weak all around, just
commented Bob,
’

Ogilby, a retired tea

| me rehant.

by Larry as |

|

| merchant,

| his admiration of the coins

|
|

“It giveth me pleasure to meet with a brother nu-
mismatist,” said the Rev. Mr. Slocum, shaking hands
cordially ; ‘for, in good sooth, our science is too little
known or appreciated by the vulgar, and we are in
all lands fewer than I could wish we wtre

They talked affably for some time upon the topic in
which they professed « common interest, while Bob,
avowedly ignorantof the whole business, amused
himself looking at the denizens of the tanks as if he
had no concern at all in the negotiations he had
| brought about. The parson exhibited’ a very ancient
Danish coin, of copper. Myr. Ogilby showed a gold
coin of Spain, dated 12738, bearing the stamp of Al-
fonzo the Wise. The clerical gentleman brought
forth an Egyptian coin so old that he professed—and |
with truth—to be unable to make out when it was
stamped, or more probably molded. The retired tea
however, carried off the honors with a
beautifully-preserved Portuguese gold coin, of Maric
I, dated 1196.

The Rev. Mr. Slocum was actually enthusiastic
shown him.

in
Secretly he

recognized them as among the gems of Mr. Hewlett’s |

; collection.

. I told |
allt could trust, tolook out for you, and |

}

| have
| Stiimped and molded coins and medals.

But no; what a fool I was to think it |

|

was |

ble | | think I could promise thee,
| it, did its price come within my means.
but |
Suppose you put up half of |
the |
| 300 in brass and copper.

}
}
|
i

gain, and this time she w on t get get away |
Come, let’s go |

You forget |.

|
|

|

}

j
|
}
:

| town,

| body to leave it to, should I

|

| sell for $9,000.

“Where those came trom I will find ‘all the rest.
almost touch Hewlett’s five thousand dollars reward,’
he thought. But tothe pseudo Ogilby he said:

“Tn truth, the sight of those rare coins hath given
ne such joy as [have not known before in—I know

10t When.
ot thy eoll ection?”

“Oh! no. Not particularly. I haye some

value more than these. Lhave been collecting dur-
| ing twenty years, in this country and the Orient, and |
altogether. I suppose, about nine hundred |
The collee-

I

?

tion is so large that it is now,
ces in which

“A burden! An anxiety !’

“Yes; my health is failing, and the doctors say I
must go to San Domingo or Jamaic aif IT wish to pro-
long my life, which T naturally do.’

“Ah!” inter polated the parson, with a nasal snuffie,
“we must all die.”

“True; but we don’t want to be in a hurry
But to return to the collection.
on shipboard, or in a

about it.
Lam afraid to risk it
foreign country. I
die, who [ eould be
would preserve it intact. Even it
public institution, it might be
the truth, Lhave more money locked up in it than I
an well afford, now that I must s
nd go toaforeign land that’ I may live.
onsiderations make me feel that I would
, could I find a pure haser who would
keep it together.’
“That it should

sure
[left it to some
seattered. And, to tell

c
a All these
c gladly sell }
it che aan it and
lk

be seattered, were
and I would

not it mine,

fuin possess
At how inuch
dost thou value it ?”

“Well, there are 117 pieces of gold, 249 of silver,
98 of bronze, 109 of iron, some duplicates, and-about
They cost me over $12,000 |
in cash, to say nothing of the trouble of collection, |
| but, for. the reasons I have already stated, I would |
:

“If thy collection is as good as thou hast represent- |
ed, I will give thee that sum. But it will be
sary for me to send to my house in Baltimore for the
| money, and I would desire to inspect the coilis.”

“Of course. That is understood.”

“Then suppose we say Friday. Let us meet here,
| at this hour, if it will suit thee. I will then have the |
money, and thou canst then show thy collection to!
ine, if convenient.” |

“Quite convenient. I haveit stored for the present |
in the safe of a friend, a lithographer. It is in some |
disorder, but you can take your time to examine it.” |

The detec tive could hardiy contain himself for joy

We've all got too | upon hearing that unconsciously-given contirmation

of bis suspicions as to the where abouts of the trea- |
sure.

When they parted it was with effusive cordiality
on both sides, foreach had reason to feel gratified |
withithe result of the intervie w, but small would have
been the self-congratulations of the two adroit con-
tidence men, had they imagined that the seemingly |

} make a callupon a beloved former parishioner up |
” was the terrible Detective Craft, and that |

They must be, without doubt, the jewels |

that I |

under the circumstan- |
i I am placed, rathera burden and an :
| anxiety than a pleasure to me.” ;

have no- |

|
i
|

give up ail business |

Tj

neces- |

| clearly impracticable. Still he did manage, ultimate-
ly. to flounder through a proposition which, as he
subsequently revie wed it, seemed most lame and im-

potent, but which his hearer kindly condescendcd to
| understand.

“The only objection I could possibly have, Mr. Ste-
phenson,” said the old lawyer, “is that you are both
young } et to think of marriage. But that is a taut
you will outgrow rapidly enough, and more happily
| together than apart, probably. Indeed, I have never
believed muchin long engagements and late min
riages, So, if you teel sure you know your own tind
in the premises, 2nd Maude loves you well enough tv
be your wife—-why, I have no objections to offer.”

“T assure you, sir, that I love her so much, that
if——”’

“There, there! that willdo. Tell her all about it,
if you please, but it isn’t necessary to rhapsodize to
me. Itake it for granted asa fact sufficiently de-

monstrated by your proposition to marry ber. And
now to other business. Did you see that scoundrel’s
| accomplice to-day ?”’

“Yes, sir, I did. He does not answer the descrip-
| tion you gave me of Claire’s husband. He is appa-
rently aman of about forty-eight, or perbaps filty:
tall, thin, with freckled fac and sandy hair.

“Ah! Not him at all, then. And what
pired ?”’

“Well, he exhibited to me papers akin to those al-
ready shown us by that rascal in Saratoga, and more-
over, displayed a chunk of some substance which he
said was the core taken out by a diamond drill from
the vein in this wonderful mine. It was about two
| inches in diameter, and seemed of quartz, filled with
| gold in innumerable crevices. His manner was so
| plausible, and that specimen seemed in itself so un-
answerable an argument, that I confess my confl-
| dence in the averments of your detective was for a
moment shaken. The man talked like an old miner.
|; My headis stil 1 buzzing with his ‘frozen ledges,’

‘country rock,’ ‘levels,’ ‘lodes,’ ‘shafts,’ ‘drifts,’ ‘in-
clines,’ ‘assays,’ ‘batteries,’ and what not.”

“Did you try what I suggested ?

“Yes. T hinted the possibility of my not being able
to raise more than #400,000 at once—#50,000 less
than Lambert said he was already offe re d—and this
liberal colonel said he had taken such a liking to me
that he would, if I would join him in the matter, him-
self pay. the additional kum nee essary to reconcile
his present partner to atransfer of his interest to
we. Then all my belief in the detective came back.
I tell you, as I listened to that plausible scoundrel, I
felt a deeper yearning to kick him than I ever before
| felt toward anybody in all my life.”

“Well, that is not a necessary exercise,
| hardly be a reformatory influence, and is scarcely
| advisable an amusement just at present. We
must do as Craft has directed, hold them in play for
| 2 few days.. What bis plans areI do not myselt

know, any farther than that he desires to luil the

rang into a false sense of security, and blind them
| with the prospect of pe obable realization of all their
schemes, so as to put them off their guard until he is
i thoroughly ready to pounce upon them. You made
another appointment with this so-called Col. Hen-
| drix, did you not?”
| “Yes, sir, for the day after to-morrow, Friday.”

Maude’s golden head appeared in the door-way,
and a demure, “Papa, may I come in?” rippled from
her lips.

“Come in! Ce ‘rtainly, my darling
I have a present for you.”

“A present, papa. Oh, where is it? What is it?’

“Here it is,’ he replied, taking Selwyn by the ae
| and putting him before her; ‘such an one as many
| young lady is puzzling her brain over how to ge lbs
i | husband. Take him, and much good may you be to

 

|
|
| traus-
|
|

:
}
|
!

;

would
?

as

5S

child, come here,

| each other.”

Maude slyly hung her head and twir Jed her hand-
kerehief in hér hands.

“Don’t you want the present ?” her father asked.

“pid I éver refuse anything you saw fit to give me,
papa ?”

“But do you love him, you provoking little witch ?”

“T’ll try to, 1f you insist upon it, papa.”

Selwyn kindly eut shert her confusion, which she
was weakly endeavoring to mask under a semblance
of banter, ‘by t taking her in his arms and murmuring
words of love in her willing ear as he walked away
with her through the parlors and toward the conser-
vatory in their rear.

Scarcely had they disappeared when a servant en-
tered and handed a note upon a silyer salver to Mr.

There’s no track left on the | simple-minded parson, who parted from them “to | Thorndyke, saying as he did so:

“The note was left by a messenger, sir, who said
that it required ne answer but must be delivered im-

“Yes, the Rosalie, cat-rigge d, a fast sailer, captain | theirevery movement that day was under the keen | mediately, and then he went right away.”

all right for anything I want.’

 

 

him, and with perfect justice, a man capable of any
crime but for his cowardice, which could only be
overcome by desperation.

About half-past ten o’clock of the same evening, |
upon which traspired the incidents at ‘Owny” Geo- |
ghegan’s, which have just been narrated. Larry was |
seated alone in his dén when a stranger entered and |
walked up to the little bar behind which the landlord |
was standing.

“Plain soda,” demanded the stranger, who seemed |
one of those persons devoid entirely of individuality
the most difficult of all bein to hold in remenibe r-
ance—and as he spoke he placed a dime on the table

i Larry e mptie d the bottle of soda into a glass, pus} 1
over their private affairs as the ~y were too prudent to | ed it before his customer, and swept the coin into |
indulge in either in a crowded car or upon the street. | his till.
L he hostler stepped into the shelter of a neighboring | ‘Your health, Pat Lafferty,” said
< door-way, and in a few moments emerged again | raising his glass with his left hand.
pn apparent condition of almost helpless intoxica- | The landlord stood a moment asif paralyzed by
tion. His clothing was awry, his hair disheveled, his } barnes his eyes staring, his mouth open, terror in
eyes fixed ina maudlin stare, his feet seemingly a | every line of his countenance. Recovering himself,
ing totrip each otherup. In th is plight he made |he made a clutch for something below the bar, but
straight for the door of “Owny” Ge oghegan’ 8, lurel ie | before he could bring to Vv iew the weapon for which |
ed inside, staggered along the bar toward the rear of 1} he reached, the stranger’s right hand held a cocked
the room, made a plunge at a table opposite where | revolver lev eled at his head.
Meredith and Wiswall sat, recoiled from it, and with |
2 grand combination plunge and struggle flung him-
self into a seat at the table next thein, shouting as he
did so: “Gizzagl issubec er.”?

“Well, he’s just more’n gota load!” soliloquized the |
barkeeper in amused contempl: ition of the inebriate’s
proceedings, but thé sound of a handful of loose sil-
ver, slammed upon the table, gave force to the

trangely composite order, and drawing a glass of | his eyes, for he already saw realized the
beer he earried it to where the stranger sat, and | had tortured him so long.

placed it before him. The siverlay spread uponthe} ‘“That’s right. Listen to reason.
table, the drunken fellow was already dozing. pulse, It’s always bad. I’ve come

“Sa-a-a-y, mister, h’yer’s yer change,” said the bar- | friend, and it’s no way to receive
keeper in a hoarse, faint whisper, seemingly made | your gun as soon as ‘he offers to drink your health.
with great effort—a repetition of the “gag” of the i: + not come to take you back.”

|

of his coming. . Neither of them noticed, either in the
depot or upon the front platform of the Lexington
and Third Avenue car, on which they rode down
town, a rough, slouchy fellow, who looked like an |
hostler, and seemed to be paying as little attention to
them as they to him. But when they got offat Grand
street, the hostler-seeming chap also ste pped from
the car, and when they went into *‘Owny” Geoghe-
gan’s saloon on the Bowery he was not far from
them.

Glancing inside he saw them retire to a table in the
back Di rt of the room, and order drinks there, a mea-
re beyond doubt preliminary to such conversation

 

1
|
|
|
|
'
|

St

the stranger, |

a

i T’ilput a bullet throug rh you,” the varned
} him.

stranger

|

that said, even more plainly than w ords—Submit, or
The wretch bowed his bead in his hands, with

die.’

he
ile

fears t
Don't act on im-
to see you as a

|
:
|
|

circus ticket-sellers who shout in that way after a re- You hayen’t!”’ exclaimed Larry, looking up.
treating patron who has forgotten change for a bill | eyes had still the expression of a hunted wild beast,
on the ticket wagon window—but by this time the bu it there was a hopeful tone in his voice,
fellow was sleeping soundly. “No; Lonly want to talk business with you, and if
“Somebody ought fer to take care of de pore fel- | you are re asonable, I know of noreason why I 8

ler’s wealth, or he might lose it,” remarked the bar- | give you away.

keeper, witha grin to Meredith and hiscompanion,| “Oh! then it’s’no use,
whom he well knew, and as he spoke he gathered up |

” responded Larry, witha
| groan,
the handfull of silver and slid it into his own eapa- |
cious pocket. Then whistling ‘‘Fen Thousand Miles |
: way,’’ and executing a neat little jig step, he went |

back behind the bar.

sob b rolled a

cigar-lighter, and adroitly tickled the nose of the | not give a job to your Cousin Dan, just ‘over from the |
slee ping drunkard with it, causing ae to snort, paw | old country.
wildly at the supposed fly, mutter a grumbling oath,| “Oh! Isee whatit is now.
and finally tumble forw: ird on the ti wma upsetting | you after?”
his glass of beer, and wallowing his ‘Ibows in the |} “None of them so
amber finid, as he sought a rest upon his arms for his onl y Bee to overhear what they are up to.’
muddled -head—all of which seemed to much amuse | f they find it out, ’'m_a goner.

| “they never will. The kitten and

thi vt practical joker Bob.
“Let’s get over to the other side of the room, | le yw ili. be here directly to meet Re ad 3
| know all that passes be tween them.

nested Wiswall.

“No; what’ S the use moving? He's stiffdrunkand| “Tt’s a hard pill for.a man that’s always been
quiet; and as 3 long as he sitsthere nobody else will | to his pals. sup pose I refuse 2?”
come to that table,” replied Bob. Then I shall simply report the fact.

“Shall I fire him ‘out, gents?” asked the ready bar- | “Wi ho to?’
keeper, seeing that they were talking about the “The gentleman who sent me to you.’
sleeper by their glances at him, and coming forward. “And who is he?”

“No; let him alone until we’ve gone,” answered | “Mr. Craft.”
Wiswi ul, and, turning to Bob again, he propounded| “Oh! the duse! If he’s in it, there’s no more
an interrogatiwe: “ Vell?” |said, Tagree; but I’m not the only one that would |

“Well, I got along splendidly. The youngster bit | like to lay hands on him some night in a quiet place.”
like a blue-tish—took it allin, and I eVen think—he L, “If you wish tosee him, I’ll call him in; he’s not}
ha!—and I even think the old lawyer will deem it a | far off.”
special favor to be allowed to take someof that] ‘No, no; you needn’t trouble yourself. TI was only
pie.” | joking. Tl see him soon enough, no doubt.’

“No!” exclaimed Wiswall, with evident pleasure. “Allright; and now rem« amber, no funny business,
“Well, you have done well. How I'd like to rope in| no giving me away:
th: at fellow !” | “Strike me dead if I go back on my bargain. Tl

“T saw them both just before I started, and made | do just what you say, Ww ith the understanding that if
an appointment for them with Colonel Hendrix at | I do I’m not to be troubled.”
the Fifth Avenue Hotel to-morrow at noon. I sup-| “Of course. Now, then, show me where I can over-
poge you’ve got him located there and well posted?” | hear everything that goes on in the cave.”

“Of course. You'll introduce him to them ?” | “PTheeave! Who told you about the cave?”

“No. Letter of introduction. Better. Looks more “That does not seem to me to be material, so long
indifferent, and at*the same time willing to give lag I know. C ome, move along. They’ll soon be
every chance for investigation. Besides, ’'ve got to | here,”
introduce you to a Baltimore Gemninie I met up there The landlord seratched his head in perplexity, and
—one who will take those fancy goods off our hands | deep anxicty over this evidence of a knowledge that

lollar note. The fly cops clean me out reg’lar.”
“FT don’t want any money from you.”
“You don’t! Well, what do you want?”
“T want to be your barkeeper to-night, ’cause

a

a

ed.

Yr
R

e

I

Which of the boys

rh

far as your place is conce

h
il

iend Char-
I imust

A <

ke

99 os
su

i.

iu

| tion on earth will make me ‘postpone another day.
| Thursday night Claire shall be mine again !”

“Drop. that, Pat, and hold your hands up empty, or
t i |

Larry tremblingly obeyed, for he readin the deter- |
mined eyes of the man who faced him an expression |

a friend to go for |

His |
| of abstr raction, and replied in atone of mingled re- |

hould }
| “Reuben Lambert,” and it procured him instant ad-

“for, help me Heaven, I haven’t got a tive |}

you're
piece of newsps 65 r into the form of a | getting old and feeble, and you might just as well as |

square |

to be

“Engage him then ‘for to-morrow night.’
“No,” again interposed Bob. “W wd difference
does
”

“A day more is one more
| that’s all.’

“Well, even if itis, stand it. ‘This is no time for
weakening on business just for a woman’s sake.
low two days to wind up our other rackets here, and |
then, if you want my help, why I’m with you. Say
Thursday night, day ‘after toaznorrow.’

“All right, “I submit, but I swear that no considera- |

day of torture to me,

CHAPTER XVITI.
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

The clerk, behind the office counter of the Fifth
Avenue Hotel, whose especial duty it was to answer
the inquiries of the public, had just posed himself in
such a position that his natural beauty and aequire a}
grace were most conspicuously displayed, and the

when he was annoyed by a person who asked him:
“Ts Colonel L. B. Hendrix, of Denver, Colorado,
stopping here ?”’
The clerk paused and considered, not because he |
did not know, but as he would have paused and con-

|

a day or two more or less make in this matter |
io

ip

Al- |

| manly wits to spoil us, and then rate us shallow, 4 (

| espionage of Tom Jerome, his most valued assistant.

CHAPTER XIX.
MAUDE’S SURRENDER. /
“You will end by making me believe you a yery |
allant young man, Mr. Ste aphe nson, if you go on pay-
ing mec ompliments in so reckless a manner,” laugh-
ed Miss Thorndyke, as she stood in the conservatory
of her father’s mansion, listening to her lover, and
| abatractedly plucking a flower to pieces.

“How wickedly perverse you are to call gallantry
that Which is simply truthful expression of sincere
adoration !”’

“What flatteries men utter to simple girls, and how |
| they secretly scorn the weakness and vanity that be-
| lieve them! Is it not unfair that you should use your |

.
!

}
}
|
}

| make jests upon us, hurl lampoons and epigraims at

j
|

| diamond in his shirt front sparkled most brilliantly, | —one that you are beautifu

{

;
j

sidered if any ‘body had asked him bis name,or the cur- |

to do, to pause and consider.
Then he looked over the alphabetically arranged list
of guests,
upon the merits of a trotting horse,
said:
‘Yes, sir.
“Ts hein?
The clerk pondered, with a dreamy, far-away look |

in his eyes, recalled himself by an e ffort from his fit |

He is.”

Qo”

| proach and resignation:
“T will send up your card, and ascertain.”
The card sent up by the stranger bore the name,

mission to the eolone I's apartments.

“What do you think of that?” asked the colonel of
| his visitor, when they were alone together, showing
| him a cylindrical form of quartz sparkling with gold |
| in all its many interstices. It looked exactly like
core brought up by a diamond drill,

1 a

except that it |

ferous deposit could be so rich as that.

“What in thunder is it?” queried Bob Meredith,
who was again in his Saratoga character of Reuben |
Lambert.

“A work of art, that beats 1
the proud exhibitor thereof.

; ature all hollow,” quoth
“A friend and myself

and having exchanged opinions with a fel- |

| rent month of the year, because it was the established |
|and dignified thing
| his elbows resting on the bar, and tears started from |
it |
| low-clerk
| leisurely reme: nbered his questioner, and laughingly |

}
|

| you eae what old Colonel Starr used tos

|

}

}
|

; oracle.

o ay

would be almost impossible to believe that any auri- |

| they do on the ste age.’

| built that sample out of pieces of quartz, erystal |
} p

cement,
| gold; and if that doesn’t
{ mind of a ‘tenderfoot’—why,

ar:

“It is lovely vfact. We don’t need that to |
| fasten the young fellow. He’s got the hook away
| down in his jaw already, but it may be usefil to pull |

the wool over the eyes of that shrewd, suspicious,
old lawyer friend of his. You've got all fixed if they
| want to send an expert out there, 4 suppose.”

“Certainly.
that I’ve sold a dozen times already,
where nobody will give us away. I can make ar-

rangements ‘to suppy any sort of a core they want
from adiamond drill. I can
swear to anything I like for twenty dollars an_affida-
vit. In fact, without going into unnecessary details,
I may say that the mill for the grinding of the ‘ten-|
der foot,’ as we call the eastern mine-buy er out there,
is all in fine working wae. "

earry conviction to the |
I’m a billy-goat, that’s
t’s

tha
‘4

|
}

|
|

6
|
| his heart’s content. I’ve got to go and meet Charlie,
to introduce him to a sniveling parson, W ho I think
will give a good price for the coins and medals we }
found on 110th street.”
“By the way; doesn’t it strike you as ‘a suspicious |
| and possibly “dan
squeal about that affair—nothing in the papers, and !
} no overtures from our friends on the force ?”’
| “Yes. Idon't like the looks of it myself; but the

and about a hundred dollars worth of melted |

I've got an abandoned mine out there |
in a quiet place |

|

{

get honest miners. to |

|

}
|

“Very well, Pll leave you to stuff the young chap to |

us When you succee?d Now confess, sir-—have you
not. a better opinion of my good sense, because I |
| know you are only flattering me ?”

“Do you say that because I have told you tw o|
| things, both of which your own senses prove true ? |

1, and your glass confirms

|

me——”
“Would you be equally frank if I were ugly ?
“Tn that case [might not h ave found any necessity
for an expression of opinion.’
“And your second truth ?”
“That I love you.’
“Men were deceivers ever.”
3ut you must have seen it

9°

in my-eyes, and don’t
say up |

:

at Saratoga, on the race-course ?”

“Oh, yes. What afunny dogmatic old gentlem: an |
he was, W ith his ‘Back your opinions, sir, if you have }
any.’ ”

“That’sit. Just the phrase, Well, have I not of- |
fered to ‘back my opinion’ by asking you to marry }
me? Is not that good evide nee of my sincerity ? 2

“Loves me—loves me not,” archly sang the little
| maid, pulling one by one the petals from a flower.

“Ah, that is not the proper flower to be
Here, try the charm with this one.”

And as he spoke he broke from its stem and hand-
ed to her a snowy lily.

“Oh, you cunning, cunning man! What a trap to
set for a poor eras girl! You have chosen |
one with just five petals, so that the answer would
have to be affirmative.”

“Why, of course. I would make all nature affirm
my love for you if I could.”

““You are So much in earnest?”

‘Indeed I am-—with my whole soul.”

“You make love very nicely—much better thar

your

‘There the passion is but feigned;
felt.”

‘How much practice you must have had.”

“Practice! I? Iswear to you——”

“No, don’t swear. At lovers’ perjuries they say
| Jove laughs.”

“You will br

“Oh! Are you so sure, then,
you?”

“Do not speak so lightly, I beg of you. I cannot
tellyou how you wound me when you only laugh at
my love.’

“You almost make me believe you.”

“Almost! Ob, say that you do_believe—an-
swer me ‘yes,’ and you will make earth heaven to
me!’

“Papa says I never can make up my mind to any-
thing. Sometimes he even gets angry, and insinu-
ates that I have no mind to make up. T begin to be
afraid he is right, and that, as usual when a de-
| te rmination is necessary, I shall haye to—leave it to

papa.

, hh darling! Then you consent?”

“That you speak to papa, who is used to making
up his mind—that is all,” she replied, laughing and
| Dlushing together.

And then, in the tide of joy and innocent affection,
the artificial burriers of conventionality, light words
| masking deep feeling, smiles that concealed heart-
throbs, were swept away,and the young lovers

by me it is

”

sak my heart, Maude.

of my marrying

gerons sign that there has been no} found in their first embrace and kiss’ the only

! adequate expression of their ardent_mutaal passion
| such e xpreasion as is common to the whole human
race, from ere up to peer,as always has been

Mr. Thorndy ke tore open the 1 missive with an air of
indifference, but his first glance at its contents start-
led him from his composure, and he called in a loud
tone: :

“Selwyn? Selwyn! come here quickly!"
The young lovers came running in together at his
call, and he continued, with an excitement rarely
ari by him, even under the niost nnusual cireum-
stances:

“Here is a note I have just received from Craft. I
have been in court all day, and consequently have not
seen him. He says

“Tmpor tant discov ery !
a fisherman's

Claire is alive, sheltered in
3; cottage on the Shrewsbury river. * Wis-

| wall know 5 it and is going to abduct her to-morrow

night. Will meet you at your office in the morning
Thursday) with further information.’

“Claire alive! Can it be possible!: And pursued
again by that measureless scoundrel who drove her
to seek shelter from his infamy in death! Oh! he
must be foiled at all hazards!”

“Yes,” exclaimed Selwyn, with ardor, ‘‘and I, her
foster- brothe iT, Will see to it, by Heaven, that the
wretch shall not harm her. While Llive at least,
| Claire shall not want for one to defend her!”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
>o<_______

Amber, the Adopted;

SCHEMING ' g TO WIN.

By Mrs. HA RRIE T LEWIS,

AUTHOR OF
“¥he Rival Cousins,” “A Life at Stake,” ‘The
House of Secrets,” “The False Heir,” etc.

(‘‘Amber, the Adopted, ” was commenced. in No. 36.
Back numbers can be obtained from all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXX.
THE BRIGANDS.

_ We must now turn our attention to the fortunes of
Sir Jobn. 3
As Greggs, Sir John’s valet, had stated, on his re-

1} turn to Courtney Hall, the baronet's journey to Sa-

lerno had been peeorens without incident.

On the morning ubseque nt to his arrival at that
place, however, a simple- -looking peasant had called
upon him with a 10te, Without signature, which
stated that the uenine rwould conduct him toa ren-
dezvous with the brigand chief. The nete concluded
by warning him to beware of treachery, as sucha
contingency would be provided for. It also promised
that if he came in good faith, Sir John’s person
should be respected and his safe ty guaranteed,

Under these circumstances the ‘paronet determined
to go in person to his brother’s rescue.

He removed from his person his watch and other
valuables, retaining only a ptrse not very well filled.
His papers and money he secured on the person of
his faithful valet, and with him and the guide then
set out for the rendezvous appointed.

“T'm afraid you ought to have staid at the in, Sir
John, and let me go on alone,” said Greggs, anx-
iously, as they rode along. “Had you not De tier go
back now?” ;

“Hush, Greggs. Don’t call me by my title,” re-
turned the baronet. “I wish to appear as my own
agent, you know. I do not desire to give them any
inducements to capture me.”

The valet gave aquick glance to
and answered:

“But that simple-looking peasant doesn’t under-
stand English, I am sure, sir.’

“IT dare say not, but he may be acquainted with
English titles, for all that. Simple as hoe looks,
though, Greggs, hie is one of the brigands, orI am
greatly mistaken.”

Greggs uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“And as to going back, Greggs,” continued the bar-

yard the guide,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

EW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

onet, “that would be foolish. I have heard, in Naples
and elsewhere, that this Il Diavolo, bad as he is, al-
Ways respects the persons of ransoni-bearers, and
always keeps his word. He guarantees my safety if
I am not treacherous, so we are sate. This little
journey, with its spice of adventure, will give you
something to talk about when you return to the
Hall, Greggs,”’ added Sir John, with a smile.
The valet shook his head, saying:

: 5 . .
“I’m sure I hope it'll all turn out right, sir, and I}
don’t see why it shouldn’t, when they say the brigand |
chief prides himself on never haying broken his |

word ; still I feel anxious.
a bad man.”

For some time the little party rode on in silence.

At length, after some hours’ ride, they came to a
wild gorge between high hills.. There was a profu-
sion of shrubbery, mingled with trees and rocks, and
at the. bottom of the gorge rolled aswift mountain
stream, which here and there broke into small cata-
facts.

“This is the spot!” declared the guide, in Italian,
halting. “The chief wit see you here, signor. I will

You can never depend on

step back a little with your servant, for the chief |

”

would speak to you alone.
Greggs hesitated about retiring to a little distanee,
but his master said: :
“Go with - him, Greggs. Have no fears. You needn't
go out of sight, you know. Remember that the cap-
tain has a reputation for keeping his werd, and that
you and T are safe.”
“Shall
‘now, sir?”
“No. Keep them tiil I call you.
if [I should appear to have nothing with me.
1O.?
' With a heavy heart Gregg followed the guide to
the shadow of some trees a few rods distant, but he
took good care-to keep in full view of his beloved
master.

Now

The baronet dismounted, throwing the bridle of his |

horse over a bush near at hand, and awaited. an in-
terview with the dreaded brigand.
He had not long to wait.

Greggs had no. sooner dismounted and taken his |
position near the guide, than that person uttered a |

loud, shrill whistle, whieh was evidently a signal. It
was immediately answered by a similar sound, and
the next moment aman came out from among the
dense shrubbery and advanced toward Sir John.

The new-comer was a dark-faced Italian,
sinister countenance whoseexpression seemed treach-
erous,
style usually affected by the Calabrian brigands, his
hat being tall, and pointed, and adorned by a tall,
straight feather, and his jacket being of black velvet,
made in the jauntiest fashion. It was open in front
displaying a ruffled shirt-front of the finest linen,
and his other garments were cqually costly 1
unique.
wrought silver were a bugle and whistle, both also of
silver.
ons, Which appeared to be worn more for ornament
than for use. :

All this Sir John observed at a glance.

“Do you speak Italian, signor?’ asked the brigand
in that language, pausing in front of the baronet.

Sir John replied in the affirmative.

“Your name ?”

“John Haughton,” replied the baronet, truthfully,
giving his first and middle names. ‘I am an agent
to treat with you forthe release of your prisoner,
Colonel Courtney.”

“You are not a nilor?” asked the fellow, doubtful-
ly, eying the noble face and form of the baronet with
keen scrutiny.

“Tam not.

I suppose ?”’

“No, signor.
weeks. [ aim the first lieutenant, and in his absence
I take command. [am called Barbi. Tam, of course,
empowered in the captainfs absence % tinsact busi-
ness in his name, and can free your fricnd at the mo-
ment the ransom demanded for ffs reléase is paid
intomy hands. You will pay the ransom demanded
for the Inglese ?”’ ; :

“TF must first see him—see if he
responded Sir John.

“Have you the
Barbi.

“T am prepared topay it,” replied Sir John, evasive-
Ly:
necessary arrangements for his release.

ane

is safe and well,”

money with yout”

”

The brigand hesitated, glanced at Sir John, and at |
his valet, who had been drawn by the guide still fur- |
ther into the shadow of the trees, and finally he blew |

his whistle.

It was answered by the appearance of another |
he shrubbery, leading an Englishman, |

brigand from t
whose arms were bound behind him.

This Englishman was almost a counterpart of Sir
John Courtney, with the exception of his dress. The
two gentlemen might have been taken for twin
brothers.

: ’ : i
The new-comer was conducted, to Sir John, at sight |
of whom he uttered a cry of joy, and sprang to his |

embrace.

The emotion with which they greeted each other |

seemed to arouse the suspicions of Barbi; and Sir
John endeavored to regain his calmness, as he said :

“T have come to ransom you, William. I have con-
cealed my identity from these scoundrels, so that
they should not take me captive too.”

“You should not have come at all, John,” said
Colonel Courtney, anxiously. ‘You have incurred a
great deal of risk by doing so. Couldn’t you send a
servant?”

“T have represented myself almost as once,’
sponded Sir John. ‘‘Have they treated you well?”

“The captain did.” was. the reply. ‘‘He has gone off
somewhere now—to Naples, I think, in disguise, and
this Barbi has not been so complacent to me. -I have
lost my health and spirits in their dungeons. [ am
but the wreck of what I-was. Indeed, John, I think
Lam going to die——”

‘‘Nonsense, William!” interrupted the baronet.
“We'll nurse you upat the Hall. You want Amber
and Ralph to cheer you. I willnow make tho neces-
sary arrangements for your freedom. Ah! how those
fellows scowl! at us!”

He stepped forward, arm-in-arm with his brother,
and was about to speak to Barbi, when a clear, bugle
blast rang through the gorge.

The next momenta body of soldiers appeared in
full view.

“Betrayed! betrayed!” cried Barbi and his com-
panions. ‘Hot there, my brave fellows!”

’

Te-

As he uttered thé call, Barbi blew a blast upon his |
bugle, and the gorge seemed suddenly alive with |

brigands.

“Death to the traitor!” cried a dozen voices, and a |

dozen reports of carbines gave emphasis to their
words.
Sir John and his brother fell to the ground.

The soldiers advanced, and the bandits, the peasant- |

looking guide included, made a hasty retreat. They
were pursued, fired at, but most of them succeeded
in making good their escape.

As Greggs had said, on seeing his master fall. he

had joined the soldiers in their pursuit of the bandits, |

and on his return had found most of the wounded
and dead bodies removed.

Among those removed was Sir John Courtney.

The brigands had returned to remove their dead,
had discovered that the baronet was alive, but badly
wounded in the head, and had also discovered that
Colouel Courtney was dead.

As a last expression of their malignity, and also to
express the idea that they were in no haste to fiee
from the soldiers, they had on their return deliber-
ately stripped Colonel Courtney’s body of its clothing
and the few valuables he had been permitted to re-
tain. Some one, kinder than the rest, had thrown an
oki garment over him.

It was, therefore, the bedy of Colonel Courtney
that Greggs had taken home. It was the body of
Colonel Courtney that Ratph.and Amber had wept
over, mourning the supposed loss of a father.

Retreating hastily with their dead and wounded,
the brigands made their way in a@ direction sarees
to that in which they had lured the soldiers, and soon
came toa secluded spot, where their horses were
awaiting them under the guardianship of several
brigands,

Sir John was tied to one of the horses, the wounded
brigands were secured in. the same way, as were
also the dead whom they had brought with them, the
bandits mounted, and all were soon proceeding rapid-
ly to the southward.

Two hours later they arrived at a range of hills,
divided by gorges and mountain torrents. In a se-
cluded dell among these hills they dismounted, turn-
ing their horses loose to graze, und continued their
journey on foot. : :

Sir John, still insensible, was carried on the back of
one of the brigands.

Continuing their way up along the bank of one of
the streams, they at length paused before a jagged
cliff, whose face was dotted with clumps of bushes.
Pushing aside one of the’e chimps, and uttering a
shrill ery as a signal to some concealed guard, Barbi
disappeared within an aperture just large enough to
admit his body, and which had been effectually hid-
den by the bushes.

His example was followed by his companions, the
last of the company carefully replacing the bushes in
their former position.

The brigands passed along 2 narrow and dark pas-
sage, which seemed to-slope downward, and suddenly
emerged into a large and magnificent cavern.

The walls were rough, and decorated with gay
lamps and a plentiful supply of candles, all lighted.
The uneven floor was cleanly swept, and at one side
of the chamber was a fireplace skillfully hollowed
out of the rock. It was so contrived as to consume
its own smoke.

In the center of the cave was a long table, on which
were bottles of wine, packs of cards, etc. Around
the table were chairs and wooden settles, and benches
were placed against the rocky walls.

At the farther end of the cavern, branched off into
numerous smaller caves, many of them the work of
art, aundoff the main cave, were dungeon-like cells,
provided with doors, which were intended for the
use of prisoners.

The main cavern was occupied by a score or more
of brigands, engaged in various idle pursuits, who
welcomed their companions with loud shouts of joy,
which were changed to exclamations of grict as they
beheld their dead and wounded companions,

{ transfer the money and papers to you |
|

It might bebetter |

with a}

His dress was modeled somewhat after the |

Suspended from his waist by chains of |

From his belt protruded several costly weap- |

You are the brigand chief, Il Diayolo, |

The captain has gone away for a few |

demanded |

‘“‘Let me see the Inelese, and I will then make the |

and they then proceeded to care for the wounded,
The senseless body of Sir John was laid upon a
bench, and attracted no attention until every brigand
had been duly cared for.
“Our prisoner must be cared for,” then declared the
lieutenant. “Wemustdress his wound without further
| delay. .Ho, there, Giorgio. you are the best doctor in
the band—you shall attend to him.”
Giorgio, a sinister-looking fellow of middle age,
stepped forward, and shook his head, saying:
| “He betrayed us, and I say let us kill him; the
| blood of our slain calls for vengeance !”’
| “Kill him! kill him!” eried a score of fierce voices.
| “Kill the treacherous Inglese?’’
A dozen men stepped forward to execute the will of
their comrades. :
‘Back, all!’ eried Barbi, waving his hand. “You
know well the rules of the company. No prisoner
| ean be killed without the consent of the captain. You
| must, therefore, wait until his return before touching
| our captive. Do you suppose I would have ordered
him to be brought to the retreat to be killed? Would
I not have had him killed on the spot when [ found
| he was alive?”
The men replied by alow, sullen murmur.
“Look you,” continued Barbi, pointing to the form
{of the baronet. “Our prisoner is no common man.
He must be a milor.
|} and take our vengeance by demanding an immense
iransom. When we get the ransom we will talk of
vengeance.”
The brigands greeted this speech with cheers.
“So, then, Giorgio,” said the lisutenant, turning to

= =
| Barbi speedily made them aware of his misfortunes,

| that personage, “you shall not be baulked of the re- |

| Venge you crave.
him to health.”

Giorgio assented, and proceeded to examine the
wound of the prisoner.

He discovered that a ball had entered the baronet’s
skull, and that a piece of bone was pressed inward
in such a way as to rest upon the brain. His knowl-
edge of surgery was extremely limited, but he man-
aged to extract -the ball, although so clumsily that
Sir John regained his consciousness by force of ex-
treme agony. Hethen bound up the prisoner’s head
i with a linen bandage and contemplated the result of
| his work with intense satisfaction. 5
| “Do you feel better now?’ he asked, as Sir John
|} made an effort to rise. :

The only reply he re
ing stare :

Giorgio regarded the flushed countenance of the
| prisoner a moment, and then felé bis pulse, saying:

“The Inglese has a fever coming on. Better put

Prepare to gain it by restoring

eeived was a vacant, wonder-

| him eut of the way, Barbi, than to have him make 80 |

| much trouble !’”’

“You forget the laws of the band,” responded the |
He |

j lieutenant. ‘Besides. [don’t want him to die.
1s the cause of my ceusin’s death at the hands of the
soldiers; and he shalllive to give me my_ revenge,
Take care of him, then, Giorgio. Nurse him well.
; You shall have your reward.”
| “fam no woman that [shonld nurse him!’ grum-
i bled Giorgio. ‘I like the fight, the retreat, the ex-
| citement of conflict, not the monotony of being

sick man’s nurse, and that man my enemy ?”

Barbi was thoughtful a moment, and then said:

| “Well, well, my wife shall wait upon him. She will
| nurse him so that he will soon be well. She knows

the properties of all the medicinal herbs, and has
ronee or twice cured me of a dangerous fever. Lay
| him back on the settle, Giorgio, and go you for An-
| netti, while I examine his garments and find out who
| he is.’’ :
| Giorgio disappeared in the direction of one of the
inner caverus, While Barbi made a rigid examination
| of the baronet’s garments.
Of course he found nothing.
“Tam sure he is a milor,” declared Barbi, when he
| concluded the search... “He has not a serap of paper,
|and but little money on his person. So much care
| looks suspicious. We will leave him to the captain
| when he comes, boys. The captain has English blood

} in him, and he can probably tell us who our prisoner |

+

is. Ah! hers comes Annet
} As he spoke, Giorgio returned, followed by a wo-
man—Barhbi’s wif

1é:%

=
Cl.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE INVALID.
Annetti, Barbi’s wife, was a fresh-looking woman,
with all the charms of youth and beauty—that is,
beauty of color more than of expression. Her eyes

vere vividly. red, as were also her lips, and this
vividness of celor, this wealth of bloom, made her
seem like some hardy tropical flower.

Her dress was a short blue skirt with a red bodice,
over which was laced a shorter bodice of black velvet.
| Her hair was confined in a net which glittered with
| genuine gold coins, and she wore a necklace -of gold
| coins around her neck.

“You sent for me ?” she said, approaching Barbi.
“T did; I want you to nurse this Inglese. He has
| fever coming on.”

Annetti looked at the baronet with considerable
interest, demanding:

“Whatis hisname? Who is he?’

}
“He is 2 milor, Lam sure, but I do not know his |

iname. Hecame to ransom the other Inglese, and
| betrayed us to the soldiers. We shot at him, and
killed his brother and wounded him. You will nurse
him, Annetti? He is the cause of my cousin’s death,
for Rigi is killed ft

“Ts he?” asked Annetti, carelessly, shrugging her
| pretty brown: shoulders above her crimson waist.
T never liked

him, you

know—the il-mannered fellow!
Inglese cured, though, to get a grand ransom for him,

“Well, he's no great loss.
} t ipcaegy?,
E will attend him, on one condition.’

“What
| Barbi. ;
“Why, if [eure him, and you get a grand ransom, I
}

is that, you pretty witeh?” demanded

must have halt.’”’

Barbi laughed, as did his companions.

“Yes, let her have half the ransom we get for hin,’
ericd several voices, in such hearty tones that it was
evident that Barbi’s wife had many friends among

| the banditti.

“Yes, you shall have half, Annetti,” declared Barbi.
| “The captain will give it you if you save the Inglese.
i Well do [ know,” he added, in a tone so low: that it
| reached only his wife’s cars, “that if you have lralt
| the ransom I shall bearich man. What the wife has
is the husband’s —ch, pretty onc?”

Annetti shrugged her shoulders again, smiled arch-
ly, and advanced to the side of the barunet.

“Amber! Amber!” he moaned, looking up into her
face with a pleading expression. ‘Cool my head,
| Amber, with your hands. My brain seems on fire !”
| The words were uttered in English, and, of course,
Annetti did not comprehend their import; but the
language of his countenance she did comprehend, and
her heart was touched.

Bidding one of the men remain by the sick man
until her return, she bustied about an inner cavern,
earrying in blankets, a narrow mattress, bed linen,
ete., and in a short time she announced that a room
| was ready for the prisoner.

Two of the men then carried Sir John into the
une prepared for him, and laid him upon his
bed.

This chamber was quite a cave in itself, and was
woll lighted up by a couple of large lanterns which
were suspended from projecting pieces of rock. The
bed lay on the floor, near a corner, but the linen that
covered it was clean and fresh.

Annetti brought water and bathed the baronet’s
face, and gave him cooling drinks and medicines; but
his fever inereased, and in his delirium he raved of
home, of Amber, of Ralph, and of his brother.

Days thus passed, and Barbi’s wife attended -the
sick prisoner, feeling her heart touched by his suffer-
ings, and still he grow. no better.

At length there came a change.

The crisis of the fever was passed, and the baronet
began-to recover his health and strength.

But, alas! he was not the same man as before his
wound. His returning health did not bring with
it returning consciousnesss.

One day, as he lay upon his couch in his inner
cavern, contemplating his wasted hands with a
woudering expression, Annetti fluttered into the
chamber, with her hands filled with flowers, and
gave them to him, saying: ;

“See the flowers, signor. Are they not pretty

“Amber loves flowers,’ replicd the baronet, in
English, as he inhaled the fragrance of the blossoms.

“What do you say. signor?”’ asked Annetti, sur-
prised at the caimness of her patient’s tones and the,
gentleness of his manner,

Her soft Italian speech seemed to arouse the mem-
ory of the baronet, and he said, in Ttalian :

“Who are you? Where do you live %”

“Praised be the saints!” cried Annetti, In accents
of joy. ‘He speaks at last! He has recovered his
senses |” ;

“Who are you? Where do you live?” repeated the
invalid.

“Tam Annetti, the wife of Lientenant Barbi,” re-
plied Annetti. “I live in a little cottage on the
mountain, half a mile from here. It’s a pretty little
home, with flowers and sunsbine; and now that you
have recovered, signor, I shall leave this damp place
and return to it.”

The invalid sighed, but made no reply.

“Compose yourself, signor,”’ continued the woman,
“while I call Barbi. The captain’s in his room, and
can’t be disturbed yet.”

She stepped to the door and called her husband,
explaining that the Englishman had recovered’ his
senses,

Barbi and a dozen companions speedily gathered
around the couch of the baronet.

“Yes, he is better,” said the lieutenagt. ‘His fever
hus left him—the delirium also, His Zjaulse is quite
calm and even. You shall soon have your reward,
Annetti. What is your name, signor?” he added, ad-
dressing the invalid.

Sir John replied only by a vacant stare.

“Your ‘name?’ repeated Barbi. ‘Milor—Milor—
what? MilorSmees? Milor—~’’

He waited expectantly for a reply. ‘

But he spoke to senses locked in forgetfulness.

Sir John smiled vacantly, looked from one#to the
other of the men, and his gaze finally returned to
Annetti, and he gave a sigh of relief at beholding
her,

 

We will restore him to health, |

were intensely black, as was also her hair, her cheeks |

If you want this }

“The Inglese is not well yet,” declared one of the
fellows, in a disappointed tone.

“He is mad-crazy,” said another.

“He is feigning madness,” declared Barbi, angrily.
“Look you, signor, you had best try no tricks upon
me!. Tell me your name, and make no hesitation
about it!’ :

The baronet smiled as if pleased.

Barbi threatened and stormed, but his words made
no impression upon the object of his wrath. On the
contrary, his gestures and violence seemed to amuse
the invalid.
| “This is too much!” finally cried the lieutenant.
“Heis really insane, sure enough.
out and shoot him, boys: He’ll never know who he
ie and we don’t want him living upon us. Out with
nim |’

The men greeted this inhuman speech with ap-
plause, and sprang forward to obey the order.

“You shall not kill him!" eried Annetti, springing
forward. “I have saved his life once, and I shall do
itagain. He belongs to me now, aud harm him who
dare!” .

“What spirit she has!” cried Barbi, admiringly. “If
his life would do you any good, Annetti, I would
| spare it; but it willnot. Heis an old lunatic, who
| will never know enough to repay you in the world.
| Be reasonable now.”

“Touch him if you dare!” retorted Annetti.

“Well, we won’t kill him, boys,” said Barbi, finally
| yielding. ‘‘We’ll turn him loose down the mountain,
; and let him care for himself.”
| ‘You shall not do that!” cried Annetti. “Tt is not
| for youto say what shall be the fate of this poor In-
| glese. He shall go to my cottage on the mountain,
where the fresh air will restore him.”

“Ha, ha, Barbi!’ iaughed one of the fellows; “you
have got a rival at last!”

‘he lieutenant scowled, and turned teward the
man with a menacing gesture.

Annetti smiled scornfully, as she said:

“Barbi knows me too well to heed such insinua-
tions.” e

Barbi smiled with relief, and his wife continued:

“Why should I linger here to beg of you the life of
this poor Ingiese when the captain is in his chamber?
IT will go to hin.”

}

 

|

| She skipped away, avoiding Barbi’s outstretched |

hands, aud hastened to a small cavern, at the fur-
| thest end of the main cave.  ~

In afew moments she returned, her countenance

expressing mingled joy and disappointment.

“T have seen the captain,” she declared. ‘You are
| forbidden to molest or annoy thie Inglese in any man-
ner.

“And does the captain say you muy-take the In-
| glese to our cottage ?” asked Barbi, gloomily.
| “No. He fears he might be seen there by some

tollow which would result in the discovery of the re-
| treat. He decides that the Inglese must remain

He only bowed coldly in assent,

“Your enthusiasm regarding the fate of Lord Mon-
tague’s daughter was short-lived methinks ; I thought
yonr ‘life was to be devoted to the search of the lost

ady Alice,’’’

“What! did you. not get my letter?” he cried, in
astonishment, and aroused to sudden interest,

“What letter ?”’

_ The one I wrote from France, several months
since,’

“No, we have received no letter from you, and his

| lordship does not regard you with feelings of deepest
nt. | gratitude, I can assure you.”
Let’s take him

“Then you do net know—he does not know, that
the Lady Alice is dead ?”’

“Dead!” she repeated, in a startled tene, and
searching his face eagerly.

i ches her heart gave a great, wild bound of de-
ight.

It was even as she had hoped ; he did not know that
the lost Lady Alice and Lady Alicia Vaughan were
one and the same person, and of course she could not
know that he was Reginald Rutherford, He should
never know it; she would invent some scheme to sep-
arate them—they must never marry, because, of
course, her identity could not always be kept: from
him, and when it should become known, it would
hurl her at once from her lofty position.

Those thoughts made her so weak and faint that
she could not stand; she felt as if she were upon the
brink of a precipice, and one false step would now
cause her ruin. :

“Did you. say dead?” she asked, faintly, as she
sank into a chair and beckoned him to a seat beside

 

You are to treat him with the utmost respect.” |

passing soldier or traveler, and that inquiries would |

| here, but that I may attend upon him every day, if I.

j like. The captain knows some of the rich Inglese,
|} andis coming in soon to see if he remembers or has
ever seen this prisoner. 80, Barbi, and the rest of
|you, mind you treat the poor gentleman with re-
spect!”
There could be no appeal from this decision, and
the men returned to their employment in the main
cave.
The baronet was well treated and weil fed, choice
wines were given him—for such were in daily use by
the brigands—and it was not many weeks before he
| recovered his former strength and vigor.
| The wound he had reeeived had deprived him of all
| memory of the past, and his manner was full of a
| gentle melancholy, as if he had a faint consciousness
| of his great loss. ,
| He came and went among the caverns at his will,
| no one interfering with him, and the compassionate
| Annetti took him out several times on the mountain
| to walk, but he seemed to shrink from all contact
with the outer world, and to feel at ease only in the
| brigands’ subterranean retreat.
And thus more than a year passed.
| During all these months not a ray of remembrance
| brightened his mind, notaray of hope came to his
soul. He seemed to live only in the present. He did
not seem Jike a lunatic, nor was his manner entirely
vacant. Heshared neither the joys nor sorrows of
the bandits, but seemed to live in a world of his own,
where no emotions ever came to disturb the gentle
melancholy that distinguished him.

But at length there came a change.

{TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE OCEAN DETECTIVE; or, The
Trail of Death, by Richard J. Storms, will be
commenced week aiter next.

———___—_—__ §- a

Churchyard Betrothal.

Continued from 3 First Page,

 

“It is your own fault} you might still have
been ,

He waved his hand impatiently, while an ex-
pression of annoyance ¢ressed his tine features.

“Since I am eut off from the old life,” he said,
gravely, “I desire to remain asI_ am—at least
until I have carved out for myself a fame that
will make me distinguished.”

“Then you expect to become distinguished ?”
| she queried, eagerly.

“T have every reason to expect it now,” he
said, quietly.

She laughed bitterly.

“Why did you assume the name of Lenox ?,
she asked, after a few moments of awkward
silence.

“T did not assume it; I have four names, and
Archer Lenox belongs to me as muchas the
others.”

“Why, then, did you drop the others

“Because they were too well known, and I
could pursue my studies better as plain Mr.

99)
‘

 

| Lenox, the protege of the great sculptor, Powers;

| besides, it has saved answering annoying ques- | yowed before this noble and kingly man, and yielded

tions.”

Again she laughed that scornful, disagreeable

} laugh.

“You regret the old names, and the circumstances
which caused you to feelit necessary to drop them?’
she asked, bending toward him and reading his face
with her glowing eyes.

been proud to have kept it pure,” he answered, haugh-
tily, yet with a troubled brow.

“Thank you,” was the mocking response, then she
added, maliciously: ‘‘You have not congratulated me
yet.”

“¥ do not know as congratulations would be appro-
priate,” he returned, with scornfully curling lips.

“Tam Countess of Rutherford, at all events,”
retorted, with crimson cheeks.

“Tf that was the height of your ambition, and your
cup of happiness is filled, allow me now to offer you
my congratulations.”

itis tones were full of irony, and he bowed low be-
fore her.

“You know what the height of my ambition was;
you know what would have filled my cup of happi-
ness tothe brim, Reginald Rutherford,and you dashed
it from me,” she ecricd, passionately, and calling*‘him
for the first time by the old name.

Yes, it was Reginald Rutherford !

After visiting, as he believed, the grave of the lost
Lady Alice, he came to Florence, where he by acci-
dent fellin with the great sculptor Powers, who two
years before had met himin Rome, and who, having
discovered his talent, had then tried to persuade him
to devote hia life to the art. But his uncle, who was
living at that time, would not consent to it, and now
when he related to him the story of his fallen for-
tunes, this great and good man insisted that he should
resume his studies, and was assisting him in every
possible way

Clara Gilbert was angered beyond all endurance by
the scorn and contempt of the only man whom she
had ever loved, She knew he was poor, and that she
had been the means of wresting his great wealth
from him,

She had triumphed over the fact, as only the evil
and revengeful can triumph, and she had believed
until this hour, that he was wandering in sorrow and
despair “around the world mourning his lost inherit-
ance, What was her anger and chagrin then to find
him almost alion in the highest circle of Florence,
npon terms of intimacy with a duke’s. family, be-
trothed to their fapaeen niece and her bitterest foe,
and fast rising to honor and distinction,

“I warned you to beware,” she continued, going
nearer to himand laying her quivering hand upon his
arm, “I told you [ would have my revenge, and I
will; I told you that ‘hell had no fury like a woman
seorned,’ and Lswear to you that you shall find it so,
You were a fool, Reginald Rutherford, for I could
have loved you as no other woman ever will, T could
have been a@ wife so devoted that yeu should never
have known an instant’s care or pain, i"

she

ceedingly unbecoming and entirely lost upon me, TI
think it would be unwise to prolong this interview,”

He was standing haughtily erect before her now;
he had east aside her hand from his arm, while his
fine face glowed with the utter scorn and contempt
which she knew he felt for her,

She had never seen him look so noble and manly
befere, and all the evil passions of her heart were
surging within her that she had failed in her purpose
to win this man for her husband,

But she was not done with him yet, she had not yet
learned how much he knew regarding the girl to
whom report said he was betrothed,

“Ha, hal’ she laughed, ‘that does not seem tobe
@ pleasant topic for you to discuss ; perhaps, though,
you would net refuse to talk about the Lady Alicia
Vaughan, You. have evidently made good use of
your time, since I hear you ure betrothed to her
grace’s niece,”

 

 

| her.
“Yes, she is dead—how strange that you did not
get my letter. I wrote Lord Montague all the par
| ticulars,’’ he said, greatly excited by this information.
| “No, he never received it, and he still believes you
| to be searching for her, and is constantly grieving
that you do not write to him.”

“Strange!” he murmured again, and the suspicion
that she might have intercepted the letter came into
his mind.

He could believe almost anything of-her now.

She read his thought, and cried out, passionately :

“I tell you the letter never reached Montague.” ©

“And that poor man has been kept in suspense all
| this time. How cruel?” he said.
| “Yes, yes; but tell me about it,” said the countess,
| impatiently.

And then he told her of all his long journey and
search, how he had traced the poor girl from place to
place, and at length had found only a grave. He told
her of the kind sister Agatha, of the coarse, worn
clothing, and the perfumed handkerchief which had
proved to him beyond a doubt that it was really the
| Lady Alice who was sleeping so lonely and silently
under the willows. 3 .

Clara buried her face in her handkerchief, and
fierce sobs seemed-to shake her form, as she listened
to his sad story, but in reality she was laughing to
herself to find how thoroughly he had been deceived.
Her spirits rose with every word he uttered, and she
felt equal to any amount of plotting and treachery to
carry out her evil purposes.
| “His lordship is here in Florence with you, is he
| not?” Reginald asked, when he had concluded.

She hadit on her tongue to say he was not, that
she had left himinthe country for his health. but
she feared he might discover the lie, and then be
determined to see him in spite of all that she could
do.

never do to let them meet under the present circum-
stances, for if Reginald should tell his lordship of his
engagement, and deseribe his betrothed to him, he
would recognize her at once, and her castle wouk
tumble to the gronnd in an instant; so she answered,
carelessly:

“Yes, he is with us, but still very feeble.”

“T must see him and break to him this sad story.”

“Not for the world, Reginald Rutherford—at least,
not at present; it would kill him. How imprudent
you men are; he must not even know of your pres-
ence in Florence until h@is stronger, for he would
be wild to know all. I tell youit would be fatal for
him to know just now that the Lady Alice is
dead.”

“But [cannot think it right to keep it from him—
he ought to have known it long ago,” said the young
man, gravely.

“Allow me to be the judge of that, if you please,”
she replied, haughtily, then_added: ‘I do not admit
any one to see him without his physician’s orders. I
will consult with him regarding what you have told
me, and if he thinks it will do to tell him, [will break
it to him as gently as possible. If he does not—well,
it is news that will keep.”

He turned away from her disgusted with her heart-
less way of speaking, and in his heart he felt that she
was glad that the young girl was dead, notwithstand-
ing her pretended grief. But he resolved to watch
| her closely while she remained in Florence, and if he
discovered that she was deceiving him, he would find
a way tosee Lord Montague and _ learn for himself
the state of his health, and his feelings toward him.

He arose—it oppressed him to be in her presence.

“T beg you will excuse me now, unless you have
Som eene else you wish to question me about,” he
said. i

“Ah, yes, I suppose I should apologize for having
kept you so long from the side of. your betrothed. I
must say, Mr. Lenox, you have displayed excellent
taste in your choice, for the Lady Alicia Vaughan is
very beautiful.”

His eyeslighted involuntarily; it was sweet to hear
her praised even by this woman.

“Very beautiful,” she repeated, watching him
narrowly, “and you have been very fortunate in se-
curing so valuable a prize, as the ‘heiress of the
wealthy duchess will undoubtedly prove.

“Madam!” began Mr Lenox, (a8 we must

 

still

| continue to call him) his cheek flushing hotly at her

| things,” she

insinuation. :

“Pardon, but one cannot help thinking of those
aid, carelessly, then asked: “Are her
parents living?”

“No, she is an orphan—that is why her grace has

| adopted her.”

“Ah! strange that she should happen to fancy a

| poor artist, when, without doubt, she might have
| chosen from the highest in the land,” she said, in-
solently.

And yet she knew in her heart just how it was—it
was not. strange af all; she would willingly have
him her heart’s deepest homage had he been a
pauper.

“Does she—this petted darling, know that she is to
marry Reginald Rutherford, formerly of Ruther-
tord ¢”

“She does not? She knows me only as Archer

| Lenox,”

“Twas proud of the old name, and I should have |

| ply

“—T beg your pardon, Lady Rutherford,” ho inter- |
rupted, ‘‘but allow. ine to say that your anger is ex- |

“You would not like her to know just now?”
“JT should not, Lady Rutherford!” was the stern re-
, and for an instant she quailed before him.
May Lf ask when you intend to undeceive her? You
‘annot of course always keep up this farce.”
“When I have won the fame I crave—when I can
‘lay my triumphs at. her feet; not till then. Now,
madam, I beg your permission to retire,’ he said,
with prond dignity.

Had she not been a woman, he would have left her
long ago, but his native chivalry made him bear with
her. ;

She laughed mockingly, and gliding softly to the
door, laid her hand upon the handle, and kept 1t
there. She had not quite done with him.

“Really,” she said, “I did not know there was 80
much seutiment in your nature, Mr. Rutherford; but
I see there is fire in your heart, although it. took the
beauty and loye of the niece of a duke to kindle it.
What a pity it is, that you cannot offer her a position
befitting her station. It would have been so nice
now, if you could only have taken her to Rutherford
and made her a countess.”

Ho grew deadly pale at this insult. It was a cruel
shaft, and it had always been a bitter thought, that
he could not place his peerless darling where she
ee belonged. But he set his lips,and bore it
silently.

“Well, well, it cannot be helped,” she went on,
floating over his pain, and remembering her own
iumiliation that night at Montague, ‘fortunes do
change hands unaccountably, and you little thought
that night when we stood by the lake at Montague,
and I gave you back your ring, that I should now oc-
cupy the position you expected to give your wife. I
suppose the Lady Alicia is destined to wear that
ring. I hope it will fit. You know it is an evil omen
when the wedding-ring does not fit. It fitted me ex-
actly. As for the estate, Sir Arthur always wanted
Rutherford, and of course when he. found he conld get
it, he took it, as who would not? Of course I had to

tell him about the deception regarding the marriage,
and he thought it very clever in me'to have planned
it.all so nicely for the Lady Alice——”

“You planned it all for the Lady Alice! You said
she conceived the idea, and begged you to help her!”
exclaimed Reginald, hoarsely, and laying a heavy
hand on her arm.

“Did 1?” she asked, indifferently, and shaking his
hand off. “I.forget how that was. At all events it
turned out very well for me. Arthur always was
fond of me, and it needed but very little encourage-
ment on my part to induce him to make me his
countess. 1. did not object, for you know the old
adage says, ‘if we cannot have what we wand, we
must take what we can get.’
marry the Lady Alicia, if you ever do, you must
bring ber to Rutherford, and [ will do my best to en-
tertain her pleasantly, and I presume Arthur may
like to ask your advice regarding the improvements
upon the estate.”

She smiled viciously as she opened the door for him
to pass. She had had her say, and she knew her
stabs had all struck home. He would have felled her
to the floor, had she been a man; as it was he passed
her with such a feeling of loathing in his heart as he
had never before felt for any human being; yet the
mocking laugh which floated after Lim as he shut the
door made his ears tingle for hours.

CHAPTER XXV.
“AM I RIGHT OR WRONG?”

Archer Lenox hadnot been gone from
room three minutes when a delicate white
ed anxiously through the open door.

the ante-
face peer-

 

She knew she must keep them apart now—it would |

 

Clara stood before a full-length mirror, a triumphant
smile upon her scarlet lips, a mocking light in her
dusky eyes.

She was arranging the jewels upon her neck, and
giving afew graceful touches generally to her toilet,
before returning to the ball-room, when she suddenly
felt a light touch upon her arm, and saw a white figure
at her side.

“Clara.”

“Well, Lady Alicia Vaughan!” in low, mocking
tones.

The two women confronted each other; one bril-
Hant, haughty, defiant; the other trembling, beseech-
ing, wretched.

“Tell me about papa—is he well?’

“No, he is anything but well.”

“Has he—does he miss me?”

A short, contemptuous laugh that cut the fair girl
to the very. soul followed this question.

“He does not appear to. I do all J can to make
your absence unnoticeable,” was the heartless reply.

“Does he never speak of me ?” the‘Lady Alice asked
with quivering lips. ‘

“Never,” remorselessly answered that ready liar,
while even then the moans of the heart-broken father
for his child were ringing in her ears.

“Never, the blow of your running away, and that
disgracetul trick somreititiae the marriage nearly killed
him. Butill as he was, he cursed you, and turned
his face to the wall thinking to die.”

“Don’t, Clara—have mercy; I cannot bear that,”
cried the. stricken girl, throwing out her hands as if
to ward off a dreadful blow.

The Countess of Rutherford glanced uneasily at the
door. Itwas partially open. She went and shut it,
turning the key in the lock.

She meant to make thorough work of this inter-
view.

She came back and stood before the unhappy girl,
who had fallen into a chair, and was sitting with
white, rigid lips, and fiercely clasped hands, the very
picture of despair. -

“Yes, he was dreadfully sick,” Clara continued, in
cold, hard tones, ‘‘and Count Rutherford and I nursed
him back to life. He clung to me from the very first,
and when we heard that you were dead——”

“Dead f? gasped the Lady <Alice, nearly falling
from her chair. ;

“Yes, dead,” returned the cunning plotter, blessing
her lucky stars that she had seen Reginald first, and
learned his story, for it would help her amazingly in
her nefarious schemes. Then she continued:

“After his lordship began to be convalescent, Regi-
nald went to search for you. He promised your
father that he would devote his life to the task of find-
ing you. It seems he must haye got upon the track of
some one else answering to your deseription, and fol
lowed her from place to place until he found out
where sbe sickened, and died;.and was burfed. He
was convinced beyond a doubt that it was you, for he
wrote us all the circumstances, and then gave up all
further investigation.”

“Oh, Heaven!’ moaned the Lady Alice; ‘“‘and did
not papa forgive me then ?”

“No—I am sorry to say he did not. He said you had
made you own bed and must lie init, that you had
dared todefy him, andno Montague ever forgave any-
thing of the kind. He wouid not even go to see where
you were buried. saying he had been tortured
enough.”

This was too horrible, and the fair sufferer shricked

| aloud in her anguish; but the sound was-drowned in

the music from the ball-room. It seemed as if her
heart was being seared with a hotiron! Wave after
wave of agony rolled over her soul, pain after pain,
each bitter and keen as death itself, pierced her brain.
Great dropslikedeath-dew stood on her marble brow,
her whole body trembled asa leaf trembles in the
wind, and still that wicked woman stood calmly
by, gloating over her anguish, asif to her it was
some rich feast to fatten her soul. What cared she
how much she suffered, for was she not Her hated
rival? Had she not, although uneonsciously, and
even while fiying from it, won the love of the man
for whom she would have periled her soul to win?

He bowed down to her and worshiped her, as only his
noble, manly nature could worship. She knew it, she
could see it in his every look, she could feel it in every
tone of his rich voiee, and it made a very demon of her. ©

She had told him she would have her revenge, and she
was beginning to take it now.

She would wring ker heart to-night, and she would crush
his to-morrow.

“T tried to reason with him,’ she continued. craftily,
only desiring to strike the dagger yet deeper. “I toid
him you were not so much to blame, that he had driven
you to it, butit was all of no use, he would not listen to
a word, and forbade me ever to mention yeur name to him
again. Hetold me I must be his daughter henceforth,
and truly he has treated me like one. He was quite
pleased when I at length consented to marry Count Ru
therford, gave me an elegant outfit, and presents in abund
ance, and gave me away When I was married as if I were
really his own child.”

Ah! why need she tell all this, why would she not have
some pity fer her misery, and not flaunt her glory in her
face, when she must see that she was nearly tortured to
death.

Lady Alice shivered as with the cold as these thoughts
ran through her mind, but she lifted her wan face and
said, wearily:

“Yes, Isaw an account of itinthe paper. I only wish
Reginald had seen you in the first place, then ali this
misery would never have happened. He-would have re-
jected me at once, and papa could have had nothing to say
and we should all have been happy to-day. I did not want
to be married, it would have been a pleasure to have taken
care of papa as long ashe lived. I do notsee why people
wish to betroth innocent. children, for it always ends in
unhappiness.”

Clara’s heart bounded in wild exultation at this speech.

“The little fool thinks I am married to Reginald Ruther-
ford,’ she said to herself, “she cannot. have heard how
Arthur Claimed the estate, and came into the title, and
that is how I came to be the Countess of Rutherford. UH
Keep up the deception, it will only inerease her mortifica-
tion, and will help along my plans amazingly. Low for-
tunate it is that Arthur could not come to-night, and
what a game of cross purposes all this is.”

“Ttis strange,” she said, alond, “how things turn out
sometimes, but I don’t know as it is to be wondered at that
he should like me, considering how much we were thrown
into each other’s society, during your-father’s sickness.”’

“Was he sick long?’

‘*Very sick for three weeks.”

“Ts he here in Florence?’

“Yes, but he does not go
feeble.”

“Clara, can’t I see him?’ begged the Lady Alice, with a
pitiful look at her foe.

“What! when he believes you dead?
kill him.’

“T know,” she sobbed. “but couldn’t you arrange it so
that I could just see him? He need not know I was near.”

“TIT care not trust you, you would betray yourself and
then all would be lost.”’ '

“JT would not; I would die before I would make a sign.
Oh, my heart longs so for a look intohis dear face. Will
you do it?’

“No. it would not be safe,” was the cold reply.

“TI do notsee why you cannot break it to him gently that
I am living, and then let me go boldly to him.”

“Alice Montague, surely you ought to know your own
father better thanI. Butisee youdonot, If he cursed
you when he thought he was dying, do you think he
would forgive you now, if he fonnd you living and happy
in the love of a penniless artist like Archer Lenox?’

“Archer Lenox is a noble man; any woman might be
proud of his love,” and she lifted her -head like a queen
now, while the color rushed into her marble cheeks.

No one could assail her lover with impunity.

“Granted,” returned Clara, with a short, Nassh laugh,
“but would his lordship regard matters in the same light
that you do?) You seem to forget that he is a wonderfully
proud man.”’

“T do not; but oh, why, why do I have to suffer like this?”’
she moaned, wringing her hands in angnish

’

out much—he is still quite

That would surely

sh.

“You did not look much like a sufferer when you entered
the ball-room ’to-night,” was the sarcastic reply. “This
and this does not seem.as if you lecked for anything,” and
Clara touched the frost-like lace and heavy silk of her
dress, adding, with intense bitterness in her tones: ‘And
one would have thought from his grace’s manner toward
you, that you were the petted idol of his heart.”

“No, I do not lack. I have eyerything heart can wish,
and they do, indeed, love me like a tender father and
mother, but my heart will cry out after my own in spite of
all,” she wailed. .

“How did you happen to fall into the hands of the duke
and duchess?’ Clara asked, determined to make herself
master of the whole field.

“T fell by the wayside the night of my flight, and her
grace found me nearly dead from a sunstroke.”

She then related all the incidents of her sickness, and
her subsequent adoption ne the duchess,

“And Archer Lenox really thinks you are the duke’s
niece?’

“Yes, certainly. Iam known only as such to any ono
aside from yourself.”

“What will you do when you come to marry him?) Wil
you still keep it a secret?” :

The fair girl’s face flushed bright as the scarlet flowers
at her throat.

“That will not be for some time yet. I told him only
to day that I had a secret, and was about to contide if to
him, but he made light of it, and would not hear it. He
told me to keep it until some day, when he would have
something to reveal to me.”

“Hal! then he has a secret from you, has he?’

“Yes, but it cannot be anything very remarkable.

“Do not be too sure—these men are strange creatures I
can tell you,” said the countess, maliciously.

“Tr do not fear Clara—there are few men like Archer,” she
returned, the color coming back to her face, and a tender
gmmile hovering about her lips.

Oh! how she hated that beautiful girl sitting there 80
proud and confident of the man whom she had dared
to love before her, and her brain almost reeled as she real-
ized at that moment, how very near her ruin had been.
Only a step!

Whatif the Lady Alice had revealed her secret to her

| >a t av’
However, when you | lover that day?

Whatif Reginald Rutherford had betrayed his identity
in return ?

All would have been lost! ‘

But her star was yet in the ascendant, and as soon as
she could grasp the fact, her spirits rose with every mo-
ment.

She had come just in time. .

Neither, as yet, had the remotest idea that they were
loving the very one whom they had so much dreaded six
months before, and they should neyer know now, she
would find some means of parting them, for they must
never wed—no, not if—

Even-she, bad as she was, hesitated to finish
tence.

that sen-
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE OCEAN DETECTIVE; or, The

Trail of Death, by Richard J. Storms, will be

commenced week after next.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

rae
Cp ye

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=-

 

 

BALM FOR A WOUNDED HEART.
BY A. M. CURTIS.

Adown the winding orchard lane,

With breath of blossoms oversweet,
I know you will not come again

When comes the spring-time’s dancing feet.
And I shall wait and watch no more

Your hastening step with eager eyes,
When shadows fall the landscape o’er,

And o’er my hungry heart likewise.

One year ago you vowed to wed

A being with my form and face;
Ah, me! 'twas yesternight you said

I was too old and commonplace.
J. had outlived the aims of youth,

And so could never more be young ;
How keen it cut—oh, bitter truth!

You sent it forth with ready tongue.
Then turned and left me with a sneer—

I won't forgive, and can’t forget;
But, ah! by yonder sky, my dear—

My dear, I’ll make you sorry yet.
So count the days as they go by—

We'll see what time and tact can do;
You've much to spare of wealth, and I~
Well, I'll for breach of promise sue.

‘Ten thousand—may be more—not less
Can heal my wounded, trusting heart ;
I were but human now to bless
The hour when we were doomed to part
"Tis my ambition soon to sport
A nobby team at Rockaway,
And luxuries of such simple sort
As I’ve not had for many a day.
So youth and sentiment, good night;
The masker’s garb no more I don;
When I have got the stamps I[’ll write
And tell you hew I’m getting on.

A BAD BOY'S DIARY.

THE LITTLE PRESTIGIATEDR.
NUMBER 7.

You never saw such a muss in your life as
thare has bin in our house the last few days!
P’raps I can ride a horsein a circus ring, but I’ve
abandoned the attempt to be a magishun. It
don’t pan like I’xpected. It looks esy wen he’s
a doing of it, but wen you come to try it your-
self you’re disapointed. The nightafter pa took
me to Herman’s sho I thought I’d have asho
myself.

Lotty Sears. an’ 2 uther girls wus in to spend
the evenin’ with my sisters. I went in cook’s
pantry an’ hooked a dozzunegs, There wasa
yung man come with Lotty Sears, a reg’lar swell
from Nu York, you never see! I got the egs an’
then I wanted a hat like Herman used so I took
hisn off the hat-rack in the hall—it wus a shiny
bever hat, the latest thing in hats. I smashed
the egs up in the hat, an’ then I gota little table
in the back parlor an’ fixed my things so I could
pla I was a wizzurd, an’ then I sez:

“Wolks, won’t you come to my exbishun? ]’m
a@ prestydigtater. Entranse 26 sents.”

They all laffed, an’ come in; the yung swell
he give me 25 sents for the hull crowd. I took
up the hat an’ shook it, an’ said:

“Ladys an’ gentlemen this is the eg trick.”

They looked in an’ seen the egs allin a jelly.
The fellar he didn’t kno it was his hat, an’ my
sisters they didn’t think at first, 50 they smiled
like enny thing.

“Now you see it,” sez I.

“Yes,” sez they.

“Now you don’t,” seg I.

Then I shook ‘em an’ did wot the wizzurd did,
but the plagy egs wouldn’t come together agane.
Thad to give it up. The swell he laffed fit to
kill, but wen I said I was sorry his hat was in
sach a sticky mess, whot would he ware home?
he got serus mity quick, his face got about 3 feet
long, he looked asif he’d like to eat me. Bess
clered me out the room, Sue said she’d tell my
father, an’ so it gose—a inncent little boy can’t
do the leste thing ’thout he’s scolded an’ banged
round. Offen an’ offen have I wisht I was a injy-
rubber boy.

The nex day [I thought I’d have a sho out to
the stable. I put my prices down to 1 s°.: ; all
the boys come in. JI had mamma’s gold watch—
I got it out her buro drawer wen she was eting
dinner—an’ cook’s mortar-an’-pestle, that she
pounds almonds an’ crowkets in. I sed:

“Will enny lady lend me her gold watch?”
like I heard Herman ask, an’ Johnny as he
agrede ’cause [let him comein for nothin’, he
said:

“Tl lend, you mine,” and he gives me over
maimma’s watch, wot I’d put in his pocket for
that purpuss, so I pounded it all up.

It was awful hard to smash—only the cristel,
that broke esy. I had to take a stone at last. I
said:

“You see the watch is all banged up ”

They hollered, ‘*Yes.”

{ took it and held it behind my back a minit,
an’ then I let’em see the watch agane. I was
awful scart wen I saw it was just the same an’
wouldn’t.go back nice like it was.

The boys were scart, too, so we hid it in the
manger, so the folks would think that Prince—
that’s our horse—had got it out the buro drawer
an’ chewed it up.

“You ain’t swollered the sord!” yelled little
Bill Brown.

I said I hadn’t got a sord to swoller.

‘“Won’t a jack-nife do as well?” ast Bob
Smith.

Isaid TP’dtry. Then he opened his big jack-
nife, an’ leant it to me.

I tried to swoller it, but I choked perfeckly
dredful—the blood come out my mouth—so Bill
he hollered:

“Give it up! You ain’t no prestydigtater worth
a fig!”

All the boys said I’d given ’em away—I must
pay back their sents. So I did, an’ my tong hurt
awful—swelled up like enny thing. I was as
mad as a hornet ’cause they talked so, so I went
into the house.

Mamma ast me what was the matter with my
mouth. I said I guessed it was the blood-beets
we had fer dinner.

‘I didn’t feel very good the rest the afternoon.
My tung hurt like fury. I felt kind of sorry,
too, about mamma’s watch.

When we was at tea, an’ I dipping my cake in
my tea cause my tung was sore, in comes Sam
rite in the dining-room—he’s our man—with
cook an’ Betty, he a holdin’ up the watch. Evry
one the folks looked at it, then: looked at me.
Wot made ’em ?

“I found it in the manger,” gasped Sam, giv-
ing it to mamma.

“Mamma,” sez I, “I do bleve Prince must a
got it out, your buro an’ chewed itp like that.
Lemme look,” sez I, ‘‘an’ see if I can see the
prints o’ his teeth into the case.”

“Oh, my son, my son, my son!” sez mamma;
“don’t vou remember the story of your name-
sake, little Georgie Washton an’ his hachet?”

av’ lookin’ at the watch agane, she burst into
teres an’ retreted from the room.

“How came you with it?’ ast my father, so
sturnly that I began to shake.

But let me drop the curtin on the haroing
scene, as they say in storys. I will not polute
thy pages, my dere diry, with what happened
nex. Suffishunt be it to remark that for the fol-
lowing week my one grate thought was, ‘‘Oh,
how I wish I was a Edison, soI could get out a
patent for making injy rubber little boys!”
When I gro up an’ have a family, I don’t mean
to punish ’em for what they didn’t mene to do,
Such unjustness is enuff to make a boy pack up
his nite-shirt an’ his tooth-brush an’ run away
an’ live with Injuns. Why don’t they go an’ buy
another watch? There’s plenty down to Mr.
Goldsmith’s jurely store, stid of making such a
fuss bout that. —

At last they’ve got somethin’ else to think of
‘sides little Georgie bean such a dredful bad
child. They’re as plesant an’ good-natured as a
basket o’ chips. Montague de Jones’ old aunt
over in Ireland has dide an’ left him five thou-
sand pounds. I’m sure I don’t kno wat it’s
pounds of—mebbe it’s pounds of munny, which
would be a awful lot, wouldn’t it? He and Lil-
ly is going to get married now. Pa sez he allers
did think Montague was a nice feller—only too
yung to marry. 3

So it’s all made up. I’m goin’ to try to bea
real good boy till after the wedding, ’cause Lil
she took me in her room an’ talked to me with
teres in her eyes, an’ give mea gold dollar to
keep, an’ ast me wouldn’tI try an’ not do any
mischief, ’cause everyboddy was in such a hur-
ry, 80 much to do, and she wanted the affare to

go off without any aksidents.

Lil’s a good girl. I like her best. I’m going
to try to pleaze her, so’sI can go an’ live with
her when she’s got ahome of herown. She sez
Imay. She’ll have a little room on purpose for
me, with a buzz-saw, an’ a keg of nails, an’ a set
of tools.

I guess I won’t tell Montague she bleached
her hair to make it that gold color with tar sope
—it used to be as black as cole. O goody! ain't
I glad, such lots of cake. Little Johnny’s folks
ain’t got a wedding like our folks has! I crow-
ed over him to-day, you bet.

I’ve been so busy that 1 havn’t writ in my diry
for awful long time. I guess folks find out their
little brothers can be useful when they’re ast
pleasantly.

My legsis that tired wen I go to bed, running
for spools of thread, silk, cotton, needles, pat-
terns, raisins, citron, post-offisis, notes to Mister
De Jones, an’ so forth, I wish I could take them
off like ole Billy Giles does his at nite.

To-morrow is the grate day wen the wedding
will take plaice. I must go to bed at onst so’s
to be up urly.

It is all overat last. I got up bright and urly.
They were to be married in church at ‘leven
o’clock. Cook an’ everydoddy was too busy to
get brekfast. She said:

“Get yourself some bread an’ butter; I’ve got
lots to tend to.”

I didn’t kno boys had to eat bread an’ butter
wen they’re sisters get married. I went in
where they had a grate long table set, all flow-
ers an’ cake, salad, oysters, youdon’t kno. AsI
stood up I was able to eat’bout twicst as much
as if I’d set down.

Noboddy was in there. I spilled a decanter
on the table-cloth. Such a stain! such a owder
of sherry! I got ont quick’s I could so’s they’d
think Betty tipped it over.

Betty she said “Come be dressed,” so I was
dressed, an had a button-hole boquet, a hanker-
chif stuck ont my brest pocket, an shiny shoes.

“Sit down,” sez she; “kepe still, so you wont
spoil your clothes.”

I sat down a little while, then I slipped out
the back door an went over to Johnny’s to play
a spell to pass away the time. So Johnny said,
“Thare’s a nice big mud puddle where we can
sale our boats,” an he pushed me in, which sure-
ly wasn’t my fault.

When I got home the hull company had to
wait while I was dressed in my ole clothes, an
mamma crying bout the table-cloth, purtendin
she was cryin cause her doughter was goin away,
an papa whispering he would *“‘tend to me when
all was over.” :

I tell you Lil looked nice when she come down
stares in her white satin, her chekes as red as
roses, a grate white vailalloverher. Sue looked
pretty, too. She was the bridesmade. Mr. De
Jones seemed as if he couldn’t beleve it was
Ocktober, he was so warm an uncomfortable;
he stepped on Lil’s train an tore it, so they had
to pin it up in the hall; he wondered where his
hat was when it was on his head, an he burs*
four pares white kids trying to get them on, he
was insuchahurry. SoI pinned Aunt Betsey’s
red silk hankerchif onto his cote behind, an no-
boddy found it out till he was walking up the
ile. All the people began to laugh a little, an
the docktor jerked it off. So he thought he
wanted to tell him something, an he stopped an
looked back, while Lil didn’t kno an went ahead.
So the folks giggled out lond, an he got as red
as a piny.

That embarrsed him so that when the minister
ast him for the ring he dropped it, an it rolled
along an went down in the register, an Sue had
to take offoneohern. By that time he didn’t
kno one from another, he was that confused, an
he went to walk out o church with Aunt
Betsey. ,

Lil says I shant come to live with her, to pay
for that.

' I don’t care. I’m going to tell my brother
Montagu about those letters of hers I found in
her lower buro drawer from that other feller
what used to come here last winter that give
’em back to her because she was snueh a flirt.
I’m going to tell him how she pads her shoulder-
blade an what a temper she’s got.

It was the ministur I shot wot performed the
seremony ; he’s got a scar on his forrid, an looks
awful sollum.

We all went into the dining-room wen we got
home. I guess there were napkins spred over
where I spilt the sherry. I like to burst, there
were so menny kinds of weddin cake. They
drank tostes an tostes. Folks was in hi spirits.
Some buddy give me a glass of wine an said:

‘Now, little Georgie, toste his sister.”

An I said:

‘‘Here’s to my sister wot’s gone an got marrid.
May her little boys never get their ears boxed,
nor their hare pulled, nor their legs run oph,
like her little brother has.”

They had to hurry te get to the trane; Bess
she throwed her slipper after the carridge; every

Limproved the oppurtunity to drink up all the
wine left in the glasses.

 

buddy said good-by; so they didn’t miss me, an

When maimma came to look for me ] was under
the table, offul, offul sick. I ast her had there
been aerthquake. She said what for. I told
her cause the floor tipped up so I couldn’t stand,
an the chares an table was slipping round like
they couldn’t help theirselves.

an put me to bed, an side an side like her heart
would break, an said;

“O, Georgie, Georgie, wot will you be up to
nex ?”

So I ansered her :

“Pd be up to bed nex,” which was the truth.

|Next week the Bap Boy invites himself to
take a ride, and he is found to be one too many
in a company of three.)

HOW A WOMAN
SAVED TWO HUNDRED PEOPLE.

BY ANNIE ASHMORE,

It was a amall but thriving village on the west
coast of England. All day long had the rain been
eae steadily down; forthe matter of that it had

en doing the same the day before, and the day be-
fore that, and for five days before that. Eight days
of ceaseless down-pour, as if the Diluvian days had
returned, and Mill Village was to be washed from
the sight of men.

Every house in the valley wore a water-logged look ;
the sides of the mountains were scored with red water
veins, and Mill Brook, that most obscure of streams,
whose only mission hitherto had been to turn some
twenty water-wheels, was tumbling over its narrow
course, and snatching in its greedy lips, like some
rabid dog, now a piece of meadow land, and now a
cherished hay-stack. :

Toward the evening of the eighth day small groups
of men began to congregate about the streets of the
village, and to gaze doubtfully up at the sullen sky,
while they listened to the roar of the mountain cas-
cades, and glanced in wonder at the changed face of
their own sluggish brook.

Almost obliterated by the rain were a number of
arge bills pasted on the fences of the market-place
which announced that

“Madame La Tintorette, the celebrated mesmerist,
well known in all the principal cities of Europe, will
give one of her extraordinary Seances, in the Town
Hall of Mill Village, this evening at eight o’clock.”

“We may have other fish to fry than listening to
madame’s parley-vooing,” said asavant of the weath-
er, examining a barometer in the window of the
watechmaker’s.

“What do you mean?’ demanded an old man be-
side him.

“IT mean just this,” said the other;. ‘the glass is
falling, but Salmon Leap and all the other falls—
aren’t. I'm offto get my horse and ride up to see the
pool,” and off he hastened.

The pool wasa small sheet of water, caught in a
hollow between the upper hills some distance above
the village. It was usually fed by a tiny cascade
called Salmon Leap, and from it flowed Mill Brook,
the most work-a-lay of streams.

Now, however, Sglmon Leap had been gorged by
so many other brooks. born within the last week,
that it plunged wildly into the pool, which, in its turn
becoming swollen and bewildered, foamed round its
confines, pressing even more heayily against the
flimsy embankment, which was used to dam it up for
the gentle feeding of Mill Brook.

But though some croakers were beginning to talk
of Church Mountain as the most comfortable of quar-
ters for the night, the majority of the village saw lit-
tle reason why what had stood them so well for forty
years, should fail.them now,

So the town hall was lit up, and glared redly
through the falling rain, and though it was not the
fashion for the old folks of Mill Village to frequent
such places, the young men and gay maidens came
erowding up the street, and down the street, and
from thé brook-side, and down from the monntains,
and up from the sea, and filled the seats until two
hundred tickets had been sold, andevery place was
occupied.

The flower of many a simple house was there, the
pride and stay of many a heart; the strength, the
beauty, the future of the village; all gathered in on
this eighth day of the storm, while the waters came
creeping, leaping, oozing, boiling, ever nearer!

At eight o’clock Madame La Tintorette appeared
upon the platform, and greeted her audience.

She was a small woman, with little physical force,
but very large, magnotic black eyes,;and a pale, eager
face, which, thous not handseme, had the rare pow-
er of thrilling the behelder,

She satdown to a harmoniam which she had on the
platform, and played such a weird Jantasie of mystic
fancies and fever-drerams as left her youthful aadi-
ence entranced. ;

As she closed, there was heard by those near the
door the galloping of a horse and the loud shouts of
a man.

Doubtless the drunken blacksmith taking home the
parson’s horse. It was in the forge, waiting fora
pair of shoes, an hour ago.

The mesmerist began to speak upon her theme,
and, though her voice was soft and very feminine,
it reached to every corner, and all ears were strained
not to lose an utterance, for she had the rare power
of cloquence.

But the street without seemed to be alive with the
sound of hurried feet, as though an army were flee-
ing before the foe. * /

“Tf if was anything about the pool, somebody’d
warn us,” whispered the young people back and
forth among themselves.

When the lecture was finished, Madame La Tinto-
rette began the most interesting of the evening’s
performances. .

She invited any twenty young men who desired to
test her ability asa mesmerist to mount the plat
form, and speedily the benches which had been
oe there in waiting were filed with an expectant
crowd.

Madamo La Tintorette passed before them, way-
ing her hands wpand down, and they all became
rapt ike somnam)bulists.

In the expectant. stillness an urgent, clamorous
peal sounded from a distant bell.

It was the bell of the old chureh on the mountain,
What could be amiss? Wondering eyes looked for a
moment into other eyes, but the mesmerist went on
with her experiment, and the bell was forgotten.
She went before cach subject a second time, touch-
ing him slowly on the forehead with her palm, and
they all turned their stony eyes upon her, ready to
obey her slightest signal.

A low moan, like the rising wind, smote upon the
ears of the audience, followed by a dull crash like a
distant explosion.

The mesmerist. suddenly paused with ear attent,
while all her subjects rose and bent toward her in at-
titudes of marble submission.

Some few of the young men atthe door slipped

quiesly out.
Madame La Tintorette continued her passes before
the mesmerized ones, but her eyes roved keenly over
the hall at the same time. She was measuring the
eae danger without with the possible courage
within.

And now came a savage hissing and roaring, nearer
and nearer, while those who had gone out rushed in
with ashen faces, and shouted: 5

“The flood! the flood! It’s coming down like the
sea!

Before one might stir from his place at this awful
announcement there was a shock like the battering-
rams of an army against the north side of the hall,
and a curdled wave came foaming in through the
open door.

Instantly all was confusion. The women shrieked
and sprang upon the benches, while even the bravest
of the young men lost all presence of mind, and be-
gan to clamber upon the platform.

Madame La Tintorette raised the blind at the back
of the platform, and seeing a bristling wave, house-
high, careering where treetops had been, she un-
derstood ina fiash the calamity. And that strength
of mind which could make her a good mesmerist
stood her in good stead now. ~*

Swooping to the front she faced the agitated throng
and cried:

“Let there be silence!”

In half a second every ear was listening.

“Shut the door and stuff the cracks with shawls or
handkerchiefs; do the same with every window,” she
cried, andmany of the young men flew to obey.

But alas! too soon a tree torn up by the roots was
whirled against two of the windows, shattering them,
and the black waves ponred in.

“Be calm, a wetting is nothing,” cried the mesmer
ist to the affrighted girls. ‘As long as the founda-
tions stand we are safe, if we can get upon the roof.
Who can reach that sky-light ?

A murmur of despairran threugh the hall, and no
wonder. The walls and ceiling were smoothly plas-
tered up to the roof-tree without a break, excepting
a sky-light, which had originally shed light upon an
entrance porch, and which, upon the enlarging of the
building, had for no known reason been left.

It was their only hope now, however, for the wa-
ters were steadily creeping up, up, up the walls, and
already the benches were floating, and the throng
submerged to the waist.

Seeing that no volunteer was ready to attempt the
sky-light, the mesmerist determined to risk what
might be a fatal experiment, but one which the cir-
cumstances certainly demanded.

She threw all her subjects into a yet deeper mes-
meric trance, and then addressed them thus:

“You are harlequins in La Grande Cirque, of Paris,
and thé emperor is witnessing your feats. Make a
human ladder up to that sky-light, beginning with

rouu.”’

She touched a young man famous for his muscular
strength, aud as he darted away to obey her, she

 

Then she called Betty to carry .me up stares |:

 

designated others of undoubted power of limb to
eens the base, chouosing the youngest and slightest for
the top. ‘

Away théy’ sprang over the: backs of the rock-
ing benches, and climbed up, each other’s shoul-
ders against the wall like monkeys, until the last man
touched the window with his hands.

“Break through and climb upon the roof!” cried
Madame La Tintorette. By.3

Thm she looked round with her eyes ablaze, and
asked:

“Who has courage to climb up that living wall to
safety ?”

Many of the men and all the women hung back,
while some clambered up without accident.

Paler srew the mesmerist’s face, but she still kept
her wonderful coolness.

“These men will soon awake from their trance,”
said she, ‘‘andif there are none to take their place,
those of us who are left here will be drowned like
rats. Are there none here willing to come under my
influence, that they may take their place?”

More than fifty men and women presented them-
selves, while the number of those ascending visibly
increased.

Madame La Tintorette began her spells, and so
eager were her subjects to feel the magnetic influence
that in a few moments they were all fixed, and ready
for any command.

“Harlequins,” then cried the mesmerist, “the house
is on fire! Come down, while a ladder is being raised
to carry ae to the roof.”

Down they welted like a pillar of snow, and she
said to her new relay:

«The tide has risen. Make of yourselves a chain to
seale that cliff, that we may escape being drowned.”

With marvelous ease those who had shuddered but
a few minutes ago at the impossible daring of their
comrades, had made the ladder, and were handing
up young women as fast as hands could do it, while
those first mesmerized sprang up their backs, like
cats up a tree, from the imaginary fire.

Up crept the water steadily; the lowermost men
were Tr to their shoulders; the platform was sub-
merged to the depth of a footer more; but tie throng
which had been so dense an hour ago was two-thirds
gone now.

Again the dauntless witch of the strange scene re-
lieved the workers by new subjects, and sent them
flying up through the sky-light. As the flood rose and
the danger below became more imminent, she mes-
merized every one she could lay hands on, and sent
them,climbing up in an unbroken string, until only
she and the ladder of men were left.

And by this time the water was creeping up to the
gas, and quenching the lights one by one. 3

“Muke a rope of shawls to draw us up,” she cried
to the last girl who went up.

In a few Moments a stout noose was let down, and
obedient to her orders, the men allowed themselves
to be all drawn up.

_ Then last of all, like the faithful captain of a sink-
ing ship, came the gallant Madame La Tintorette her-
herself, and the hall was empty.

It was a wild enotigh scene she emerged upon.
Two hundred souls clinging to the wet slate roof,
and such of her subjects us had awakened gaping
abeut them with looks of frenzied astonishment.
The night was as dark and thick as a Newfoundland
fog, a sea of livid gray water was swirling every-
where, with here the chimneys of a cottage aticking
up to mark a home, there a thatched roof or a shape
of drowning animal sweeping by. Nota sound where
allhad been life, not a speck of light save on the
Church Mountain. There n red gleam showed that
the church was alight as a beacon, and a refuge for
poor rescued souls, and the bell tolled sadly as if in
requiem for the Jost.

Well might the bitter tears fall and the young
hearts be wrung with grief, for few there expected
to see father or mother alive again.

“My children,” said the Frenchwoman, only that
she used a tender French word of endenrment, “let
us praise God that we are spared as yet.”

It was a good and wise thought that.

One of the maidens commenced in a tremulous
voice a village favorite, a bymn running thus:

“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,
And cast a wishful eye,”

and all the other voicés joined in, and rose loud and
clear in unison, and sent the sweet sounds far over
the deathly waters to hearts which drank them in
like the thrilling psalm of an angel band.

For, lo! as it swelled on, there came back from the
mountain such a shout, such a joyful rattle of the
bell, such a patter of old fire-arms, as showed that
half the village was there, hoping, watching, praying
for them.

“That is good!’ smiled Madame La Tintorette.
“Now they will devise some means to rescue you.”

She was right. In anotber hour, a sort of raft,
manned by somo half a dozen, came creeping up
against the debris-incumbered stream, and reached
the walls in safety. It brought the welome news
that another raft was on its way down to the Neck,
five miles distant, to fetch up an army of boats from
the gulf, and that every house in the village had been
ne by the inmates before the embankment

roke,

“Jenners rode down on horseback half an hour
before, crying, ‘The dam is going!’ and ii the confu-
sion we all thought you had rushed from the hall be-
fore us,” explained the rescuers.

The raft was soon filled with a score of females, let
down by shawls, and slowly departed, followed by
the anxious eyes of their companions.

All night the raft came and went, until an hour
before daybreak, when six boats arrived, which
cleared the roof ef the last of Madame Tintorette’s
audience.

And what cheering, and sobbing, and waving of
hats, and embracing, when the whole of the two hun-
dred stood safe on Church Mountain, with the French-
woman in their midst!

And surely, if the blessings of scores of mothers
and fathers, and the silent pores of the saved,
and the invoked prayers sped from the pastor’s full
heart on her behalf, could better Madame La Tinto-
rette, she was set up in life from that hour!

They spoke of another reward than these, to be
given out of the best of their shattered homes—a re-
ward more likely to gild the French-woman’s hard
life; but she put all that proudly by her, saying, in
her quiet, intense way:

“T cannot afford the alloy even of gold in my hap-
piness. Dear friends, let me live in your hearts as
Goa’s instrument, who gave back your children from
death, and I shall call last night the brightest of my
earthly life.”

So she had her way. :

Butif you pass through Mill Village to-day—and
a more thriving township does not exist in the West
Coast of England—you will be struck by the sight of
a beautiful granite monumentin the midst of the
market-place, bearing this inscription on the four
sides, in gold letters:

In honor of
Heloise La Tintorette,
Mesmerist,
The God-inspired Rescuer
Of Two Hunared Youths and Maidens
From Death During the ;
Disastrous Flood of Eighteen-Fifty.
This Monument is Dedicated by
The Grateful People of
Mill Village. ~

The Ladies’ \ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram.

“Mrs. Roberts."—No lady need wear an unbecoming
bonnet unless she pleases to do so, as fashion gives a wide
range for choice. All that is necessary is to test by ex-
periment which shape is best adapted to the contour of the
face, then make a selection without regard to the bonnet
being the one most popular. Most ladies are aware that
there are some colors more becoming to them than others.
Black bonnets become fair complexions, as do straw color

and light blue. Placed in jux ition with pink red, a
bright complexion loses in brilliancy, while dark red
makes a white complexion ap) whiter. To brunettes
pink is always becoming, while light-blue is rarely 50.
Lilac and light green are never in mony with dark or
sallow complexions, while to a fair akin they are peculiar-
ly becoming. Many handsome bonnets are presented,
which are attractive by reason of a genuine elegance of
material dis ed with skill and taste. In others, how-
ever, a striving after novelty has resulted in the produc
tion of effects very questionable, so far as real beauty is
concerned; but these will, of egg Se! worn by numbers
who chiefly whatis new. Shapes arein much di-
versity, and while some are only slightly different frem
certain Styles that during the summer season found favor,
yet others are decided novelties. In sizes also there is a
wide range, some being small .and unpretentious, others
considerably larger, and serving as a prelude to a class
which are quite large. A number of brims flare over the
forehead, but remain comparatively close at the sides;
while again we observe varieties which are both high in
front and broad. The latter often slope off closely, with
much display of brim at the lower Ttof the face. We
do not think a lady could well be entirely out of fashion as
regards the shape of her hat or bonnet, so a as itis be
coming toher. She need have little fear of appearing
antique.

“Evadne.”"—Il1st. The polonaise has returned to favor,
and will doubtless be much worn during the ensuing sea-
son. For street wear care must be taken to avoid its be-
ing made wo long, or it will not be in unison with the short
underskirt, and will have an ungainly appearances, spoiling
that pSi¥ect ensemble, to preserve which is the great art of

“dressing well.” A very suitable polonaise for a walking
costume is the “Faustina,” a graceful design with late?
revers turned up on the hips in panier style, and cut with
a “princess back.” Another is the “Cresida.’’ with a
short, full apron, looped to form modified paniers on the
hips, and the back having deep facings or revers reaching
nearly to the waist. 2d. While the greatest liberty is al-
lowed in the selection of the style of the costume, on cue
point fashion is inexorable, the skirt ust for the street be
short. Young ladies with pretty feet, and who are fastid-
ious about their boots, have their walking skirts made at
least three inches above the ground; but the majority ad-
here to a length which escapes the pavement all around,
and does not conspicuously display the feet. 3d. About
two yardsand a half is the average width for walking

 

 

 

skirts, the width in a measure depending upon the mate
rial selected and the style of trimining used; a plain skirt
of heavy material requiring less width than a pi

Yr

less than a-plain one. 4th. Flounces on walking
are usually from five to teu inches deep, seldom re
it is fashionable to have a portion of the plain skirt 6)
between the flounce and the short upper drapery.
Skirts plaited all the way Vp oon also worn, the plaits be-
ing laid in regular kilt or box-plaits, as heretofore, or in
sections si r to the flounces. :

“Atta.”’—‘‘Rules” are quite ignored in the arrangement.
of the hair at present, and provided the results produced
be pleasing, it matters not as to detail or special differ-
ences. Thus we find finger-pufts, braids, soft coils, loops,
short ourls, and the whole family of frizzes disposed vari-

ously, in ater or less profusion, as the case may be,
preven owever, that exaggeration is avoided. Some-

gently in alow Grecian coil, or small cluster braids at
ack. While great latitu@e is allowed for individual pre-
ference in the arrangement of the hair, at the same time
to do so becomingly it is necessary to study the shape of
the face, height of figure, and other peculiarities. If the
head is long, any style which gives width to the fore-
pond anon e alopted. If it is short, the hair should

e drawn back and raised on the top of the head
enough to be seen in front. A projecting forehead is made
more conspicuous by the hair being drawn away from
face. In this case the forehead should be partially cov-
ered by fringes or short curls. If the forehead be narrow,
it can’ be improved by wearing the hair frizzed at the
sides.

“Mourning Inquirer.”’—1st. Henrietta cloth continues
to be the leading material worn in mourning, and in dou-
ble width is sold at prices varying from $1.25 to $3 per
yard. Bombazine, for which there is a limited demand,
costs about the same, but is usually a little narrower.

Camel's hair cloth is also an elegant and desirable material
for deep mourning, and in double widths is sold at prices
varying from $1.50 to $4.50 per yard. Tamise cloth is
shown in double widths, from 75 cents to $1.50 per yard.

favorite mopar tor the reason that it comes in the more
ordinary grades at figures which are within the means of
almost any one, while in finer varieties it is handsome
enough to find patronage even by the exclusive classes.
Prices range from 60 cents to $1.50 per yard—widths, of
course, being double. 2d. Gloves of black, undressed kid,
have the preference for all grades of mourning. 3d. Bon-
nets for deep mourning, other than those used eer os
pes, an

follow the least conspicuous of the fashionable
are made of doubled crape over silk.

“Constant Reader,” Racine, Wis.—lst. Dolmans will
continue tobe worn, They may be trimmed with “fringe,”
plain or “beaded.” 2d. Both the flat and bougfant styles
fre fashionable for street wear this season, and enjoy

about equal popularity; and frequently the two elements

are combined, the skirt beiiig narrow and plain, and the
drapery bouyfant. Plain, heavy woolen goods of aoe
| rich colors are usually selected for the first-mention

type, and are made up in the severest style ‘without trim-
ming of any kind excepting rows of machine-stitching
near the edges, the skirt plain, the overskirt very slightly
draped ; and often not at all. The tight or half-tight

 

collar and cutis of velvet or plush to break the severity;
the ent and fit irreproachable, the “tailor” finish im-
parting a sort of masculine air to the jaunty garment that
is often rendered more noticeable by the addition of a
cravat of the latest approved style worn by gentlemen,
ornamented with a seart-pin.

street costumes, half-fitting jackets have the preference
for autumn wear. These are made of all the medium
qualities of cloth, diagonal, plain, and armure, finished in
“tailor” style, and fastened with handsome buttons. The
choice lies between those made entirely of one material,
and jacket laps made of velvet or plush, both seeming to

green, deep wine color, almond, and all the beige shades
are used. 3d. The ‘Lorne’ may be said to be a leading
design for a jacket that closes all the way down. Those
who still prefer the best select the “Lucien” or “Derby”
coats. For more dressy wear the various styles of man-
telets and visites are chosen, and are the accepted garments
to be worn With visiting toilets. The visite, being a com-
bination of a dolman and a sacque, is decidedly graceful
and becoming besides being easier to adjust than a jacket,
and yet fitting tighter than a regular dolman,

“M, E. C."—1st. We cannot give you any better plan
than thé one that you have already adopted to train your

little boy’s hair to grow up off his forehead. Continue to
brush it up, and we think aftera little timeit will grow
allright. 2d. if your little boy is large of his age, you
can put him in pants when he is five years of age ; or. id he
is small, you can continue to let him wear the little kilt
suits until heisslx. It is entirely a matter of choice.

“Katie.”’"—lst. Montagne curls are rings and half rings
of thick tresses of hair pressed flat on the forehead and

the temples. 2d. Your bottle-green silk should have gay
palm-leaf silk brocade combined with it. 3d. It will be
suitable when made short for a street dress. 4th. The
word Pinafore has sprung into popularity through the
successful play of that name. It has no other speviai sig-
nificance.

“C.- Wilson.”’—l1st. “The Alburnine” will change the
color of red hair to a golden brown by using the dark

shade of “Alburnine.” 2d. We cannot tell how much it

would be necessary to use to produce the desired effect, as

the amount would depend upon the quantity of hair. also

the color that is to be changed. It is not injurious to the
air. There are pencils for the eyebrows. *

“Lottie.”—The velvet cream for the hands will eradi-
cate all effects of housework, and for the bites of mus-

uitoes, it is without equal; the burning, itching sensa-
tion is instantly curcd upon rubbing the “Velvet Cream”
upon the bite. We speak from our own personal knowl.
edge. The price of the “Velvet Cream’ is $1 per box.
Sent by express, not by mail.

“T. W.”’—It is stylish to wear flowersin the hair on full
dress occasions. Marguerites are most effective in a clus
ter. On the corsage a bouquet is stuck in the belt, or else
worn on the left side of the waist, not just in front.

“Mrs. W.,’” Newark, N. J.—lst. We sent the book
“Baking Made Easy” Sept. 15th. 2d. The book **How to

 

 

 

 

Make Candy” is 60 cents. The NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will send it to you upon receipt of price.
“M. M.”—I1st. The “Amburline"’ will give the hair the
golden-brown shade; the price is $250 per bottle. 2d. The
NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will send it to
you. ;

‘Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
cuirs.

It iz a good deal ov a bore to hav others luy us
more than we luv them.

That place iz home, and allwuss be home, whare
we et our fust mollassis kandy, and swung upon e
gate.

We all think our opinyuns infallible, and a phool
thinks hiz the most so.

Lovers, like puppys, frolik and fite, and then frolik ;
sum more.

Thare haz been menny a hero born, lived, and died
unknown just for the want ov an opportunity.

It iz hard to judge a man’s real karakter when he
iz ded in luy; all that i hav seen ackt just alike—
kussid phoois.

I hay seen pholks who had more intelekt than
judgement, and then agin, i hav seen them who had
more judgment than intelekt.

I don’t suppoze tharé iz enny man who.knows the _.

exackt amount ov hiz cowardice or ov his bravery.

Thare aint nothing that will sho the virtews and
vices ov a man, in so vivid a light, as profuse pros
perity.

 

Mi dear boy, allwuss Keep snmtbing in reserve.
The man who kan jump 6 inches further than he ever
haz jumpt, iz a hard customer to beat.

I never spend enny time argueing agin a suckcess,
it kant be beat enny how.

A bean, like a coquet, seldum falls in luv, but when
they do, they goin like a kitten into a wash tub ov
sour milk.

Mi dear old phello, the best thing yw and I kan do,
iz to go into our holes and stay thare, or at best set
in the mouth ov them, and speak to the passers by,
when we are spoken to.

Thare aint nothing on artl#that will take the starch
so klean out oy us, az to git kaught bi the fellow we
are trieing to ketch.

One ov the best things to do, and at the same time
the hardest, iz to hold up the glass in front ov our
friend, and let him see faults, az others see them.

He who hides hiz vices iz twice a sinner.

It iz ble to restore a lost reputashun, but it iz
impossible to make a reputashun out oy materials
that hav allwuss been rotten.

Versatility iz what pleazes the world. The man
who Kan pla decen well on 2 Peggy era at once, Kan
eklipse the best one-horse phiddler living.

I pitty, rather than admire, a gay and festive old
man—it sounds like phiddling at a phuneral.

I kno ov people who Kan tell yu all about the coat
oy arms oy their family, who haven’t got a decent
coat ov enny kind to their baks.

Thare are plenty ov individuals who kant make a
boy’s windmill, that will grind, to save their lives,
who wouldn’t hesitate a minnitt to tell yu how to
improve asteam engine.

The simplest things we hav are the most usefull,
and hav been the most diffikult to diskover. It waz
5 thousand years before we found the little frickshun
match.

Most wimmin would like to have their husbands
lions—but well broke to the halter. :

native; find a last year’s bird’s nest, take it alla
and see if yu can put it together agin. This willtry
yure genius. j
To find a very interesting old woman yu have
to find a good-looking one. oot
People seldum akt more ridikilus than when they
are in luy. ff

 

Cashmere varies much in quality, and is therefore a’

 

 

sk.
emg ° :
mate of lighter goods, and a timmed skirt requ ig st ;
skirts —

how
5th.

imes, by way of variety, a lady may twist her hair pou ‘

jacket, usually slightly double-breasted, with perhaps the _

“Julie.”—lst, Extra garments to be worn with ordinary ~

i

enjoy about equal favor. 2d. Black, dark blue, invisible .

Yung man, don’t read too mutch as 8 helthy alter- _

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