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Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1878, bu Street & Smith, tm the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washington, D. C.

 

 

 

 

 

Proprietors.

VoL. XXXIV.

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29. 31 Rose St.,

P. O. Box 4896, New York,

 

 

SALLIE

There are numerous Sallies well known upon earth;
There are Sallies of words, and Sallies of mirth,
There are Sallies of fancy, fun, frolic, and wit,
There are Sallies that miss, and Sallies that hit.

 

There are Salles of force that for conquest are made;
And Salles that strive tyrants’ yokes to evade;
Ballies of right, of wrong, capture, rescue, release;
Sallies of love, and of hate, of war, and of peace.

There’s the chemical! Sal, that in union is found
With acids and oxides—a neutral compound;
But the union is fickle, for oft they’re set free
And won by an acid of stronger degree.

But the best of all Sais is the Sal that is haman—
em of a pretty, plump little woman,
hose strong love and devotion her bosom doth thrill,
2 _ As she joins to herself the power of a Wil

_ That the two words combine ’tis quite easy to see;

“Wil Sally?” said Will. “Salty Will,” whispered she.
It is thus that true union is formed in such bliss—
Eye to eye, arm to waists, cheek to cheek, kiss to kiss.

It is thus we have shown the true Sal of man’s choice;
Our wish is that Sallies may ever rejoice

In the life that sweet Sallies are destined te fill—

The union of Sallies with love and with Wi.

\
~ 4

£

 

a
4

j ;
Catal, ,
.

HAMILTON MYERS,

  

:
\

GOLD, IRON FIST, HALF WITTED, ADA
ARGYLE, THE SK¥ TRAVELER,
CAPTAIN HAZEN AND HIS
DOUBLE, PAUL MOR-

TON, THE WRECKED
STEAMER, &e.

{“The Great Mogul’ was commenced ‘0.
be obtained from all News Agents in the |

OHAPTER XI.
UNOLE JOBS TUTOR. ,
When Guy went to the hotel that afternoon, he
found his uncle impatiently awaiting his arrival,

 

. 1. Back Nos. can
nited States.)

 

~.~.and together they went to Job’s room, whieh was.a
on the

very handsome one, elegantly furnished,
second floor. Joppa rer

“Well, Guy.” said the old man, as 800n as they re-'
turned, ‘““‘what luck did you have with Gordon?
You didn’t get the money, I guess, or you’d have
told me before this. I was sorry I sent.”

Guy laughed, and then related his interview with
Mr. Gordon, to all of which Job listened, open-
mouthed, with the most unbounded astonishment
and delight.

“What shallI'do with so much money ?” heasked.
“Why, it’s the most amazin’ thing I ever heered of,
neffy; more amazin’ than—than the sea-serpent!
Den’t you think so ?”

_ ~@ay said he thought it was.

“And about that larnin’ and that teacher; I’ll cer-
tainly have one. The other day a gentleman hand-
ed me a paper, and asked me if I had read that ac-
count of theterrible railroad accident, which I said
Ihadn‘t. So he pinted it out to me, and I sat down
and looked at it awhile, and said it was awful, 50 he
never suspected anything, and I was glad to get out
of that scrape s0 easily.”

“A gentleman of your appearance would not read-
ily be suspected of not knowing how to read; but
you ought to learn certainly.”

“If I had a patient, kind teacher, like you, Guy,
perhaps I could. You are not a very busy man,
you say,and you know everything. Oh! Guy, if
you would; Icould cometo your office every day,
at jist sich atime as was most convenient for you;
and as tothe pay, you couldn’t name the sum I
wouldn’t pay—”

“Why, Unele Job. why do you talk likethat? I
will gladly teach you—without pay.”

“No, you won’t. That’s where it is!
be my private, what d’ye call it ?”

“Tutor ?”

“Tooter, yes, andtake the pay of one, all right.
The dook will foot the bill, you know, and if he
don’t, it will make no difference. Iam a rich man,
now.”

The young man consented, after some consider-
ation, to accept the offered position, and the very
liberal salary which his uncle insisted should go
with it,and which would indeed be of great assis-
tance to Guy, just at present.

He resolved to discharge his full duty to his
uncle in the capacity of teacher. It would be a labor
of love,and he was sure that he could do it better
than any stranger.

Unele Job was delighted with this arrangement,
and. after dwelling upon it awhile, came rapidly
around toanother subject pertaining more directly
to his nephew’s interests, insisting that he should
receive from him a large bonus, or present, for his
negotiations that day with the ‘“dook’s man,” and
for getting his affairs settf6d on so splendid a
basis.

This the young man utterly and absolutely re-
fused. But he might as well have refused to let the
north wind blow. Job would have his own way.
He grew angry, and threatened to cancel the whole
“schoolmaster arrangement” unless Guy would
take “his rights,” as he called it.

“Til take it, then, for my first year’s salary as
teacher,” said the nephew.

“No, you won’t—nothing of the kind. You'll take
it outand out, Guy, but if you prefer to call it a
present rather than to call it pay, why you are wel-
come to do that.” .

“T shall certainly call it a present, uncle, and a
yery handsome one, too.”

“All right, and there’ll be more comin’ for you
from time to time,a good deal more if the dook
holds out. You needn’t think I’m goin’ to git all this
money and not have you have agood share. No,
no, neffy. Uncle Job is unedicated, and low, and. all
that, but he ain’t one of that kind.”

“You are eyerything that is noble and good,
uncle; Iamsureof that. Iwassure of that when

But ifyou’ll

- you lived in the cabin.”

“Ah, yes, you treated me likeI was a gentleman

. py P.
Author of BBLI. BRAS DON, THE CHEST OF

NEW YORK. DEGEMBER 2, 1878.

 

“THIS HERE I8 A FRIEND OF YOURS, } SUPPOSE?” HE §

ees

 

     

‘LOOKING AT THE OTHER YOUNG LADY.

 

and one of your kin, when I wasa poor fisherman,
which none of the rest of your family did, and I
shall never forget it, Guy. I laugh now, some-
times, when I think how afraid I was to come and
see you in your office.”

“Well, I am glad you came, uncle—very, very
glad,” said Guy, “and I shall be happy if I can
only in some small degree make up to you the loss
of your son.”

“Yes, you shall be to me in Mark’s stead, as-far as
you can, Guy, and when I do anything for you, Pll
think Iam doingit for him. So don’t you goand
put any more stumbling blocks in the way.”

Guy laughed, and then said:

“But it seems to me we are forgetting something,
uncle.”

“What is it?” asked the old man, with great in-
terest.

“Dinner.” replied the nephew, taking out his
watch.

“Why, so weare. I’ll be blestif Ihadn’t forgot
all about it,and here it is half-past three. But
we’ve got two hours and a half to do it in, my boy,
and I guess we can git through. I long to see you
tackle one of these dinners, Guy. I never feel as if
I was gittin’ half the worth of my money. Come
oy”

OHAPTER XII.

THE PUPIL’S PROGEBSS.
Unele Job went regularly to his nephew’s office
for instruction after this, although his “tooter,” as
he called him, would willingly have come to his
hotel instead, but this he declined. He would not
have Guy miss any chances of professional busi-
ness, and he liked the ride down town every day—
it was something to look forward to, and it seemed
like business.
It was business, indeed, of the most valuable
kind to Job, and pretty hard work,too. Tosee this
richly-dressed old gentleman diligently studying
his A B C’s like an infant, while his patient nephew
pointed them out to him, and told him their names,
was a sightto behold.
These lessons were usually given about three
o’clock in the afternoon, not with locked doors, but
if anybody came, which was rarely the case at that
hour of the day, the book was thrust aside, and the
old gentleman sat looking out of the window, or
perhaps walked out until the visitor was gone.
Bur one warm afternoon, when tutor and pupil
were both hard at work, a step was heard on the
stairway, which Guy instantly recognized as his
father’s.
There was notime for Uncle Job to escape. but
he put the spelling book into his pocket, and, seiz-
ing the morning newspaper turned his face to the
window, and seemed diligently engaged in reading
when Ezekiel entered.

It was very unusual for Guy’sfather to come to
his office at this hour, or, indeed, at any hour, and
he had now called only to leave a memorandum of
a conveyance he wanted made out, to be ready on
the next morning, for this was a kind of work
which he allowed his son to do for him without
pay.

He eyedthe stranger closely several times, so
closely indeed and so frequently that Guy believed
he would recognize him, although he could only
get a ‘quarter view” of his face.

Finally he rose and approached his brother, who
turned very red in the face, and was on the point
of betraying himself, when it proved, to his great
relief, thatthe newspaper was Ezekiel’s objective
point.

‘Will you allow me to look at the paper for a mo-
ment?” he said, politely.

Job gladly handed it to him without speaking,
and when he had satisfied his curiosity in regard
tosome real estate quotations, he gave back the
paper with thanks, and hurried out of the office.

 

 

t. 4

“That Ba @ narraw escape, Gay the old mar
said, laughing, and once more breathing freely.
“T wouldn’t have had Zeke found me outthen fora
great deal, I’m going tosee him pretty soon in my
old clothes, Guy—in my old clothes! P’ve saved ’em
on purpose.”

“I thought you said you would go in style.”

“Yes, yes, but not now. I’ve been thinkin’ about it,
and I shall go in my old clothes first.”

That evening Mr, Ezekiel Ross asked his son who
was the fine-looking old gentleman whom he had
seen in his office that afternoon,and Guy, having
expected this question, was prepared for it.

“Oh, that’s agentleman I am doing some busi-
ness for. His name is Ross, the same as ours, and
he lives at the New York Hotel. It isnot an uncom-
mon name, I believe.”

“Oh, no, there are lots of Rosses in the directory.”

OHAPTER XIII.
RELIEVING MISERY.

Spring had passed; the beautiful month of June
had come, and nothing had as yet been heard of the
Great Mogul, since his disappearance.

Mr. Gansevoort had yielded to his mysterious
friend’s urgent request, and had installed himself
in his palace, where he was as completely master as
the Great Mogul had been himself, and where he
frequently entertained his bachelor friends.

“He told me s0 many times over not to spare ex-
pense,” said Fred, at one of his social gatherings,
“that I am sure he will be gratified by my taking
him at his word.”

“Did he give you funds to keep house with?”
asked Capt. Bolton, coolly lighting his third cigar
from a newly-opened box of the Great Mogul’e best
Havanas.

“Oh, no; the butler has money, and attends to
every thing. I only give orders for the kind of
meals I want, just as I would do at a restaurant.”

“You are in luck, Fred.”

“So are we all,” said Jack Fry.

“Yes, secondarily; but I shouldn’t be surprised if
the Great Mogul should make Fred’s fortune: yet.
See what he has done for him—look at that diamond
pin, for instance. AndI dare say he will give him
something for taking care of his house during his
absence.”

“He ought to give us all something,” said one of
the laughing guests; “it’s no small task to come
here two or three times a week and eat these long
dinners and these fancy desserts, and smoke so
many choice cigars.”

“Without any wine,” added Capt. Bolton. “’T was
mean of him to interdict wine.”

‘Was that on principle?” asked one. ,

“Probably, or perhaps he knew your feelings,’
replied Fred. “Iam glad he did interdict it. He

never drinks it himself, and had none, you remem- }

ber, at his reception.” :

“T know it; Ihad to go out and get a drink,” re-
plied Bolton. “No wine, indeed! A great Mogul
he is!”

“When do you expect, his lordship back ?” asked
Phil Slingsby. >

“The latter part of this month.”

“Come, Fred. tell us where he has gono,. and who
he is, and all about him?’ said another, bantering-
ly, of course not hoping for such information.

“Yes; tell us all you know.”

“Tell you alll know? Life is too short, gentle-
men,” said Fred, laughing, “and your comprehen-
sion is too limited to take it in.”

One evening, a few weeks. later, when nearly the
same party of Fred’s friends were assembled, the
door-bell rang, and Co]. Egremont walked in alone,
with his cloak over his arm, elegantly dressed as
usual, and looking quite asif he had just returned
from a walk or from a call upon a friend.

 

Tt was avery hilarious meeting in all respects,
the colonel quite excelling his friendsin the warmth

 

T
of his greeting and in # general jollity of manner,
asking many questions, but making no allusion to
himself or to his absent secretary.

He ordered supper, said he was starving, and in-
sisted on all the company remaining to partake
with him, which they did. —_-

While they were at supper, Mr. Egremont’s bag-
gage, consisting of several large trunks, was
brought by an expressmen, bat where from—
whether from ship, stegmboat, or railroad—no-
body knew,

Mr. Gansevoort had decided, on refiection, that it
would be proper to make some inquiries about the
absent secretary, and he now did so.

“Oh, Raphael? Yes, E forgot tospeak of him,”
answered the Great Mogul. “I left him at—at—in
short, [had use for himin another quarter. Cap-
tain Bolton, have another piece of chicken and
some more of the fried oysters. You are not keep-
ing up.”

So no more was said on that subject,on which
the expectant company had really fora moment
anticipated some information; but all were too
polite to manifest the slightest degree of curtosity.

It was soon noised abroad that the Great Mogul
had returned, and the strange manner of his reap-
pearance could not be kept secret.

“I told youso,” said Mr. Gride, “That fellow has
never been away—never been out of the city. I'd
give fifty dollars to get hold of that expressman.”

But Gride took off his hat again, the same as
usual, when he met Colonel Egremont, and shook
hands with him as cordially as if he had been his
best friend.

Everybody called on the great man again within
a few days—all the gentlemen, at least—men of
fashion, men of note—clergymen, lawyers, authors
—all who knew him before,and some who now
formed his acquaintance for the first time.

Some of these inquired innocently enough what
part of the country the eolonel had been visiting
during his absenee from the city.

He did not hesitate to reply.

“Oh, I haye been West, East. North, South,” he
said, laughing. “I am atravelerand a cosmopo-
lite.”

So of course the question was not pressed, for the
Great Mogul’s visitors were gentlemen like him-
self.

The Great Mogul was more lavish than ever, es-
pecially in charities; for now that rumor had pro-
claimed his great liberality, all manner of begging
committees called upon him, and private letters
from persons in real or feigned distress poured in
upon him, at least a dozen a day.

“What am Ito do with all these; Gansevoort? I
can’t even find time to read them,” he said. “I want
Raphael more than ever now.”

“T’ll be your seeretary, if you wish,” said Fred;
“but we can't tell anything about these people. I
think, as a rule,the really deserving poor do not
write begging letters.”

The colonel laughed, and said:

“T’ll tell you what we'll do—I’ll get you to hand
these letters, and all similar ones that come, to Dr.
Blair, and if he chooses to examine into them and
find out which are worthy objects of charity, Vl
give whatever he says.”

“That will be a good plan.”

“It will make him a good deal of work, but prob-
ably it wiN be acceptable work, as he lHkes to do
good.”

So it soon came to be understood that Dr. Blair, a
clergyman friend, was the Great Mogul’s almoner,
for he gladly undertook the duty; but he was soon
s0 overrun with work that he was obliged to en-
gage an assistant, who sought out the authors of
these letters, and found two-thirds of them frauds,
but still found enough real misery to relieve, and
hundreds of suffering and deserving poor had rea-
son to bless the Great Mogul,

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

 

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

CHAPTER XIY.

MRS, ROSS’ STRATAGEM.
Unele Job called at his brother’s house late one
afternoon, when Ezekiel was at home, but before
Guy, who knew nothing of his intended visit on

| that day, had arrived.

He was cladin his old suit of homespun, ina
check shirt, and coarse shoes tied with leather
strings, blue yarn stockings, and asoft felt hat; but
all his garments were clean and whole, for this had
been his best suit, which he had been wont to re-
gard with especial pride.

He represented, in fact, what he had lately been,
a decent laboring man; yet there was still this dif-
ference in his present and former appearance, that
his ungloved hands were now less coarse and dark,
and his hair and beard, having long undergone
dressing and trimming by the highest tonsorial art,
were.in a decidedly improved condition.

Ezekiel received him cordially enough—or per-
haps we should say condescendingly enough—and
showed him into one of his great parlors, where
Job had been much dazzled and frightened before,
but where, somehow, he did not seem so much
alarmed, or quite so awkward now.

Mrs. Ross and Amelia were receiving some callers
in the back parlor, one of whom, avery stylish lady,
and an intimate friend of the family, had accepted
an invitation to stay to dinner, and they werein
consternation when they saw old Job enter, for the
dinner hour was close at hand, and Ezekiel would:
be sure to invite him, if he was not otherwise in-
structed.

The mother and daughter held a consultation,
and concluded that, whatever was the consequence,
their poor relative must not sit down to dinner with
the fashionable, the over-dressed, lackadaisical,
and most pretentious Miss Lydia Slingerton.

‘Let him eat inthe kitchen, mother,” said Amelia
Augusta. “He won’t mind,as long as he gets a
good dinner, and I dare say he would like it better.
He need not wait—he can eat at the same time that
we do, and Betty will wait on him too.”

Madame Ross fully approved of this plan, and
gave directions accordingly; and while Amelia and
Miss Slingerton went up stairs to get ready for din-
ner, she went into the parlor, and gaye the tips of
her fingers to her brother-in-law.

She inquired, with an absent air, about his health,
and when he had come to town, and Ezekiel, not
less uneasy, asked about the fishifig, and remarked
that it was an unusual thing to see Jobin the sum-
mer.

The fisherman answered these questions witha
good deal less than his usual embarrassment and
awkwardness; in fact, he no longer seemed awed
by his grand relations.

Husband and wife looked at each other with em-
barrassment, but Ezekiel was sure that his wife
had some device to escape the impending calamity.
There was yet hope that Job might go—that he had;
only come to make ashort stay—and they waited

a good while for him to take his departure; bul. he.

manifested no such design, and the case was get-
ting desperate, for the dinner was cooked and‘ in
danger of spoiling, and the young ladies had de-
scended to the back parlor.

From this distant point Amelia nodded te her-

uncle, and said:

“How do you do, Job?” heping that Miss Slinger-

ton would take him for some farmer friend; who.
supplied them with butter and eggs,

But the old man beemed disposed to be unusually
polite to-day, for, in response to his niece’s-secant
civility, he rose and made an elaborate Sow, and
then deliberately walkediinto-.the back parlor and
shook hands with her..

“This here is a friend of yours, I suppose?” he
said, looking at the other young lady and nodding:
to her.

“Yes, Miss Slingerton,” replied the embarrassed
and angry Amelia, and. on this half introduction
Job also shook hands with the elegant Lydia, who
was very gracious and smiling, and said, archly:

“Tam happy to make your acquaintance, sir, bat:
I do not know by what name to address you.”

“Name? Ok, Job! Job is. my name. I haven't:
got no other name than that—leastways-not in this
house.”

Amelia was.relieved | the secret was. not out—and
Mrs. Ross came to the rescue by ealling the: atten-
tion of her dreadful relation to a picture im. the
front parlor..

She could not account for his changed conduct,
unless it was adopted on purpose to mortify them,
which she thought probable. for his last few words
certainly seemed. to indicate anger or pique. He
could not be got outof the way too soa@n, so she
said to him, in very bland tones, but ina voice tom
low to be heard in the back room:

“Have you dined, Job ?* :

“No, ma’am, I haven’t dined,” he replied, speak-.
ing quite. as loud.as usual, perhaps a little loudex:

“You must be hungry. You are not accustomed
to late dinners.”

“Tam pretty sharp set, ma’am.”

“Come with me,” she. said, nodding pleasantly,
and leading the way into the main hall, whither the
old man complacently followed her.

“I thought you would be hungry, and Pve got
your dinner ready first,” she said, smilingly, and
leading the way down the basement stairs and into.
the kitchen, whither Job followed in silence, and
a seeming patience equal to that of his great prote-
type. “You'lt have everything nice and comfort~
able here, and all to yourself,” she said. “and I
knew you would like it better than to sit down with
that stylish lady. Besides, did not want to keep
you waiting.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I ain’t particular,” said Joh,
sitting down. “A man in my condition mustn’t bea
particular, not in his own brother’s house. “Oh,
no!”

Madame Josephine thought there was something
peculiar in all this, but she had not time to reflect
upon it, and having given Betty, the eook, direc-
tions to waiton her brother-in-law, she hastened
back to the parlor.

The dining-room was in the front basement, and
a very few minutes later the dinner-bell rang, and
the family with their lady guest descend ed.

Job saw and heard everything; he saw the soup

 

 

 

 

   

 

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go in, the great joint of cooked ment standing in
the mouth of the stove oven, the covered dishes of
vegetables, the waiting dessert, and amid the din,
and heat, and fume of the kitchen, he silently ate
en, now and then addressing a few words to the
eook or the footman, and occasionally catching the
sound of voices through the open door of the din-
ing-room, as the waiters passed in and out. | E
In the meantime all went merry in the adjoining
room, especially so after Guy came in, for the young
Jawyer was late that day, and of course had sat
down to dinner without being informed of his

unele's vixit.... b 4
Miss Stingerton was ¥ery atte

   
 

of course, Was polite and gallan 1er, Comp
ments and jokes passed rapidly bet n them, and
laughter was rife, when Guy su ly laid down

his knife and fork, raised his head, and assumed a
listening airtel the door into thé kitchen being
momentarily open. ch

“T thought I heard UnclaWJob’s yoice,” he said,
looking inquiringly at his mother, ~

“Gnole Jobl”? —

The secret swags ont.

Mrs. Ross tay a red in the face, Miss sli
Jooked at Amelia, who ‘also blushed, an
Ezekiel spoke. 5

“Yes, Job is out there,” he said, nodding toward
the kitchen,

Guy turned positively pale.

“Why! Won't he come in to dinner?’ he asked.

The angry and embarrassed mother, who had
seowled at and signaled her son in vain, now said
very nervously and hurriedly:

“He is eating his dinner out there,Guy. Do see

that Miss Slingerton is better helped; you sit next
to her and quite negleet her.” j
But the impetuons young man had jumped up
and was proeeeding to the kitehen, when his
mother, whom he was obliged to pass, caught him
by the arm, and said:
» “Let him alone, my son. he likes it better so,” .
“T must speak to him.” said the son, pulling him-
Belf sway. Y .
Job heard his nephew coming, and held up a
warning finger, as the latter approached him with
‘grief and indignation strongly depicted on his
eounteninee, pee
“Don’t say a word, neffy.” said the old man,
shaking hands with him. “You jest keep still.
“ButI eannot keep still, uncle. I cannot have
you eating out here. Oome! come in with me.”
“No, my boy, Lhaven’t been asked. I have been
asked in here to eat, and I’m going to do it. Iam
eating in the kitehen of my own brother’s house,
and he knows it while he’s a-dinin’ in the dinin’-:
room in grand style with a grand visitor. Now you
- jest keep still,’
Nothing could move the old man, and when Guy
had exereised his persuasive powers in yain, he

erton
only

said:

“Well, Iwill sit down here then, and finish my
dinner with you. ;

“No. poe sha’n’t. Go back. Tinsist on it!’

“Well, promise me, then, that you will come up
into the parlor alter dinner? You won’t go away
without sesing me?”

“T promise that; yes, I’ll come up and see you
and all of them after dinner.” . :

He kept, his word, or rather he finished his meal,
and went up stairs long before the others did, and
Mrs. Ross, who believed that he had departed, was
aguin greatly chagrined when she found him in the
parlor, waiting for them. j

She took Guy aside, and told him he must cer-
tainty get rid of him in some way.

. “Mother,” replied Guy. “Uncle Job is—”

“Phere, you are again uncling this old eodger.
‘You _ did it right before Miss Slingerton, and she
would never have known that he was any relative
of ours if it had not been for you,”

“Well, [think she ean stand it, if we can,” he said,
“heis my uncle, andJ ean’ttreat him rudely. Heisa
good, honest man, and if you want him turned out
of the house,or asked to go out, you must get
somebody besides me to do it.”

Despaiting of getting any valuable assistance
from her son in this matter, the mother said:

“Phen dowentertain him yourself while he stays,
and keep him away from the company.”

-The result was that Job staid the greater part of
the evening, and the Great Mogul ealled, as_the
trembling Amelia had been expecting he would do,
but. as earnestly hoping he would not. ¢

There were several other callers also, and these,
with Miss Slingerton_and the family, made up
quite a party, which Job seemed to enjoy. for Guy
introdueed him to everybody who came near them,
not é6xeepting the renowned and_ elaborately
dressed eolonel, whose ten thousand dollar dia-
mond pin failed to flash any especial awe upon the
ex-fisherman. 4

That the great man was shocked, however,
Amelia Augusta was quite certain, for she was
sure that she distinctly saw him start with amaze-
ment at being introduced to her unele. 3

“And Guy ealled him ‘ uncle,’ too, in introdusing
him,’ she said apart to her mother. “It is hor-
rible! Oh} If the old wretch had come any other
evening but this!” :

But if the Great Mogul was shocked by coming
in eontaect with this common man, he seemed to re-
eover from the blow, for after a while, and after a
good den) of attention to the ladies,and after hear-
ing Miss Ross play and sing, he came around to
Job again and entered into conversation with him
and Guy.

“Is your uncle a farmer?” he asked of young

83.

“No, sir. not a farmer,” said Job, speaking for
himself; ‘Iam a fisherman—leastwise I have been
the most of my life. That has been my occupation.
Zeke, there,” nodding toward his brother, “was a
fisherman, too. Father was, also, and he was
drownded out of a little boat that he got so full of
blue-fish one rough day that it capsized, and, as I
said, he was drownded.”

*Ah, indeed? Sorry to hear it.” '

“Yes, sir. You see. father was an old man, with
a wooden leg, and of course he eouldn’t swim, so
he was drownded, and Zeke—he was a boy then—
he swam ashore and told us of it.” |

. Again Job nodded toward his dignified brother in
another part of the room. ;

“Job did not stay long after this, but he did not go
away quietly as madame and Amelia Augusta had
hoped. Hewent around and. shook hands with
everybody, and bade them good-by individually.

-“TPve had avery pleasant time, and avery good
dinner, if it was in the kitchen,and I’m much
obleezed to you for it,” he said to the wrathful host-
O58 holding her hand, ‘‘and the next_ time I come

i bring youa Be : mess of porgies. It’s jest porgy
-by.

CHAPTER X¥.
OLD OLOTHES DOING SERVICE.

On the next day the old pupil was at his post
again in Guy’s office, studying hard in words of
one syllable, to which he had advanced, but stop-
ping often to talk and laugh over the events of the
preceding evening, ;

“Them old clothes did good service,” he said.
“They are areal touchstone, they are, when you
want to find out what folks is made of, and Pve laid
’em away for futer use. Imay want ’em agin
somowlheres. i f

Job wns dressed richly enough now. His “grand
brother,” as he always called him, did not exceed
him a whit in that respect, unless perhaps in orna-
ments which the ex-fishermun considered effem-
inate and wore sparingly.

One costly diamond pin glistened in his shirt-
front, and this, with .his heavy gold watch-chain
and seals, and his fashionable garments. sufficient-
ly marked his position as aman of means.

“IT never heardthat story before about grand-
father’s death,” said Guy.

“Grandfather! Why, yes,so he was—my father
was your grandfather. Inever thought of that,
Guy, and I’m real glad of it, for it brings us nearer
together like.”

‘It's strange thatI haven’t heard the story be-

r

time now. Go

 

“It isn’tstrangeabit. My grand brother wouldn’t
go for to tell his children that his father was a
wooden-legged old fisherman, which he was, and
no disgrace to him either. If Zekiel or Josephine
had told you about his bein’ drownded nt all, they
wonld have said that he fell out of a splendid ma-
hogany bout, which he was @ rowin’ about with sil-
ver ours, jist for pleasure, and that he had a patent
double-action, gold-jinted cork-leg, instead of that
old wooden stump what he used sometimes to kick
us with when we deserved it.”

Guy laughed heartjly, and was more than ever
convineed that his ifliterate uncle was a shrewd,
sensible man.and thathis mind afforded a good
basis on which to rear asuperstructure of educa-

tion.

.“Pi tell you what,” continued the uncle, “father
was a good man, better than either of his sons, and
he was a religious man, too. You could tell that by
his naming us out of the Bibie, Ezekiel and Job,
which he said was apostles, and consequently fish-
ermen; but [have heerd that ere questioned. Do
you happen to know how that is, neffy?”

“They were Old Testament saints, but not apos-
e8.

“Well, well, it’s just as good. Idare say they
have ketehed fish in their. day, at least, when they
was children. What kindof man was that Job,
now?”

“A very patient man.”

Ee OOLL

“At one time, yes. And childless—he lost all his
chil fren”?

“Poor feHow, I’m sorry for him; and yet he was
patient, eh?”

“T5o9 most patient of men.” *

“Ah? Well, it’s a good thing. I believe I nsed to
be, but Lain’t so much’ so now. Lhaven’t po pn-
tienee with grand folks that send their peor rela-
tions into the kitehen to eat dinner, LIhaven’t,
Guy, and T may as well tell you so first as last.”

“All right, uncle; Tani mueh of yonr mind, but
rai know itistiny duty to honor my father. and

other,

“lL know it, my boy, therefore I say excuse me.”

fa tn, Guinn.

avd with the aid of a frit

= — wt usar on

The lessons which the young lawyer gaye to his
uncle out of the ‘spelling-book were by no means
the only instruction which he imparted to him. He
was constantly correcting his grosser errors of
language, and giving him hints on manners, and
deportment, and dress, which the pupil thankfully
papel veal, and acted upon, iis far as he could remem-

er.

His improvement in these respects was already
very decided, but when he was_ much: excited, he

 

e had de-

    
  
 
 
  

om

2

were absolutely in

been scareely less a

when they told him tk
ion with Mr Ber

all, he was even more so. ok ie, eB

fo blazon the story of his obscure birth and pa-

rentage insuch a brifliant eh was an offense not

 
 

to be condoned, and Kzekielagreed with his wife
aa dave Beare in all be anagem if which they be-
owed upon rustic relation eg
~ Still there was one reflection which softened the
great -affliction, and that wasthat Colonel Egre-
mont had been exceedingly gracious to them wh
that he had staid quite late in the evening, and that
on going away he had expressed the hope of meet-
ing the family in Saratoga, whither he wis going
in a few days. . , > eae

“Tt hasn’t hurt us with him,” said Ezekiel, ‘that’s
pretty ae : is

“Well, [hope it has not,” replied madame; “but if
the old mischief-maker comes here again, he won’t
beaskedin. That is all I have tosay about it; I
shall give the servants their instructions.”

“All right; let him stay away now for good and
all,” said Ezekiel.

CHAPTER XVI.
: A OOACHMAN SECURED, ‘

Mr. Job Ross found his new life of.idleness rather
wearisome at times, notwithstanding the hours
given to study, and he often longed for the pleas-
ant excitement of his old occupation, when he
-eould enjoy every pull upon his deep sea-line with
the consciousness that it would add a little to his
small hourd of savings, and to his comfortable sup-
port through the next winter.

He never thought of fishing for sport; it had al-
ways been a serious matter of business with him,
and, apart from the consideration of gain, of course
it had no attractions for him.

“What shall I do for amusement?’ he asked of
ony one day. -

“Buy aApan of horses and coupe.”

“Coop, eh ?” asked Job, wonderingly.

The nephew laughed and explained, and added:

“Yes, buy aearriage and horses, and hire a coach-
man. Yon can afford it. Here’s nnother month’s
pay coming in in a few days.”

“Do you think the dook would approve of it?”

“Undoubtedly; if he don’t, let him sayso. But
your mysterious friend, whoever he is, evidently
wishes you to live in good style. Mr, Gordon has
told you so.”

“Yes, he has; but when you draw that next thou-
sand, you mightask his opinion about the horses
and carriage.” : ‘

“Well, I will if you wish, though I do not think it
necessary.”

“Td a little rather you would, andif he approves,
Tildoit. It will be grand fun, for ’m mighty fond |
of carriage riding. [takea ride now occasionally
in a livery-stable hack, but that’s a different thing;
it ish’t like having handsome horses of your own
that you can take a pride in, and can love and pet

em,
“Phat’s a fact.”
“But where could I keep my horses and. coope, as
you eall it?” } é
“Why, you can keep them at a boarding livery-
stable, of course; a great many people do that.”
“All right, then.” .
‘When Guy called on Gordon,a few days after-
ward, with his uncle’s monthly draft, he mentioned
this matter, saying that Mr. Ross did not like to set
up a carriage unless with his approbation.” Ri
“Let him do it by all means, if he wishes,” said
Gordon, laughing; “and send me the bill for th
costof theestablishment,”? at ee
“Good!” said Guy, laughing in turn. “But he
did not mean that, you know.”
“No matter what he meant. On reflection, TH

‘give you a check now for an extra thousand—or—

or—say fifteen hundred. He can’t get much.of an
a oament for less than fifteen hundred. T’ll

athe young lawyer took the two checks, and, hav-
ing expressed his thanks for such munificence, was
about to. withdraw when Gordon said: are

“No thanks to me, Mr. Ross; that isn’t business
like. It’s a receipt Iwant. Sit down and sign a

“IT beg pardon,” replied Guy, and having com-
plied with his request, he said, as he shook hands
with his brother lawyer: “Thanks to the man be-
hind the curtain, then—the duke, as my uncle in-
sists on calling him.”

“All right; your thanks shall reach the duke.”

Guy hastened direetly up town to carry this good
news to his uncle, who was overcome wit tonish-
ment and: delight, and they discussed the extraor-
digary news with renewed interest and excitement.

“Phere never was anything so wonderful, said
“He must be the richest man inthe world.”

“Oh, no, uncle; he’s very rich, of course, but
there aré many men who have an income of five or
six hundred thousnnd dollars a year, and what
would it be to them to pay you twelve or fifteen
thousand a year?”

“It must have been one of them I saved. .Ishould
like to see him, deok or no dook.”

They went at once.io\Jook at some’ fine horses,
d. of Guy’s, whowas a
judge of horseflesh, they’ succeeded after a few
days in buying an excg’ ent and beautiful span.

The carriage was niore easily obtained, but a
satisfactory coachman was only procured after
several days of advertising, during whichtime, from
one till three every, afternoon, uncle Job was be-
sieged and perplexed by a motley throng of appli-
cants at the livery office, where he had arranged to
hold these unpleasant receptions,

At last, at one of these stable levees, he met, to his
great surprise.an old friend. named Goff, whose
acquaintance he had formed at the sailor’s board-
ing house where he had spént several winters.

He was a man of education and had been a liiwyer
in éarly Jife, but had ruined his prospects by ine-
briety. and since then he had been a snilor, had
traveled a grent deal, and had been battling with
the world for a living in a great many capacities.

Mr. Ross recognized his old friend at a glance,
but not so Tom Goff, who approached rather
deferentially, and asked for the situation with
much earnestness, at the sama time producing a
couple of certificates, which Job handed over to his
adviser, the stable owner, to read, having “left his
glasses at home,’ as he Said. :

They proved to be from pete of stage lines
in the city, and were imall respects favorable, and
neconnted in each ease for his leaving them by the
fact that the work wastoo hard for him.

Tom wis nota robust man; he was rather slen-
der, and just now Job thought he looked rather
famine-pinched, and decidedly shabby in dress.

The adviser shook his head and. whispered,
“don’t take him,” and Goff saw the ominous move-
ment, and was in despair,

“Tf you'll only try me,” he said.

“Keep still, man!” said Job, putting out one hand
with a deprecatory movement. “I want to ask you
one question, Mr. Whipple.”

“Well, sir.”

ete a good stage-driver make a good coach-
man 7?”

“Oh, yes, sir, as far as the driving is coneerned.
and the care of horses.”

“Allright, then. Vil try this man. I like his looks.
though you don't. Come home with me now, Tom
Goff, and we'll talk the matter over.” .

The stables were not far from the hotel, and the
shabby but happy Tom followed his employer, not
presuming to.walk beside him, and in a little while
they were standing face to face in Job’s elegant
room, the hired man with his hat in his hand.

“Sit down there,” said Job. ‘

Tom obeyed, and his employer took a chair and
sat olose in front of him. ;

“Now, don’t you know me?”

“Certainly not.”

* Look again!”

Goff shook his head. —

“Did you neyer see anybody that looked like
me?”

“There, seems something familiarin your faee,
sir, and.in your voice, and I think I must have met
you before, but probably it was a good while ago.”

“No, it was not a good while ago. Didn’t yon
Rene poor miserable old chap by thename of Job

68 2? :

“Why, Mis-ter Ross!” exclaimed Tom, his whole
face brightening and indienting unbounded sur-
prise. “It is yon, sure enough”?

“Of courses it’s me! - Shake hands, Tom, and call
ne Uncle Job once more. That willsound nateral

<0.

“But, sir, if I may make se bold—” __

“No, no. Tom—don’t ‘sir’? me, nor talk about
making bold, not when we are alone; but before
other. folks you may be as respectful as yon life.”

“Well, then, Uncle Job, how did it all happen?”
snid the man, laughing.

“Ah, that’s it! That’s the’old familfar way, 1

like that, but T can’t tell sou how it happened, my
fctang: 80 you see we'll skip that subject, te begin
with.
“Allright. I’m very glad it did hannen thongh,
and that you are ariech man, and sneh a change
every way! Why. I can hardly believe my eves
now! It's lueky for me, teo—that is, if Tecan snit
you 18 0 ecoachman.”

“Tye no donbt you'll) suit; but I don’t like to em-
ploy you after all, Tom.”

 

‘Why nol?” asked the man, gnite alarmed,
; iuse kt don’t-seem ent an old friend like

fell back into old errors of speech, and at bis broth- |
evening,

signedly done so. It w: t.of his disguise. 2)
with cain” aud inoreiBeation Whi @had oc}
sioned to Mrs. 4 casion:

you the check now, and that willsave trouble.”? }

- same

you. It seems us if I ought to do
better for you.” i

‘I don’t want anything better. I am ‘not fit for
anything better, and I shall be crazy with joy to get
the place, I need the pay,us you may see,and I
need employment to keep me from low spirits.
Why, when I get those splendid horses of yours:in
my charge, and make friends of them, I shall be as
huppy 26 a king.”

“Shall you, 'I'om? Woll, you shall be my coach-

something

  
  
  
 
    

 
 
  
   
   
   

aye gone to sea aguin this last,
oe : berred so hard, and] ’ve been &
let her support me now ie two mont
r n I’m so anxious to get work, & to stop
her little savings, and so tuatl can, pay her
hat I owe her, eh “ ; ars oie.

"Dear! dear!’ said Job, sympathigingly. “I’m so
clad I met you.” rat
ih! so am I.” éf
How does your sister earn her money?”

“With the needle, sir, in 1 tenement-house, where
she has a small room inthe fourth story; and she
a lady, too, if ever there was one. But what’s the
use of my talking about that?”

“Talk on, Tom; you like to speak of your sister,

I see.

"So Ido. so I do, and well I may. She is my only
friend and I am her only friend, and we’ve had a
hard lot considering what we were born to.”

Mr. Goff went on at some length to give a history
of his family,aceording to which it appeared that his
father. hud. onee been a prosperous and able law-
yer in the interior of the State, aud that both he
und his sister Jane had been well educated, and
had in their younger days moved in the best

Bociety..

Tn an evil fefr, Counselor Goff, being an ambi-
tious man, had moved to New York, to improve his
business and extend his reputation, but had failed
of success, and had with difficulty supported his
small family eepectably for a few yeurs,

Then he gre H and died. His wife survived
him but a year, and the son and daughter were left
so destitute that they were obliged to sell a portion
of the household furniture to pay the funeral ex-
penses of their mother. :

“Twas of age then,and had begun to practice
law,” snid om; “but I only earned my office rent
and all my troubles pressed so hard on me that f
took to drinking, which, of course, made matters
much worse.” -—

“Of course it did.” : : ;

‘How that sister pleaded with me and tried to
save me,” said Tom, brushing away some tears
with the back of his hand; ‘‘and she did reform me
at last, after years of suffering und almost destitu-
tion for both of us. I could not get anything to do
becanse eyery body who knew me at all knew that I
had been intemperate, and believed I would be so
again. So _I resolved not to be a burden upon
Jane, and I went off to sea, though it was against
her wishes.”

“And did you keep sober?” j

“Perfectly; but ye been leading a vagrant kind
of life ever since, till ’ve lost all ambition. I’ve
often been able to help sister, though, who was
taken sick and lost her scholars, and after various
shifts and turns the poor girl brought up in the
tenement-house.”

“Is she a girl?”

“Oh, no, she is thirty-seven years old now; but
she is a girl to me, the same as ever.”

Job was almost crying now, as well as Tom Goff.
maatook out his pocket-book and counted out fifty

ollars.

“There, go and take her that, Tom Goff. before
you say another word,” he said, “and here’s an-
other fifty tome os a wages. No! Don’t say
a word, but go now and come back here to-morrow

morning.”
Goff obeyed orders; he said nothing, but went off
laughing and half erying.
3 (TO BE OONTINUED.)

i A J 7
ACY OF
BY A’FAVORITE AUTHOR. /—

 
   
 
 
      

using

7

 

   

 

[“A Legacy of Hate” ‘was commenced in No. 31. Baek Nos
can be obtained from any News Agent.]} . Nes i

CHAPTER XLY.—~+ConrtTINUED.)
Continuation of Grace Chagwynne's Narrative.

_ With such frighj{ul evidence before\them, the

y régurn one verdict, and \Mr. Sher-
to be executed at Bodmin,
tthe  sentenge. Not fone soul
unty believed him innlocent ex-
fichael; and why such a fancy

     
   
   

man until Lean do something better for you—”

“{ don’t want anything better.”

“And I’)l gi ou first-rate wages. You won’t
objet toa han e plain livery, Lsuppose,” ,
("Not at all. all be glad to ‘a good suit off!
clothes of any kind. Look at the oe
."L see they are pretty old. It seems to me you
| did not use to be quite’so hard up 118 winter.”

_ Lwasn’t; but I spent all my money, ant

  

strange look; “and the name of the woman whose
memory must have made his dying pillow bitter,
wis Madeline.” . ’
“Madeline!” repeated the boy. as his thin hands
fell into his lap in hopeless patience. “And through
her Lady Crehylis lost both husband and child?”
“Yes,” returned Grace; “an only child, and a
husband dearly loved. Through her, while they
both lived,she w ; d childless; through
n they. yer smoothed their dy-
ast words, never had

        
    
 
   
 
   

ing pillo be
their last
al

ae ye Li. 6 gO
Brain has loved
/

 

, pio cot in

Never fear,” retar

f ld. and be the truest friend thats

re ichael Polzrain iw 0 ned

t a the friendless boy, was.well/gontent

his Sister made known to him the child’s request. -
“Tiltake him a. ortwo.” hesaid, ‘for his

health’s sake. 6 boy Would die upon the iand,
that’s plain.” ;

So, in a few days more the little Alfred was far
te uone the sea, saved from the ernel clutch of
Mr. Whalley, und beyond the reach of the desperate
search mude for him by Madeline Bingleton,

CHAPTER XLVL
RATHLINE’S LITTLE GAME.

“Well, I have been to Tpyanahire, and seen Whal-
ley,” said Mr. Rathling, flinging himselfon acouch
in the parlor of an inn Where he and Madeline met
at times; “and the boy is not found, nor likely to
be found.” ,

“You went to your friend Whalley, not believing

me,” observed Madoline, quietly. “It was for this
ZOUs NOY you demanded money. I knew it all the
times.’
“And what then ?” asked Mr. Rathline. “Tam not
the sort of fellow to take a womun’s word for any-
thing. If Alfred dies, you come into a pretty heap
of money—I know that.”

Madeline despised the man too much to he indig-
nant at this insinuation, but she looked him calmly
in the face, .

“Tf I covet. the fortune,” she said, “which Tom
willed should fall to me on Alfred’s death, why did
I not take it when—when the boat went down ?”

““Beeuuse I did not let you,” replied Mr. Rathline,
tapping his boots with his tasseled cane, and laugh-
ingtriumpbantly. “Lhid the child at the house of
your devoted admirer, De Briancourt. and prepared
you for fhe truth gradually.” ”

Madeline rose and paced the room; her face was
death-white and full of anguish.

“Are your nerves giving way ?” asked Mr. Rath-
line, sneeringly. “‘The whole thing is safe enough
if you don’t pench, here is only one person we
have to be afraid of, and that is Alice. But she is
not likely to see the boy.” “68.

Madeline made no answer to this; but she asked,

abruptly:

“What did Whalley tell you ?”

‘He said there were no tidings of the lad inthe
West.” replied Mr. Rathline; “neither at Crehylls
nor Penkivel.” .

i shall go and search for him myself,” said Mad-
eline. -

Mr. Rathline looked at her suspiciously, “She is
repenting,” he thought to himself, ‘and she means
to make a scapegoat of me; but she shall find her-
self mistaken.” .

“Tt is useless looking for him,” he said; “I believe
the boy is dead. All the money is in your own
hands—give me half of it, and let us makean end
of the matter.” aN

Madeline looked at the man with weary eyes.

“Do you fancy meso weak ?” she said, seornfully.
“Who has benefited by_the poor child’s life but
Richard Rathline?, But Richard Rathline shall not
benefit by his death. If he be really dead, I will
never give you another penny.”

“Oh, come,” said the swaggerer, contemptuously,
“T know better than that. If you indulge yourself

i that sort of talle I shall demand three-fourths of
Tom’s money, instead of half.” ghd
~ “The fortune left to Alfred Singleton shall never
be touched by your grasping hands,” said Mude-
line, firmly, ‘In what I hayedone I have always
meant justice, not robbery. I save prorg penny of
the income, and Ladd to it every year. I work, I
sing, I act, only for that; and I will never rest till I
hay de the boy’s fortune equal to the one he

 

would have had if—

“Why nothayelet him haye his own, then?” inter-
rupted Mr. Rathline, savagely. “When 1 told you
the truth, two days. after Tiom’s death, it was not
toolate. You might haye restored the boy tothe
paternilarms in thestyle you are used to onthe
stage, and haye received my lord’s blessing, and
my Jady’s also.” ; ‘

This taunt made Madeline snow-white. She held
the back of the chair py which she stood, with both
lande, thus steadying herself to speak calmly,

“You do not understand me,” she said.
can ithink to be understood by a man like you?
When you told me whothe child was that my hus-

 

 

r .

hi

tell. :
Mr. Lanyon was very good tothe forlopn little
orphan, who lay weeping and friendless at Bt. Eg-
lon’s Hut. Pinding no relative of her father’s will-
ing to take her, he sent her up to London to school,
but what became of her when she grew up, I cannot

say.

ord Crehylls did not return home till all the talk
about this terrible story had diedaway. He wasa
man then, and he did not like to hear a word said
eoneerning his foolish boy-love for Mrs. Sherborne,
the more especiully as he was Miss Lanyon’s Jover
now. She was a good and lovely lady, and the heir-
ess of Penkivel and much wealth besides. When
sheand Lord Crehylls married, all the country, gen-
tle :nd simple, were pleased, and wished them joy
with one voice. And never did a young couple be-
gin Jife with more Jove for each other, or a greater
prospect of happiness; yet in afew years all was
shattered, and both were left a wreck.

Old Mr. sooo fF halaward,a young lady of great
beauty, named Madeline Slyvester, She and Lady
Crehylis were no great friends, yet she eame often
to the Castle, or they at Penkivel, when the young
couple went down there to stay,

Miss Sylvester hada loyer,a gallant gentleman,
who through years of patient love, had hoped on
till he won her consent to be his wife; but, likea
eake of thin ice, all was treacherous when itseemed
most'smootlr.’ Miss Sylvester leit the Castle on the
yery day that Lord Crehylls deserted his wife, leay-
ing her desolate and. broken-hearted. Where she
went,or what became of her, has never been known
down here. Weonly knew that her lover cxmeto

8 brain to this day, 1 “e meyer

band had died to save, Lcried out, this was wnother
dreadtul injustice, and that there was no Godin the
world; but when youn’ went on to divulge your
scheme to me, I fancied I saw in it a retribution.
Groping blindly for the justice I Jove. Limagined it
was placed now miraculously in my. hands, As
they had meted out to me,so would I measure to
them. They had reared me under a false name,
with a clond of shame about moe; I would dothe
same for him. They had filled my childish imagi-
nation with terrors of a father whom they falsely
called vile; I would give their child a father really
vile—a father at whose remembrance he should
shudder, as I did at mine.” 7
“Tam much obliged to you,” said Mr. Rathline,
coolly; “but I flatter myself the boy rather likes

me. , :

Madeline, however, did not heed him.

“But through all this, [ never meant to do less for
him than Mr. Lanyon did-for me,” she continued.
“IT meant to educate him, and give him a fortune as
great ns the one he has lost. It never entered into
my scheme of justice to let the boy be a homeless
vagabond upon the earth—an outeust given up to
erime. Sohe must be found, Richard Rathline; he
roust, he shall be found!”

“Ttell you I. believe he is dead,” repeated Mr.
Rathline. “And a good thing too; the whole mat-
ter will be off oue’s conscience now.”

Madeline wrung her hands together hopelessly,

“Vou deceived me about the school,” she said;
* your friend Whalley is a eruel villain. But for his
ill-treatment tbe boy would not hive run away.’

“Twas obliged to put the child with a friend. who
would notask questions,” returned Mr. Rathline,

 

the Castle in great grief, and told Lady Creliyils she

the blame of her husband’s eruel departure, and

even fancied that she had stolenher child. Butshe

knew afterward the boy was with his father. He |
should not have taken from his. wife the one little

comforter who might have solaced her misery, but

Tdon’t think the blame of that lies with Miss Syl-

yester; yet Mr, Lanyon’s illness does, for I took the

letter to him myself which struck .bim down with

paralysis, and he was never sensible again.

What Lady Crehylls felt when she found herself
bereaved both of husband and ehild,none eould
dare guess. Her grief wonld not bear comforting.
She wandered about alene through the park at
Crehyllis, looking pale and hollow-eyed as nspec-
ter. The friends that pressed around her she
would not see orspeak with. They blamed her
husband, and herlove for him—which has lived
through all his cruelty—made their consolations a
torture.

She soon left the Castle and went down to Pen-
kivel. where shesolaced her father’s declining days,
and where she has lived ever sinee. She and sor-
row have never parted company; forsoon after her
father’s death news ecame toherthat her boy was
drowned; then her husband died, and was brought
to Penkivel to bs buried.’ People say it was his dy-
ing wish to Jietbere, rather than with his fore-
fathers at Crehylls. So pezthaps on_ his death-bed
his love went back to his wife, and he yearned in
a to be near the true heart that he had forsaken

n life. .
_ Each sad event that has oecurred to him has

brought again to men’s lips the story of Mathew
Carbis and Walter Sherborne. When Lord Cre-

hylls forsook his fair young wife nnd became an
exile,as some thought for "Miss Sylvestec’s suke,
people said of him that he was afeebie man, given
to foolish loves fron®his boyhood. When he died,
they remarked that his age and Walter Sherborne’s
were the sime; and they wondered if any remem-
brance of that unhappy man had jiutruded on his
dying thonghits.. ; '

Listening to such talk as this, [have seen my
brother. Michael’s white fuee_grow gray.as ashes;
for in nll the sorrows of Lord Crehylls he has borne
1 pee and shared the suffering. Often le has hint-
edtomedimlythat when all secrets are revenled,
it. will be known, that Lord Crohylls_ was not so
guilty as the world supposed when he deserted his
wife at Madeline Sylvester’s command. '

wor these words Grave’ Chagwynne’s story
ended.

Alfred Singleton listened intently to this history,
L Wihiiclt Grae» told atintervals, taking it uplike'bro-

ken threads while shesat at her knitting; and the

boy, a8 he listened, fancied mush of it had cone te
him long agoindreams, Than, ug the story grew
andlengthened, there rose in his mind indistinet
words and shadows, through whieh the names of
Corbis and Sherborne came to him, mingled with
tears and Bobs. and the prayers of @ weary man:
or, turning enlmly, proudly away fran bis own
amall. elingzing baad hig memory recalled the
pale en a fave of Madeline, tearless and un-
piliint.

“Did Lerd Orehyis dite nt Naples ?” he asked, fix-
ine bis wistfnl eyes on Grace,

“Yes,” she answered, glancing at him with a

 

 

 

isulkily. ““Come,my question is the money ques-

was lost tohim forever. My lady Jaid upon herall. tion, Iwantto get back to that.”

“You areavulturé' who is never satisfied,” re-
plied Madeline, fiereely. “I have worked inces-
santly to supply your needs, but you shall not make
me rob for you.” ;

“Nonsense; if the boy is dead, the money is

ours. Iwonder you ureso squeamish,” observed

r. Rathline. “L eall this little plot something be-
yond robbery.”

“Tt is justice. And I wish it to be neither more
nor less than justice,” said Madeline, walking up
and down the room swiftly. “Itis you who give it
oi d neeg of villuiny, as you do everything you

ouch.”

“T eall things by theirright names,” returned
Mr. Rathline, with a Jow whistle. “and you’ll find
that the lawyers at the Old Bailey will, too.”

“Do youthink the Crehylls would ever dare ac-
euse me of wrong toward them?” e.ted Madeline,
turning on him fiercely. “Have [ono wrongs?
Where is my father lying now throngh the villainy
of the Crehylls and the Lanyons? I tell you his
blood always cries to meirom that prison-ground
to avenge him,and Iwill. Iam notafraid to tyke
‘justice into my own hands; they had no fears when
they took injustice into theirs. Human beings
must right themselves: the world never hears the
voice of the oppressed.”

“All this fine talk signifies nothing.” observed
Mr. Rathline, “Let us cometothe point. Whatdo
you mean to do with Alfred's money?”

“[shall keep it for the boy who bears his name,”
she replied,

“Andif he is dead, or can never be found?” reit-
erated Mr. Rathline. _

“Ido not believa in either of these suppositions;
but in. case of the first. I shall leave the money to
Alice,” replied Madeline.

“And meanwhile, what do you mean to give me?”
he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, “until the child is found;
then I will ecntinue tosupply your extravagance
as L huve done.”

This prospect by no means pleased Mr, Rathline;
he wanted money at.ones, and the hepe of finding
the boy appeared to him yery donbtful.
tt am not going to bs bullied,” he said, sulkily.
“Ifyou don't give memouey, 1 know another wo-
man who will.” .

“Do you mean Alice?” she asked,

“No; I'mean Lady Crehvils. T-expect she will be
glaito give meagond sum for this little history,”
remarked Mr. Rathline, with.» triumphant leer.

Mndeline’s f ee grew marble-white, but she an-
swered stendily:

“Lady Orehylis would not pelieve you. And all
the power and influence of the present Lord Cre-
hylls would be set nzainst von.’

“You are mistaken,” said Mr, Rathline. “He isa
poor, week fool: he would give upthe titleand
estntes directly ifhe knew his nephew wis alive.”

“The title and estates are justly his,” replied
Madeline; “the son of a felon eannot inherit them.

And if you goto Ladv Grehylis, and she listens to
you, [ will divulge her hushand’s crime to all the
world. Every oneshall know that he was the man
who slew Mathew Curhis.”

“That isof no consequanre to me, so that I get
ber ladyship to pay me well,” said Mr. Rathline,

 

8 ished ina foreign land,
k todvex eh

 

tryingto assume his oldswagger. But something
in Madeline’s words had shaken him, and his im- |
pudence took an uneasy air. “Look here,” he re-
sumed. “J don’t want is quarrel—that would be ©
foolish in you and me; Fil give you till to-morrow
to think over my proposition.’

“And what is your proposition?” asked Mudeline,

pane cement

    
 
   
 
   
 

  

     
 

       
  

 
  

   
  

“Why, that you should give mea good. round
sum down, and ave « ; e,” replied Mr.
Rathline. “ 4

“T cannot,” “IT have only my
professional } ;
» Lv he persisted, “It
wag y :

abe day ‘tom was
, things, I think half
i," said Madeline.

@ onthispoint. I |
to whom I have

yours, as you know, fr
med; an eonsider !
is my fair Eas

  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  

queers kindIevermet |

thiine,in an indignanttone. —
‘stealing @ man’s child, but

’ ? éy which is positively your

own.” sh Ps:

“Not mine while the boy lives oO personates
your son,” replied Madeline” "And how do_you
knowI think nothing of what I have done? Itell
Sly Ithink till Tam mad, Ihave wrecked my life

or the sake of quae. But forthe constant thought
of my father’s death, and my mother’s sorrows,my |
days and nights would be one long agony of re- ©
pentance.” ;

She ceased, with quivering dis. and covered her
free with both her small trembling hands.

“Well, [must say Ishouldn’t like to have your
conscience,” observ ¢ the easy Mr. Rathline, with
great self-content. “It must be plaguey annoying
to have anything on one’s mind. have just seen
a fellow whe—” But here he checked himself,
and turned suddenly to another subject, “It was a
arent loss to me,’ he said, “when Alfred got

rowned; because, naturally and dutifully, when
he grewup, he would take ‘care of his father; and,
of course, I should have expected, too, this other
lad to do his duty by me, and no doubt he would.
But now the young fellow run away.and got
lost or killed, there is nothing to expect except
what Lhave to hope for{rom: you,, Come now, you
are ajust woman. So I say again, halves, or else I
split on the whole affair.” 4%

Madeline looked at the ‘selfisi, easy, callous man
in a bewiklerei} way. Blinded all her life-long by
her own bitterness and morbid sense of injustice,
she did not yet see how this villain had taken ad-
vantage of her vindictive moodiness to accomplish
afraud by which be gained in the present and
looked Jor greater gnins in the future. To havea
son whe possessed a large fortune was to be rich
himself one day, and tovhavée a hold on Madeline
wis to have a hand always,in, her purse. Now,
however, that the supposititiens Alize Singleton
was lost, he began to he frightened, pal he was se-
cretly resolved’ to wring moneg fro: ideline and
depart for America, pile he was yet safe. He had
confessed to Whalley that the boy was no
he had not given him a true version o
history. He had only said enough to whet the —
schoolmaster savarice and curiosity, so asto insure
his farther search being an earnest one, while
the snme'time he had inipressed on liis old frie
the necessity of its being’ as private as pos
Advertisements and rewards in the case.of such
runaway would never do, Butthough hehad done
all this, Mr. Rathline’s faith in the boy’s recovery
was very small, and so, of course,now was liis cor-.
responding faith in the future enjoyment of i
supposed.son’s property. And when he,.reflecte
who Mr. Whalley was, he began to think heshould,
on the whole, bé safer on the otherside of the sea.
Out of old habit, he had given him part of his eon-
fidence, but he was much inclined to repent of that
now. Thus, self-interest doubly urged him to es-
cape, but to escape without money was impossible;
so he came to Madeline, bent on gaining as much
as possible from her fears. “o his obtuse mind, it
seemed n kind of unfairness that she should refuse
him the half of his son’s fortune, and her obstinacy
onthis pointirritated him. ~ a are

“I shall split on you,” he papented, brutally, “un-
less you listen to reason. What! isn’t a man to take
care of himself nts world£?” ;

“Lady Crebylls will not listen to you,” said Made-
line. desperately. ° kes

“Well, [shall try her; and if she won’t, Mr. Pel-
lew will,” observed Mr. Rathline, in his coolest
voice.

This blow struck home, Faint with the flood of
anguish that rolled in upon her heart, Madeline
a eoet the bully by the arm to save herself from
afling.

“Give me till to-morrow evening,

   
  

 
 
 
 
  

 

you pro-

 

posed,” she said, feebly, “and then
an answer. ;

“OF what use tocome to your place,” he asked,
“when you know that Alice will listen to all we
say, evenif she screws herself through the key-
hole to doit.” . ;

“Come all the same,” said Madeline, drearily. “I
will simply say yes or no. Alico will understand

gto me for

She slipped some money into the cowardly, dast-
ardly hand that had never worked for. itself, and
then gotinto the coach awaiting her, and dreye
away. i

: ee * * * * * *

‘The next evening, when Mr. Rathline presented
himself in «Madeline’s drawing-room, he found

 

 

Alice seated there alone, Her eyes were red with
Weeping. Now. if MreRathline’ possessed one hu-
man weakness, it was a slight partiality for his
daughter, so he looked at her with some concern.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“The matter is,’ returned Alice, snappishly,
“that I won’t standitany longer.: You are worse
than the brutes. father; even the lowest creatures
eare for their offspring.”

“And don’t I eare for you?” asked Mr. Rathline,
seniimentally.

“Tam not speaking of myself,” said Alice, with a

ush of Senuing tours, “but of poor little Alfred.

ou have kept him and yourself out of my sight for
nearly three years ;and now, when at lastyon- come
tg pay meavisit, youthink. L suppose, 1 shall be
glad to see you. ué you are mistaken; I never
wish to see your face unless you bring Alfred with
you. ; ©: ; :
. Mr. Rathline gulped down an uncomfortable feel-
ing which rose in his throat, and suid, hurriedly:

“But supposel can’thbring Alfred with me? Are
FoR so very fond of the boy, Alice ?” « 2

“You know very wellthat heis all I have in the
world now Tom is gone,” replied the girl, passion-
ately; “and ‘yesterday Madcline confessed to me
that he had run away trom sehool. -Ichave been
erying ever since I heard it. Who can tell] where he
is, or What he is suffering now this minute? I hate
this eomfortable room and ‘all these grind things
around me. Anddast night, thinking Alfred might
be lying under some cold hedge, I nevyersicp: a mo-
ment, nor even went to bed.”

Mr. Rathline tried to take the girls hand from
her sobbing face, butshe snatched it away. ©

“IT want no humbug from you, father.?.she said, .
angrily, ‘‘You and Madeline have cons re to-
getherto keep my brother from me, but Imean to
bear it no longer’. Pll see the child the moment he’
is found, or ’il know the reason why.” |... =

Again that uncomfortable sensation in the throat .
seemed to vex Mr. Pathtine, as he said, hoarsely: ~

“I wish you couldsee him, Alice. Where is Mad-
eline? Iwanttospexrk to her.” » te ae

“Where is Madeline?” repeated Alice, with great
indignation; “she lias done what you ougM to have
done. She has goneto search for Alfred. She went
to Cornwall by last night’s mail.”

Mr. Rathline started up with a sudden oath upon
his lips, but stifled it. and sat down again to stare
blankly at his daughter, i,

“Madeline is goneto Lady Crehyls,? he said to
himself. “She has frustrated me there; but I’ve
got another eard'to play, and I'll hold it back no
longer. When Richard Rathline is himself in dan-

 

ger, old friendships must fall.” ee
“Alice.” he said, jn a strange voice, “cab you give
me Mr. Pellew’s address?”
“There it is on his card en the table,” replied

ice.

Mr. Rathline took itup and stooped over his weep-
ing daughter. -

“You and I may not, meet again for a long while
to come, Alice,” hesuid.. “Would you mind giving
men kiss?”

With tear-stained eyes Alice looked at himin
great nstonishment, wud. taking advantage of her
surprise, ha touched her cheek with his lips, and
wrung her hand with a sudden grip. je:

‘Think of me ‘sometimes, little girl, when Iam
gone,” said he. ;

Before Alice could collect. p f£.to.ask thecause
of this unwonted affection, his Step was on the

stairs, and in another mo the front door closed
heavily, od {inti doG .
“Tam notanch a bad_foll after all.” said Mr.

Rathline to himself, xs he went swageering down
the stroet, thinking complacently of this momenta-
ry Softening of his heart.

CHAPTER XLVII.
MADELINE VISITS LADY CREHYLLS.

Upon a gentle slope, midway hetween the hills
and the fant stood the eld honse of Penkivel. Round
about and above it was a thick wood of pines,
storm-benten and rugged, yet living on greenly,
sheltering the mansion with their dark foliage,
So their shadows far over the purple
neath.

Lower down, to the right of tha house, lav a dell
so narrow that it seemed achasm rentin the earth;
and here bheech-trees and mountain ash clung to
the soil, while on the southern side sloped the gur-
dens of Penkivel, catehing the sunshine, and
screened from the sea by woods of larch and fir,
At the bottem of the ynalley rolled a torrent, which

 

 

foamed over rocks and bowldersin a constant rush
nnd rear, varying little in strength or sound in
summer or winter.

 

nothing from that. Here is something to kist you J
‘How /'till then.” sa

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The ancient rooms at Penkivel faeed the garden,
and caught the sun,and Lady Crehyvils, in her
dgriolingss, shut up the stately saloons which looked

ni tke northern side,and inhabited this more
cheerful side, around whose windows flowers clus-
tered, and whence she could see the village and
the church of Penkivel standing down in the dell
near the foaming river. ; i

Bebind the mansion, piled up.in bleak confusion,
rose huge granite hills, unshadowed, by a single
tree, yet glorious all AOE ORE BOUL the year with the
ee and purple hues of heath and gorse. This

ast lay upon the hill-sides like the goldew mantles
of athousxnd kings. outspread and glistening in
thesun. And above the glitter and sheen of their
glory hung the deep blues of the unspotted sky—a
sky whose pure and tranquil azure gives relief to
the resplendent beauty of tliese fields of gold. No
words can ‘paint the depth and clearness of that
sapphire sea, which in majestic strength rolls in
upon the northern shore, blendinginthedim hori-
zon with the western sky. Far less can words de-
pict the somber, awful benuty of the sea and the
cloud-expped heights above. when lightning and
storm flash across: them, driving: huge: shadows
from hill to hill, and flinging the waves in thunder
outhe beach. Atsuch times the mists take wreathed
shapes, and the storm is palpable to the eye, strid-
ing like a giant from peak to peak, scattering rain
and hail-stones,lightning and pealed thunder in its
pail. while on the rocks below the troubled sea
nitis mighty waves, which, with sullen roar, and
ro here high in air, break in fury against the
solid eliff. :

One autumn day, in such asceneas this, Lady
Orelylis sat at her window watching the tempest,
seeing the great cloud-shadows change the hills
from purple into black, while her ear caught un-
eonsciously the old dim, monotonous sount of tho
sea as the long rollers broke in lengthening roar
upon the sands, The storm brought no terrors
with it’to her. The roughness of the northern
coust was dear to her ‘heart. She loved Penkivel;
here she was born, here she had spent her.child-
heod, and here, when she returned in sorrow, she
had seen her youth wither, and heard the tidings
which told her she was childless and a widow.
From this aneient root-she had gone forth a bride,
to come back a forsaken wife, and to look down in
unutiterabls grief upon. the face of thelost lover
and husband, who returned to her in death. So for
her very sorrow’s sake thé place was dear; and as
she trod the ‘rooms, haunted by a thousand memo-
ries, her whole life ‘seamed to stand here around
her unbreken by the gaps and changes which as-
snil the wandever.. Perliaps this wus why she never
left Penkivel, and why she'could not: endure the
sight of. Crehylls, where she had been pAeDy and
where the blow had fallen which crushed all joy
from ont her life.

She sat on this dark day by the window till night
fell abruptly, and the moaning wind among the
pine-trees seemed like the wail of a mighty sorrow,
unutterable by human voice. Carried by the mourn-
ful sound into depths of thought past speech, she
leaned her faces upon her hands, while within her
soul there stirred a whisper of God’s peace in the
storm—the “still. small voice” which speaketh after
the whirlwind and the thunder, when’ the tempest
of earthly sorrow is past, and the breaking of the
eternal mare See onthe softened spirit. Then,

le wailof the wind swept again through
the pine Fapenshe let her hands drop, and looked
out hopefully into the darkness.. :
_ ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh
in the morning.”

The words grew upon her out of the blankness:

she did not utter them; they were in and around]

her, as the rainbow is in the stormy sky; and bow-
ing her head in hepe, she wept quietly.

In the noise cof thestorm she had not heard the
door open; andinthe stidden glare of the light
which the servant brought, She could not discern
the face of the visitor,so unexpectedly announced.
But the door closed, tho tall, dark igure came for-
ward anid stood before hersilently. —,

Then she started up, and recoiling in anguish be-
fore allthe memories which this too beautiful face
brought to hef heart, shospread out her hands to
save herself, and leant trembling against a pillar,
on which rested the bust of hor father.

“Madeline! she cried.

Medeling.gazed at. her steadily, with eyes deepen-
ing with astrange fire.

ng ou appealto your father for protection?”
“Oan you dream how the sight of that
marble face steels my heart unpitifully against all
of his name and race?”

“Why are you here?” returned Lady Crehylls.

“Your presence insults me.”

ce apcenen ‘has. always insulted the world,”
said Madeline, in a voice of bitter sorrow; “and,
most fitting of all, most just of human, selflsh_jus-

\ ov se the fact that it insults you, the wife of Lord

hurriedly.

“Tas
_ Rathline some tivo or three years ago?”

‘deliberately he
the true ocala he took me into his care, and laid
u

Crehylis, and the daughter of Mr. Lanyon.”

Lady Crehylis gazed at her in wonder, her pale,
gentle face gathering a look of pity; but she uttered
nota word. .

“Look at him,” eontinued Madeline, stretchin
out her hand toward the marble figure. ‘He liy
and died respected, did he not?—an honorable
man, whose dying face was wetted by his child’s
tears, whose corpse was covered with trappings of
luxtrlous woe, whose tomb—a marble lie—stands
sme the better deadtothis day. Speak! Is it

“Madeline, are you mad?” asked Lady Crehylls,
“All the world kaows my father was
good, oe honored. Why are you come here merely
to rave?”

“Hear me, oh, Heaven!” said Madeline, lifting
her arms on high., “and give me strength to bear
with her while [speak the truth! Iam not come
here to utter ravings, but to tell those terrible facts
which haye: loaded my soul with ‘silent ignominy
and pain. Sit down, Lady Crehylls—you will searce
have strength to stand while [ speak, for I have
strange things to say.”

' . Madeline, as she ilnished, had _ relapsed into her

old impassive calm;, but Lady Crehylls, teembling
in every limb, sank: into a chair, and gazed at her
enemy with wildeyes, :

“But first,” continued Madeline, in a quiet voice,
if you remember having seen a certain Mr.

I rememberhim,” answered Lady Crehylis. “He
was _« slanderer—a bad man.” i

“Ho may be both, and yet what he told you is no
slander,” returned Madeline. “I sent him to you.
I wished youto know something of the truth. I
thought it would soften your grief for your child.”

“Soften my grief to have it hinted to me that his
father was an assassin!’? exclaimed, Lady Cre-
hylls, ebataly, “Miss Sylrester, I will hear no
more of this. I do not desire to have an interview
with you.” f :

“My name was never Sylvester,” said Madeline.
“That was afalse name given me by your father.”

“Who and what are you?” said Lady Crehylls,
trembling excessively us she spoke.

“Tam, Walter, Sherborne’s daughter,’ replied
Madeline, as she rose pale and mournful before
her, “and for your sake your father hunted mine to
death; then he hedged me round with falsehoods;
he bowed down my head with dishonor and shame,
and heaped upon my child-heart all the agohy of a
great crime.” ;

“But your father was guilty;”’ cried Lady Cre-
hylls, with pale lips. “The concealment of your
name was a kindness.” --

“Do not desive yourself,” said the calm voice of
Madeline. ““His motive was like his dee:l, vile and

oruel.” He knew the guilty man, and, knowing him,

he deliberately fixed his crime u

n my father, and
let him. die.

Then, still to sereen

on:my young soul all the burden and anguish of
this.man’s sin. For twelve years—for so long did
his ernelty last-I bore this.lond, and strove to bear
it patiantly. knowing .thatia father’s sin must fall
upon his wee ind through aH these twelve years,
through all their, slow, lagging, weary days, which
ernawled by like wound snakes, he never once
relented. Agathh Ctehylls, cin you guess why
your ae had no pity to give to Madeline Sher-

rne?”? ;

“No, no,” criod Lady. Crehylis; shrinking from
here “T evn guess nathing. Ido not believe your
words,’ wold,! My

*“Youare speaking untruly!” said Madeline, im
the same quiet way; “in every vein you feel that I
am utteringithe truth. Youdonot need words now
‘toltell you thit the. man whoslew Mathew Curbis,
thé man for whom my father: died, was Gooffrey,
Lord Orebylis. For nearly three years you have
brooded over Richurd Rathline’s words, doubting,
fearing they might betrue. I gave you this time
of: suspense;: give you also the confirmation of
your fears.”

‘The man) -Rathline never mentioned Mathew
Carbis,” said Lady Crehylls, lifting her white face
from her hands, with a momentary ‘gienm of

ho A.

“Perhaps not,” returned Madelino, in the same
pnmoved way; “but-he told you Lord Crehyls had
quitted his home to expiate a crime.”
| Lady Crehylls wis silent, but Madeline saw her
shudder from head to foot.

“Have you suffered in these few last years?” she
said, a smile of éontemptuons pity playing on ber
lips. “Youneed not answer. I ean read the tines
upon your face; but your sufferings do not equal
mine. And remember this always, Isuffered un-
Wicd Your fathasr eevee ece for twelve years,

wod me down beneath a yokeof agony, only to
Spire you, his idol, asolitary pang. Never forget
that it was for you Isnffered, for you T was taught
to lie, for vou I lived in loneliness. quivering at the
thonght of love and friendship; Never forget that
while this blight and pain passed over me you had
twelve yeurs’ honor, twelve years’ love, twelve yenrs’

e:ice and happiness, Nowdo you uneberstand: at
ast the eost at which these were purchased for you?
Can you feel what these twelve yenrs did for me?”

‘At this question. like one: faseinated by some
strange horror. Lady Orehyils fixed her eyes on
Madeline's white face in speechless pain.

‘They blighted me,” said Madeline, answering
her look; “they erushed within my soul all faith;
they made the universe darkto me; for God’s prov-

 

 

 

 

idence they gave me man’s injustice. which has
cast me down beneath the wheels of Juggernaut,
and my life now lies maimed and broken,” :

She ceased abruptly, and into the momentary si-
lence which ensued there broke the wild wail of
the wind, and the rush of the sea on the shore.

“IT too have suffered,” said Lady Crehyls, softly;
“but shall I lose my faith because of sorrow ? Shall
I bless God only in prosperity ? and in grief shall
Ido what Job’s wife advised her husband to do,
‘curse Godand die’? God directs the storm and
the whirlwind as well as the sunshine and the
shower.” : ‘

“You are a poor comforter,” said Madeline, bit-
fouly. “Tf the hand of Providence had directed the
ills [ have suffered, I would not have rebelled; or
if T had suffered for my own sin, I would not have
lifted my voice in a murmur; but I have been
struck by theselfish injustice of man, I have been
made to weep that you might laugh; I have been
kept lonely that you might have friends; I have
had love and hope wrenched from my heart. that
they might crown you with happiness; I have been
thrust out into the wilderness to hunger and thirst,
that-your soul might be sutisfied with good things.”

The inexpressible bitterness and pathos of her
voice rang through the heart of Agatha Crohylls.
She rose quickly, and throwing herself down by
Madeline’s side, she suddenly flung her arms
around her. : aa

“Madeline,” she said, “I would suffer much with
a willing heart to make yeu happy. Do not envy
me the few Short years of peace my father bought
at. such a cost.”

Until these words, Madeline endured her touch
and her speech; but now she burst from her, fling-
ing off her clinging hands as though they tortured
her like a fire, Ba AT

“You have hardened me,” she said, disdainfully.
“How dare you remind me that Mr. Lanyon bought
your husband for you with my father’s life? How
dare you tell me you had peace, when there was no

eace? Can you boast to me that the Jove of a

eeble, fickle maw, a man whose hand was stained
with blood, made you happy? And ean you think
Tenvy you such happiness?” _ .

“Toannot, I will not believe in Geoffrey’s guilt!”
cried his widow. passionately. "You have given
me no proof.”

“The proof is, that he exiled himself at my com-
mand,” said Madeline, in her old calm way; “and
he died an exile, never seeking to see your face
again. It was a merciful sentence, uttered in the
rashness and romance cf youth; and [ grieve for
it now. If you require further proofs, they are
here I do not see why I need spare you any

onger.’

She took a packet from her bosom, and, unfast-
ening it with a steady hand, she laid before Lady
Crehylis the letters of her husband to the beauti-
ful wife of Walter Sherborne, and the letter written
by that unhappy man to Madeline herself. As her
eyes fell upon the first, Lady Crehylls, with a sink-
ing heart, recognized the writing and the*wor
she had glanced at in her father’s desk.

She read the letters through—anll the foolish, pas-
sionate oukporing of a boy’s love—her Jip trem-
bling, her cheek blanching as she read; then, with
her last hold upon hope broking like wthread, she
took into her shaking hand Walter Sherborne’s
mournful letter, and read it word by word. The
rustle of the paper,as she Isid it down, sounded
through the room with ghastly distinctness; and
even the flutter of the lace upon her quivering arm
smote Madeline’s ear painfully, ,

“Are you satisfied ?” she suid, in a calm, cold
yoice,

_ For answer Agatha Crehylls gazed into her face
with alook of unutterable despair—a look which
Madeline gathered in greedily, as though she gain-
ed from it re-assurance for herself.

“Ifyou still feel a doubt,” she continued, “send
for Michael Polgrain, and question him. He saw
the blow struck.” :

Lady COrehylls repeated her words like onein a
dream; then in.a dreary voice, she suid, quietly:

“T will not question him; there is no need. These
proofs are past doubt.” .

“Past doubt!” echoed Madeline. “You are right,
they are past doubt.”

A deep sigh el her lips as she spoke, a sigh
of relief, with which she dismissed the fear Maurice
had planted in her heart. -

_“Itis_not these only which convines me,” con-
tinued Lady Orehyllys, glancing at tho letters with
a shudder, “but all the words Geoffrey himself said
in leaving me; his confession of your power, his

desperation and fear, his mournful farewell—all
° Why
ichael:|

return tome now as testimony of his
should I utter his name to his accomplice,
Polgrain, and hear details that would kill me!”

She hid her facein her hands as thongh to hold
gown ote sobs which rose dry and guspinglyin her

1ron

Are you afraid to hear all the truth ?” asked
Madeline, disdainfully—you who have not been
ufraid to do such cruel injustice, and utter such
erueluntruths of others ?” :

“LT? exclaimed Lady Crehylls. “What injustice
have I done?”

“Have you forgotten it so easily?” said Madeline,
with mournful scorn. “ i
husband’s letters, let me ask you now to read one
af yous own.” : ;

efore the pale face and the frightened ey,
which looked at hérso imploringly, Madeli no laid
down the letter that had separated her fron
Maurice Pellew. Lady Crehylis recognized it with
a quick and burning blush. J

“[ tried to repair this wrong,” she cried, trem-
blingly. ‘Believe me, Madeline, I did, indeed.”

See lip curled contemptuously as she
said: ‘

“Can a wrong over be repaired? Can you call
back in its flightthe barbed arrow your hand his
flung? Give me back my life, then you may atone
for the eviiddbne me by you and yours. Give me
back my innocence, my honor, and my truth, and
then talk to me of reparation; but do not mock me
with the word now!”

“If these foolish, resh words, written by mein
my first agony, did indeed injure-you,” said Lady
Crehylls, “Lam deeply, deeply grieved——”

abe me!” interrupted. Madeline, for the first
time letting tears start to her eyes; “they parted
me from the only love I ever felt! they wrenched
from my soulathousand good and gentle things,
hiding there till then, in spite of all my gloom; and
they made me do acruel wrong tothe kindest, no-
blest heart——”

But she stopped abruptly. Her agony of remorse
at every thought of that generous love always
choked her words when she strove to spexk of Tom
Singleton. Lady Crehylls clasped her hands to-
gether nervously in grief and contrition. |

“Tam full of sorrow,” she said, ‘to think thatI
injured you; you, who had suffered so. much
through my fatherand my husband. Would I have
added to eS burden, do youthink, if Thad known
the truth?”

“IT spared you the truth,” answered Madeline,
drearily. “I bore your insults patiently, and
quitted your house in silence, when, by asingle
word, I might have overwhelmed the names of
Lanyon and Crehylls with disgrace and ruin.”

“But you banished AK. all life and light from
my house,” interposed dy Orebylls, rallying her
courage. “You accuse me of having influenced
your life for evil, but have you not influened_ mine,
too? Have I suffered nothing through you, Made-
line? Remember that Ihave lost husband, father,
and child.”

Madeline gazed at her with a look of angry won-

er.
“But it was just—just that you should suffer,” she
eried, almost with ashriek. “If I had done more
than justice [should go mad. Knowing,as you do,
your father’s selfish cruelty, and your husband’s
sin, I wonder you dare bring a counter-aceusation
against me. Do not call me Madeline—you make
me shudder!” j 4

She turnedaway and paced the room hurriedly,
as though her mind was full. of troubled thought.
Then suddenly she stopped before the weeping
Lady Orehylls. :

“Do you menn to tell mea,” she said, in her low,
quiet voice, “that you would rather I had hanged
your husbund than banisied him? You force me
to ask this coarse, hard: question. Speak—would
you have preferred & publictrial and. publicshame,
OE aR the justice I did the best and,most merci-

ul?’

“It was the best,” answered Lady Crehylis, sob-
binsly: th wish I could feel thankful to you, but I
cannot,

“What do your thanks matter?” said Madeline,
scorniully.. “Iwish only for your acknowledg-
ment that I was just. It is enough that Mr, Lanyon
understood that I was merciful; and he did, or he
would not have destroyed’ my letter, before the
stroke fell that took away memory and strength.”

She seemed to gather comfort from this thought,
and the momentary doubt of her own justice passed
away,

“Remember this.” she said, suddenly—"I never

eantto hurt vour father.” 0

“Nor my child,” said Lady Crehylls, softly. “I
knowit was not your fault that Geoffrey took the
boy with him.” |

There was an instant’s hesttation,acrimeon flush
Hg over the proud face, and then Madeline
spoke.

“Te was not my fault,”she snid; “but Tam eliad he
took him. He could not justly inherit the title and
the estutes of the Orehylis. Ha is a felon’s child.”

Startled, and pale as ashes, Lady Orehylls looked
in her face sorrowfully. , i

“Do you mean,if mv boy were living, he could
not be Lord Crehylls ?” sha ssid. ;

“T moun that.” answered Madeline, sharply. “I
mean [ wonld not stand by silently and sea your
sontake atiHleand estate justly forfeited for, his
father’s crime. I meant merey when I banished
Lord Orehylissand not robbery.”

*“Robhery!” repeated Agatha. —--

“Yes,” raplied Madeline; “but I will not, through
the mistake of my romantic youth, allow the pres-
ent Tord Orehvils to be despoiled. It is on this

business Lam cometo yon,” sheadded. “I do not

amournful voice. “It is a bitter task for, me to
speak smoothly to the woman for whom all my life
has been warped and darkened. Nothing but that
sense of justice, which is the strongoet feeling of
my soul, would have brought me to Penkivel.”

She paused a moment, and Lady Crelylls met her
glance with a patient, worn look.

“Have you some new sorrow to tell me?” she
asked, in a sad voice.

Madeline put her hand across her brow, and
swept back hastily the heavy braids of hair which
had fallen over it. She was struggling with her
lust wenkness. A strange desire had assailed her
to weep for pity. and toecry out to her enemy that
she had brought her joy, and not sorrow, and that
pardon was a holier t slog than justice; but, as she
wavered, her listless hand fell upon her bosom and
touched the miniature of her mother, which she
wore there; and with that touch cameaquick revul-
sion of feeling. Where was this unhappy mother?
How had she lived, how died, when Lord Crehylls
deserted her? She was mad, to have pity for the
son and widow of such a man thu inexorable
consequences of hissin follow them. A terrible, a
hard injustice had meted out to her her own fate;
but to them she would only give justice—no more.
With this determination growing hard upon her
brow, she drew near to Agatha Crehiylis, and laid
the PRI cee Ee before her. 1d <

“his is the face of my mother,” she said, oplsy.
“Tam ashamed, when I forget that Lord Crebylls
drew this weak, foolish woman from her home, and
then forsook her; but I scorn myself when for a
moment I cease to remember, that having betrayed
my father, he left him_ to die for the crime he had
himself committed. Can yoube sorry that the child
of such 2 man is dead?” {

Lady Crehyils was looking at the portrait with
eyes tear-blinded, and at. this abrupt question her
anguish broke forth in alow ery of pain..

“My poor little Aubrey!” she said. “Its well for
him that he is spared all thissorrow.” _ :

“Yes, it is well,” said Madeline; ‘for if he lived,
I would publish all this history, if you dared to
claim for him the name and-the lands of the
Crehylls. It is to say this that Iam come to you;
and I warn you, that the mancailed Rathline, whom

you saw inthe church-yard of Penkivel, will visit |.

you, and endeavor. to extort, money from you, on
the plea that your child is living. You have
wronged me wittingly, and unwittingly, all my life
long, but I. will not aid a villain to make you his
dupe. If you wish for one moment’s peace again
throughout your life, do not believe this man when
he, tells you the boy lives.” F .

“But he was drowned—my child was drowned,”
said Lady Crehylls, looking at her with wild eyes.
“What do your words mean? Is there any doubt
of the fact?” ;

“You would be mad to doubt it.” answered Made-

 

listen to Richard Bathline.

have shown you your}

 

line. ‘You will fill vour days with anguish if you
Remember, I. have
warned you.”

She moved slowly toward the door; as Lady
Orehylls sprang forward and clutched her dress, |

“Be merciful!” she cried, in agony.. “If there is
a doubt of my child’s death, tell me.”

Madeline stood still the instant she felt the de-
taining touch of Agatha’s small hand, and with her
cold face turned full on -her, she suid:

“Whatshall I tell you? ShallI give you, a false
hope?_ Shall I say you will see your child again,
when I know you never, never will?”

“Are yon sare?—are you quite, quite sure?” cried
the unhappy mother, with her fevered grasp on
Madeline’s robe still unrelaxed.

“Lam quite sure,” was the answer, spoken firmly
MP Phonthe bhadis fell’ aod siakiness to a chai

ten the han ell, and sinking into a chair,
Lady Crehylls wept bitterly.

The sight of her tears brought a scornful look to
Mndeline’s proud face. ; ;

‘Ah, weep on,” she said, “weep as though you
were the only woman in the world to whom the
sins of othershave broughtsorrow. Weepas though
you were the sole widow on the earth standing
alone, bereaved, childless, and grief-stricken. Have
you not eyes tosee whatIam? Did I lose nothing
when your child sank into the sea? tell you
J lost then my last hold upon goodness, and truth,
and honor. Jamawicked anda desperate woman
now. unworthy of a good man’s loye.” ;

This thought of Maurice brought. the old drear
look into her eyes. and she went on more bitterly.

“The name of Crehylls is fatal to me. The man
who died, trying to save your son, was worth a
hundred such men as that boy would make, I have
not reproiched you with that loss. I have not re-
miuded you that my husband died for your child.”

_Onee more she moyed away, and then y Cre-
bys. in & broken voice, cried feebly:

“For his sake I can, bear your presence here, if
you willstay. He wasagood, a noble man. Will
you go Wy on sneha night aa this?”

“Agatha Crehylls, if the night were the werst that
the world eyer saw, I wouidmet accept hospitality
at Penkivel.” hy

With these words, Madeline’s tall figure passed
out of her sight, and in another instant Lady Cre-
hylls heard the sweep of wheels mingling with the
wild rush of the wind and wayes.

 

(HORATIO.ALGER'S LATEST AKD BEST BOOK,

The Western Boy;~
oR ok com wah |
THE ROAD TO SUCCESS.

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr. |

Now Ready, and for sale by every Bookseller and
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BOTAIL PRICE, - -- - - = = s « $125.

AMERICAN NEWS CoO., Publishers

"Je F and Wholesale Agents.

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Send stamp for Catalogue. Wedaced Prices and Large
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*

 

 

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Address
45.13

 

 

BALDNESS.

 

selling articles in the world. One ercie. teu
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A SUDDEN DEATH.

There is something terriblo in the thought of
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HOLIDAY CABINET.

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toward making this column an attractive feature of the NEW
YORK WEFKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for publica-
tion anything which may be deemed otf sufficient interest for
general perusal. Itis not necessary that the articles shoud be
penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely
to atlord amusement, minor detects will be remedied.}

What a Little Boy Knows about Geese.

Geese woddles and swims. The reson it woddles
is cos it aint got no kanees to its legs, and the reson
it swims is cos Oolumby is the gem of the oeen.
Their feets has gst lethers tween the tose, and
heres astory wich Ive herd my mother tell til Ime
jestsick.

Wen we had a goose onee, wich was tobe cooked
for dinner, it was alyin on the kiteen tabel, and
mother she held Franky, thats the baby, up to see
the goose onthe table. Wen Franky, thats the baby,
seen its feet stickin up with the lethers tween the
tose he said: “Doosey dot guys on.” But pirate
storys is the sort for me.

One day my Uncle Ned he brot home a goslin wich
he had eetehed in the rode, and put it in my sister’s
green work-box. Then he said tomy sister: |

“Missy, Lbrot home sech a nice little duck, jest
as hate . milk, have you seen it any were, cos I
cant find it. ©

My sister said no she hadent, but Uncle Ned he
said was she shure she hadent hid it, and then she
said:

"Wy, Uncle Ned!” ‘

Bue he kep on askin, andlettin on like he thot
she had got it, tilshe was almose redy for to ery,
cos she loves Uncle Ned offler than any boddy cept
her yung man, Prety sune, wen he was gone, she
went.to her green work-box for to git her thimmle
and there was the goslin, and wen she see it
thought she would die! Thén she tuke the goslin
tothe kiteen, and watcht her, like Uncle Ned had
tole me, and I see her put it under the spowt and
serub.it with a brush to git the green off, but wen
it wudent be wite. the goslin wudent, she bust out
seryin and said Uncle Ned woudent. never, never
bleeve her agin while she lived. Then I tole her
how it was, and she wus so happy she boxt my ears
til Isee stars, and she said Mary, thats the house-
maid, shude havethe goslin for to give to the butch-
ers boy wich brings the meet.

The feller came asneekin around here last Sun-
day wen no body was to home, all gone to chureh
but me and Mary, and he oame to the bak dore and
kanocked with his kanuckles very soft, and Mary
she went and said wo did he want, goa way. Then
he got red into the face and snid nice day, maybe it
wude rain, andshesnid yos. Then he said wotn fine
eat, was it ourn, and she said yes agin, wot did he
want. Then ho said he guessed he must go, but
prety sune he come back, cos I was a watchin, and
he said it wasa other fine day, andsMary said wot
didhe want. Then he kicked his foot a wile, and
got redder, and said what a nice girl she was. ho
had brot her some thing, and she said: “Wot impi-
dence! take it rité back this minit, wot is it?” So
the butchers boy he puld some thing out of his
pocket and give it to her, and wocked a way reel
quick. Then I spoke up and said: “Give me that,
you notty girl, Ile tell my mother!” So Mary she

 

 

 

give it to me, nice tide upin a paper, and wot d
you think it wes? Jdést a cafs hart wich I kno that

by a new and simple method of figures (no notes used) whereby:

= = pee eee °

wicket boy had stolen from his boss, wich is Mr.
Brily. Wen Isee Mary was goin to cry cos she was
a frade Ide tell my mother, I was reel sorry, like
she was my own sister, poor thing, se I tole her to
fri it offle quick, fore the fokes got home, and wen
she hud done it you ot tu seen me eat evry tiny lit-
tle bitup!

A man wich was born with lethers tween his tose
was a show, and he was see bya geologist, and the
geologist ast him wot was his natif place, and the
man said Virginny City, and the geologist rote a
book in ten vollumes to proov that Virginny Gity
was one time the bed of a lake.

Once there was an ole man kep geese for a liyin,
and he was offlé sick, cos he cudent sleep wall nites,
he had ‘such fritefle dreams. So he sent for the
dockter. and the dockter he felt. the ole mans pulse;
and harked at his brest, and said:

Ah, (thot so, jest the simptems I xpected, now
wot is yure disease ?”

And theole man said itwas nitemares. Then the
dookter said:

“T knew that, but wot do you dream?”

The ole man_he said: is

“Whenever Ishet my eyes at nite I magine my
sellef srounded by geese, wich keeps a snatchin oub
my hairs with their bils.”

Then the dockter he suid:

“IT could have tole you that wen I first see yeur
tongue.” You must thro away this piller wich you
sleep on,and make a other of fethers wieh yeu
must pul out of live geese.”

“Wy,” said the ole mun, “that is jest the way I
made this piller.”

Then the doekter he said: “O, O,” and went a way,
but the ole mun hesee howit was, and whenever
he picked any more geese he biled em first like
lobsters. LitTLEe JOHNNY.

Slight Misa pprehension.

Though considerably lessened in numbers, the
society of Quakers, or “Friends,” as they choose
to be called, still preserve their organization in the
Eastern States, and hold their cheerful meetings,
which are marked by the conventional! ubsence of
speech or song. During a recent convention in
Massachusetts, one of the brethren took a contem-
plative stroll into atown near where the meeting
was held, and, while admiring the thrift every-
where, manifest, he encountered a citizen who was
driving ateam of yoked steers, and after exchang-
ing a courteous salutation, he asked the farmer:

“Are there any Friends about here ?”

This was a poser. ‘The man with the blue frock
looked at his questioner until hethought he had
mastered the meaning of the query, cenceiving it
to be a species of joke. /

“No,” said he, “not afriend here; every d— one
of ’em is enemies.” ’ wre

A cross-road here parted them, and the good man
moved on, wondering at such rudeness. B. P. 8.

A Diplomatic Witness,

“Isay, Mr. Smithers.” said Mrs. Smithers to her
husband, “didn’t T hear you down in the kitchen
kissing the cook ?”

“My dear,” replied Smithers, blandly. “permit
me to insist upon my right to be reisonably ignor-
ant, I really cannot say what you may have heard.”

“But wasn’t you down there kissing the cook ?”

My dear, I really cannot recollect. I only re-
member sole into the kitchen and coming out
again. I may have been there, and from what you
say Tinfer I was. But I cannot recollect just what
occurred.”

“But,” persisted the ruthless cross-examinar,
what did Jane mean when shesaid, ‘Oh! Smithers,
don’t kiss so loud, or the old she-dragon up stairs
will hear us ??”

“Well.” said Smithers, inhis blandest tones. “T
cannot remember what interpretation Idid puton
the words atthe time. They are not my words, you
must remember.”

Are You a Philanthropist?

“Does eny ob de gem’len understand what fer-
lanthropy means?” asked Brother Gardner, as he
rose and folded his arms across his noble breast.

it was alongtime before Felix Snead lifted his
body and replied: :

“T’spect data ferlantherpist am a pusson dat
feels.a heap of sorry for de peor, and is allers want-
in’ to better the condition of his nayburs.”

“You is mo’ dan six-fifths kerect,” continued the
resident. ‘De ferlantopist sits down befo’ a rous-

’ good fireonacold day and wishes dat every-
body else had sucha fire, Hedoan’ take money
out’n his pocket to buy wood and coal for de poor,
but he figures up some scheme by which all de
money and ail de po’ folks isto be divided up some-
how, so dat ebery dollar will hab aman and ebery
man willhabadollar. If he h’ars dat one starved
to death, he figures up de amount ob de grain crep,
divides de bushels by de number o’ de poperla-
shun,and makes it plain dat ebery pusson is ’titled
to ober thirty, bushels ob wheat dis y’ar. De fer-
lantherpist wishes dat de po’ chil’en had clothes,
but he doan’ buy ’em eny. He wishes dat all de
bad folks would reform, but he dosn’ walk roun’
among dem for fear of gittin’ deshine off’n his
boots. He adverkates homes for crippled and
aiged, and unfortunate, and next day signs a pe-
tishun to frow aone-armed soldier out’n a posi-
tion paying a dollar a day. Gem’lem, de cull'’d
race am graded down, even below de Turk, I is ob
de solum opinyun data good square nigger am
forty rods ahead ob a ferlantherpist. and gainin’ at
ebery jump.”

An Obliging Young Man,

A farmer being poorly provided with materiais of
sustenance for his men, fed them with pork cooked
with the rind uponit.. A young man of the compa-
ny, not liking the outer portion of the food, was
observed by the host to be carefully removing the
outside covering, whereupon the latter said: _

“Young man, we eat the rind and all here.”

To which the youth roplied: | ;
All right, old man; I’m cutting it off for you.”

ELEGANT —

 

Price, $1.50 each.

Just Published and selling very rapidly,

1.—Thrown on the World,
A novel, by Bertha M. Clay.........§1.5@

2.—Peerless Cathleen,

A novel, by Cora Agnew............ $1.50
3.—Faithful Margaret,

A novel, by Annie Ashmore......... $1.50
4.—Nick Whifiies,

A story, by Dr. J. H. Robinson..... $1.50
5.—Lady Leonora,

A novel, by Carrie Conklin. ........$1.50
6.—The Grinder Papers,

A comic book, by Mary Kyle Dallas. .¢1.50
7.—The Curse of Everleigh,

A novel, by Helen Corwin Pierce. ... $1.50
8.—A_ Bitter Atonement,

A novel, by Bertha M. Clay.........¢1.50
9.—That Awful Boy,

A humorous domestic story....... . $1.00

10.—That Bridget of Ours,

A comic housekeeper’s story ......... $1.00
11.—Love Works Wonders,

A novel, by Bertha M. Clay, author of
‘‘Thrown on the World.”.........$1.50

12.—Daisy Thornton,

A Novel, by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes, . . $1.50

13.—Evelyn’s Folly,

A novel, by Bertha M. Clay.........$1.50

 

 

 

*,* Single copies-will be sent by mail, postage free
on receipt of price, $1.50, by STREET & SMITH,
New York WEEKLY office, 31 Rose St., New York
Olty, and
WHoOLzEsaLE Onprns filled by the dozen, hundred

or thousand, by
G. W. CARLETON & C0., Publishers,
Madison Square,
NEW YORK,

 

 

New Bound Books.

 

 

 

 

 

eee

 
 

 

 

)
2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

yee WN MORO

NEW YORK, DECEMBER 2, 1878.

 

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
One month, (postage free) 25c. | One Year—1 copy (postage Sree)$3
ital rs corse 50c. po Bh BO ep iate 5

 

 

Two month.
Three months ..... eke 75c. We Re NT hs one bine te Ww
Four months............. ay Te OG eects 20

BB Specimen copies can be seen at every post-office, drug
store, vnd news agency throughout the Union,

In addressing letters to STREET & SMITH, do not omit our Bow
Number. By « recent order of the Post-office Department this is
abselutely necessary, to insure the prompt delivery of let!

ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors.
25, 27, Band: Rose St..N.Y. P.O. Hex 4896

J.T. Preston, Printer, 27 Rose st.
J. P. Felt, Electrotyper and Stereotyper, 25 Rose st.

MRS. FLEMINGS
Last and Best Story,

CARRIED
BY
STORM,

‘WILL BE COMMENCED

Next Week. Next Week.

 

 

The ‘heroine of Mus. FLEMING’s new story is a
quaint, strange, and entirely original character.
Bo show the public in what estimation this ex-
tremely interesting personage is held by the au-
ther, we publish the following letter:

Street & Smith:

GENTLEMEN—I send with the bearer to-day the
last chapter of “CARRIED By Storm.” As a matter
of eourse,I have liked, more or less, all my own
steries, hut I really think none better than this:
““PLEAFORD’s JOANNA” grew to be very real, very
mear and dear to me, before [laid down my pen
and bade her good-by forever. To your many
readers (to whom Jam but a shadow and a name) I
trust she will endear herself before they too say
ttheir final farewell.

Very sincerely yours,
May Aanes FLEMING.

Gum-Arabic. jae
, on

There stands before us while we write that al-

‘most indispensable little article, a mucilage bottle,
filed with its adhesive mixture. Itisa pleasant
habit, as well as a usefuland instructive one, to
study the nature of fhe familiar objects about us.
‘Often the articles of our daily use are entirely
strange tous, and thus very few persons pause to
vask° themselyes what is gum-arabic. and whence
does it come? In Morocco, about the middle of
November, after a rainy season, a gummy juice ex-
udes spontaneously from the trunks and branches
-of the acacia-tree. lt gradually thickens in the
furrow down which it runs, and assumes the form
‘of oval and round drops, about the size of a
igeon’s egg, of different colors, as it comes from
red or white gum trees. About the middle of De-
ember the Moors encamp on the borders of the
forest, and the harvest lasts forafull month. The
gum is packed in large leathersacks, and trans-
ported on the backs of camels and bullocks to sea-
ports for shipment. Like harvest seasons in most
parts of the world, the occasion is made one of
great rejoicing, while the people for the time being
live almost wholly upon the gum, whichis very
nutritious ‘and fattening. Such is the commercial
story of this simple but very useful article which
finds:a place upon every editor’s desk.

A Railroad Robber’s Recognition.

‘The'last bold robbery of arailroad train upon the
plains was attended by a striking and romantic
eene. The brigands had boarded the train some
thirty miles beyond Cheyenne, the employees had
been overpowered or intimidated, and, with an
armed robber at each car-entrance, the others were
é#wiftly passing, cocked revolver in hand, through
the train, with the customary injunction of “Throw
ap your hands, or be blown to——!” and rapidly
tripping passenger after passenger of money and
valuables, when one of them—quite a young man,
and evidently very handsome, in spite of the black
half-mask that concealed the upper part of his face
—after despoiling.a traveler, whose terror-stricken
female companion sat cowering at his side, sud-
denly paused..and after scanning the lady’s face in-
tently, exclaimed, in a voice broken by emotion:

“Great Heaven! madam, is_ not your name Elean-
or Middleton ?” By :

“It was, sir, before I was married to this gentle-
man,” replied the lady, losing something of her
fright in the newer feeling of curiosity. “And,
though I cannot feel complimented at a bandit’s
acquaintance, I should like to know whom you
are.”

“Looki” exclaimed the robber. with terrible bit-
terness, and he suddenly unmasked his face.

Then, with a loud shriek, and the exclamation—
“Oh, Thomas! Can it be possible? Youa robber ?”
the lady swooned away. :

The robber hastily returned to the gentleman his
property, and then, as he resumed his mask and
passed on, he muttered, hoarsely:

“Keep your property, sir. I don’t know your
name, but you are to be congratulated upon having
married the most heartless coquette in Michigan.
That woman eruelly jilted me, after promising me
her heart and hand, and it is to her that ‘'om Cal-
lum owes being where and what he is at pryocet.

He passed ‘swiftly on, and the wholesale robbery
being presently completed, the train was permit-

to move on without further molestation, The
lady soon eame out of her faint, but it was observ-
able by the other sengers that she appeared very
much disturbed during the remainder of her jour-
poy. while her husband treated her with noticeable
eoolness.

o> NEW AUTHORS!

We have effected engagements with THREE NEW
AUTHORS, who have never before written for the
New YorK WEEKLY. As stories from these new
contributors are now in hand, we deem it proper
to give the names of

Our New. Contributors.

1. Captain Harry Pomeroy,
2. Esther Clare Summerson,
3. C. Porter Sumner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stories of these authors were written ex-
pressly and only for the New York WEEKLY. One
of them will soon be commenced, and the others
Will rapidly follow.

| journey to Connecticut merel

  
   
 

AFTER THE STORM THE CALM.

BY OARL BRENT.

 

 

Alter the storm the sun shines out,
Gilding the feathery fronds of the palm;

After the tempest’s rage, sweet peace—
Atter the storm the calm.

After the fever’s sleepless hours.

Falls the soft mantle of placid repose;
After the desert’s torrid heat,

Coolness of Arctic snows,

Languor, forgetfulness, lovingly come,
Soen as the whirlwind of passion is past;

Waves that were angrily tossed to the sky
Sink to their level at last.

After the battle the soldier sleeps,
Deaf to the drum or the bugle’s call;

After the race the swilt horse rests,
Petted and nursed in his stall.

Nature such compensations gives |
Nature, who chastens but loves us still;

Peace after strife, ease after pain,
Healing tor every ill.

After the rack the plank is as down;
After the wound, how blest the balm!

After death’s pangs, oblivion’s lapse;
After the storm the calm.

“AS MY MOTHER USED TO.”

BY DORA RUSSELL,

“What is the matter, Arthur?” asked young Mrs.

erson, as her husband pushed his chair back

from the tea-table with a half-suppressed sigh and
an exceedingly dissatisfied face.

“Oh, nothing,” replied the young lawyer, with
the aspect of a martyr.

“Isn’t your tea strong enough?”

Yes, my dear.”

“But, Arthur, you ought to tell me,
does not suit you, I will change it.
know what itis.”

“It is only a trifle, my dear Fanny. I was merely
thinking of mother’s biscuits, and how good they
used to taste. Pvople don’t cook in that way now,
you know.”

At this re-appearance of avery old and very fa-
miliar bugbear, Mrs. Emerson closed her lips very
firmly together. ;

“T’ve often wished, my dear, that you could have
taken a few lessons from mother before we began
to keep house,” her husband continued.

“In cooking, Arthur ?”

‘Well, yes. That for one thing. She has had

reat experience, you know. She never had bad

uck with a single thing thatI remember, And her
cooking did taste so good! It would be wortha
to eat such a meal
as I used to eat three times a day when I was a boy
at home.”

His mildly-plaintive tone, and the popnenttys way
in which his eyes dwelt upon a plate of drop cakes
which had been a little too much browned in the
oven that afternoon, were like the last straw on the
camel’s back to his usually patient wife.

Her pretty face was deeply flushed as she said
that she saw no reason why he should deny himself
so great a pleasure, ,

“We can take our summer trip in that direction if
you choose, Arthur.”

“Will you go, too?” he asked, looking delighted.

‘I will. And I will ask your mother to show me
how to make-all the old-fashioned dishes you are
80 fend off? syns Ot iF gins ;

‘Hurrah! Ill write tothe old lady to-morrow.
When can you be ready to start, love?” ~.2 -

“In three days from this.” S laiahe <acie

Three days let it be, then. My mother will be so
pleased, dear. And I shall so like to take you
round to all the old eee where I used to dream of
my future life, little thinking then, Jenny, who
was to share it with me.”

or the next three days Arthur could think and
talk of nothing but the old home.

Jenny listened to him dutifully, and now and
then her conscience reproached her for the-plan
which in her secret heart she had laid for his en-
lightenment. She knew, however, that he deserved
vere lesson. And she was quite confident that
in his dearly beloved home he would receive it.
They closed their pretty house,on one of the
shadiest streets in Philadelphia, some weeks before
any - their neighbors had even thought of the
country.

And when June roses and June strawberries were
first filling the air with their delicious fragrance,
the travelers alighted one warm, blue, sunny after-
noon at the small roadside station belonging tothe
village in which the young lawyer had been born
and bred. :

“There’s Abner,” said Arthur, making frantic
signals to a young giant in blue cotton overalls and
shirt-sleeves, who was presiding over an empty ox-
eart atthe other side of the station.

“This is my wife, Abner,” he continued, when the
young man lounged towardthem. “Who has come
to meet us?” ;

* Wi f no
itati on astraw, as he eyed Jenny from head to
foot, “Folksare all busy upto the farm, but your
mother said there’d be some trunks to come, cer-
tain. So I came down with the oxen. Is this young
meeting-house yours, ma’am?” he asked, turning
suddenly upon Jenny, who looked at him and then
at Arthur in dismay.

“Thetrunk,.” he explained, with a loud laugh,
which was taken up and echoed by several rough
loungers, who were standing on the platform of
the station, -

Jenny was giad to walk with her husband across
the flelds, and thus escape further observation and

 

 

If anything
Only let me

  

 

remark,

The field er was the longest and much the pleas-
antest. Delighted with the country sights, and
sounds, and smells, after the close confinement of
the city, they did not hurry, till a church clock,
somewhere in the distance before them, struck

‘pix.

Then Arthur looked at his watch with rather a
guilty air. :

“By George, it is six,sure enough! We must step
out, my dear. My mother will be sure to have some
of the nice things for tea that I used to like,
sort won’t be pleased if we keep the table wait-

ng

Jenny thought involuntarily of his frequent un-
punctuality at her table. But she was a wise little
woman. She said nothing.

Abner had reached the farm in good time to make
his report on the bride before she appeared. That
report, or the delay of her supper hour, had slight-
ly soured the temper of the widowed mistress of
the farm. :

She met her son with an affectionate kiss, for he
was her only child, and the a apple of her eye.
But poor Jenny received only a little frosty “peck”
from the thin lips upon her blooming cheek, and
she knew, by the way in which the old lady’s keen
cold blue eyes wandered over the frills and puffs
of her neat gray.traveling-dress, that she was men-
tally accusing her of extravagant wastefulness with
regard to Arthur’s “means,”

rs, Emerson, senior, was attired in a cheap cal-
ieo dress, spotted with brown leaves and dots ona
purple ground, It was very straight and scanty in
the skirts,and displayed more ofa bony foot and
ankle, clothed in a calfskin shoe and gray cotton
stocking than seemed strictly needful or ornamen-
tal. Her long, straight neck was guiltless of a col-
lar or ribbon, and her thin gray hair was braided
in alittle “pug” at the back of her head, and con-
fined there by a peculiarly strong-minded-looking
comb, with a very high back.

In face and features she resembled her son, who
was generally considered a very handsome man.
Properly dressed and more pleasantly mannered,
the old lady might also have been called handsome.
But the hard, grudging, domineering temper which
she was just now displaying would have altered
~ = worse the lovely face of the Goddess Venus

erse ‘

“Tea has been waiting this half-hour; so don’t
stay.up stairs long to prink,’”’ was her sulky warn-
ing, as Jenny asked to be shown to her own room
for a slight toilet before sitting down to the table.

When Jenny came downstairs, she found that
Arthur had washed his face and hands atthe bench
by the back door, and was using a square of yellow
soap. and a brown crash towel—he, who at home in
Philadelphia, could scarcely find toilet niceties
enough to suit him!

“Itisso like the good old times,” he said, his
cheeks rosy fromthe cold spring water and the
nutm grater of acloth. “And hereisthe dear
old table set before the kitchen window, with the
blue dishes, just as it used to be, and some of moth-
er’s old-fashioned biseuits. Now. Jenny. you will
have such atreat! You must ask mother to show
you how to make them before we go. What’s this?
Astrawberry shorteake, and the berries only just
in! Well done, mother! There ins’t such another
cook in all America, as I’ve often told my wife.”

Mrs. Emerson listened to his praises most com-
placently, and even pressed the lauded dainties
upon her unloved daughter-in-law.

enny gladly did and said all she could to dis-
tract her mother-in-law’s attention: from. Arthur,
who had suddenly ceased talking, and yet was not
eating very heartily. :

The wicked Jittle puss was dying with laughter

inwardly all the while, at the sight ef Arthur’s dis-

mayved and disgusted face.

When she saw him hastily eram abiseuit anda
thick sqnare of short-eake into his pocket while his
mother was busy with the tea-kettle at the stove,
she neaely, strangled herself with a pretended
cough. Si

Mrs. Emerson vainly urged her son to partake of

 

the biscuit and short-cake a second time.

ie but me,” said Abner, chewing med- |

 

 

 

“I made them with my own hands, after the reci-
- you were so fond of when you were a boy,” she

ept saying. ;

ndat last Arthur, with a wistfully imploring
fiance at his wife, as if begging her not to contra-
ict him, declared that the dainties had the old de-
licious taste, but that he. being a little out of health
and under the strict orders of his physician as to
diet, dared not exceed the quantity already taken.

“Tf I follow his directions faithfully, I shall soon
be pretty well, and you will see how I shall walk
into your good things, mother, when we call here
again on our way home.”

There was an ominous pause. Jenny heard the
clock tick, and her own heart beat, and dared not
look up from her plate.

“On your wa ck from where?” the old lady
asked, at last. “You are here now, and I suppose
you’re going to stay, ain’t you ?”

“Only till to-morrow,” said Arthur, desperately.
ee have stopped here before going to the sea-
shore.’

“The sea-shore! Your father and I got along
well enough without going to the sea-shore, Ar-
thur. But that accounts for that monstrous trunk,”
snarled Mrs, Emerson, fixing a baleful glance on
Jenny, who could not resentit,in her joy at her
promised deliverance, ‘Abner said his back was
about broken with lifting it. Ithink it’s a shame,
myself, to lug suchthings around the country, just
to rile everybody up that has to take the charge of
them, But I’m an old woman, and I don’t follow
the fashions, so I suppose se opinion ain’t worth
listening to by thosethat do follow them, and can
afford to.”

The old lady had now got firm hold of such a
first-class grievance that Arthur gave his wifee
look which she understood.

Presently she left the room with a slight apology
and wandered about inthe large garden alone till
the moon was high above her head.

Turning toward the house she saw her husband
and his mother sitting in earnest conversation at
the parlor window. Every one else was in bed.

Unwilling to disturb them she passed by and
went to herown room. There, after a brief inter-
val, she fellinto a very soundand plaeid slumber,
from which she did not wake, when, at midnight,
the mother and son came up the stairs together.

The breakfast was dtr improvement in some re-
spects upon the Supper table, so that poor Arthur
could at last satisfy his hunger, which was becom-

ing keen,

ut still ‘the crying sin” remained. evidently un-
thought of by any one except the guests, who were
prevented by common courtesy from alluding to it,
although strongly incited to do so by common
sense.

And throughout the greater part of the remain-
der of their journey,the same drawback to their
enjoyment met them in every place.

eartily glad was Jenny when their wanderings
were over,and she could once more spread her
lain, but healthful and tempting table, in her own
ome, and see her husband enjoy its contents with
the eager appetite of a boy.

Still more happy was she when he gave her lib-
eral praise for the pains she had taken to please
him. 80 deeply happy, in fact, that she burst into

8. ‘

He was by her side in a moment, wiping them
away. +

“I know, Jenny, dear,” he said, kindly. “I know
all about it. And I might have been worrying and
harassing you about my dear mother’s cooking to
the endof our lives. ifwe had not goneto the old
homestead together this summer. You must for-
give and forget it all,my dear. Indeed you cook
ten thousand times better! Only as she isan old
lady, we won’t tell poor mother so,”

Jenny’s silent answer was a kiss.

“Only to think how good those same things tast-
ed in the old days,” he wenton,musingly. “I
aoe if there was 80 much saluratus in them

en ‘ a ela - . +47
Jenny nodded. © Saar a

“LTasked your mother for the same recipe, Ar-
thur, and I wrote it down from her directions.”

“Pray don’t ever use it for my benefit,” said Ar-
thur, shuddering. “‘What was the charm in the
old time, I’d like to know?”

“A very simpls one, dear. You were then a
healthy, happy schoolboy running and leaping all
the day long,till you were simply ravenous. If
ha could take the same exercise with the same

ight heart now, you would be ready to eat the same
kind of food, and it would have the same delicious
taste. Sharp hunger is excellent sauce, Arthur.”

“You’re right, Jenny. That must be the true
reason. But since I cannot leap and run through
the city streetsin search of that vanished ogre’s
appetite and digestion, suppose we burn the old-
fashioned saleratus recipe, eli?”

“Plt keep it,” said Jenny, laughing, “till Iam
quite assured of your thorough reform. If you
ever have a relapse, and I find it impossible to suit
you, then tremble, for Ishall_ most SOT give
a. the benefit of the knowledge I have acquiredin

is way.”

But she has never yet had to_ resort to what she
calls “the penton remedy.” Nor do I think that
she ever will. One lesson on that subjeet has been
enough for Arthur Emerson’s good.

The Allminax, ae

“Josh Billings’ Farmer's Allminax for the year of
our Lord 1879” is out, and is as usual teeming with
good things. To “smooth the wrinkles from the
brow of care” this annual offering has more power
than all the “funniments” promulgated in the uni-
versa) press, while at the same timeit is plethoric
with wisdom in solid chunks. Our modern Solo-
mon has done more to correcterror and elevate
truth than all the philosophers of the schools. Josh
isas wise asthe serpentand as harmless as the
dove; for while he hasthe wisdom to see abuses
and the bravery to combat them, he aims rather to
correct with kindness than to sting into acquies-
cence. Good boy. Josh! May your shadow on the
trout stream never grow less!

“MAKING UP.”

BY CARRIE CLIFFORD.

 

 

7

 

You are surprised, and doubtless feel quite ag-
grieved, that she does not readily “make up” with
you, after the “late unpleasantness.”

But, my dear sir. all that “depends.” If she is yet
the petted, exacting “sweetheart,” or the frivolous
wife, who tries your soul, or still more to the pur-
pose,your pocket,by her vagaries and foolish whims,
you need not feel disheartened at her refusal of
your advances in this “making-up” business, for
she may have hor little point to gain; but, if she is
the true wife, who has had only yourself and the
children for her object in life—if husband and
home, and the joys that certer there have been her
world—then, if she does not appreciate, or meet
cordially your advances, it is a matter for consider-

ation. ;

And, the longer the time she has been such a wife,
the more serious the matter becomes. “Let by-
gones be by-gones” does not wipe out injuries in-
flicted, moments and years embittered, barsh words
uttered without cause. in the eyes or the heart of a
woman who has the consciousness of having ful-
filled all her duties toward ly hag who, as the
days pass on, will surely feel her heart growing
daily farther from you, :

You have, perchance, grown careless, and, even
after all these years, you have unfolded to her
knowledge some unworthy trait of your character;
and believe me, the longer the wifely confidence
De ek established, the greater the esteem und
a ion in which she has held you, the more com-
plete will be the wreck ofthe fair structure of a
wife’s trust, when it falls. Asher love for you has

n perfect,so will the loathing for yon, which
shall fill the place of the dead love, be complete.
Of the greatest love, can be born the most deadly
hate. Do not for a moment fall into the error of sup-
posing that because “this womnn” is your wife, her

eart will be always trne to you in your unworthi-
ness. It is an impossibility in human nature.

Why should there be “‘by-gones?”

re of them when they have caused the face
that smiled on you once to turn toward you no
more, and the eyes that have looked kindly on you
to give no sign at your coming. Beware, lest you
shock her woman’s soul with a revelation of your
own. for, though you may affirm.in your reck-
lessly defiant way, that the hurt is “not s0 deep as
a well, nor so wide as achurech door,” if you do not
have » care, when you “‘ask for her on the mor-
row.” and on all the coming morrows of your life,
you will find a grave womun,

—_—_—_— —

A Wild Freak of the Lightning. |

Surely thelightning hus seldom ent a stranger
freak than that which distinguished its dealing
with the coloredfamily of Mr.Scipio Yam,an honest
kalsominer of Wilkesbarre, Penn.. in the great
thunder-storm that prevailed in that vicinity on
the 13th of Inst month.

The family, eight in number, were at dinner at

 

the time, while a relative of Mr. Yum, an ancient |

and eceentrie old black woman, rejoicing in the
homely appellation of Aunt Judith. was reclining
upon a lounge in thesams room. The lightning-
stroke, after demolishing the chimney, darted down
the flue, and broxe every window in the enbin, be-
sides Jeaving astrangereminder of its effects upon
every person present. Mr.and Mrs. Yam were at
onee prostrated, and, though not seriously injured,
each was afterward found to bear down the spine a
vivid and ineffaceable impression of a red-hot

 

pitchfork.

 

 

 

‘ luminous image o'

pn a

Every one of the six children was as completely
denuded of every shred of clothing, as if carefully
prepared forthe customary Saturday night’s bath,
and though noneof them were any more than
stunned, Jefferson, the eldest, was carried out of
doors and !anded on top of the hencoop; Melinda,
nine years old, was cast, struggling and screaming,
in the midst of a noisy and terror-stricken flock of

eese that had sought shelter at the lee-side of the
1ouse, and Seruphina, two years younger, was
quietly set into a tub of whitewash, which left her
considerably off-color for some time thereafter;
while the three other children were Tenoptmeny
rolled out among the scattered kitchen-ware an
erockery.

But Aunt Judith was more remarkably affected
than any one else. The iron framework of the
lounge, upon which she was lying, was literally
twisted into unshapely fragments underneath her;
every particle of her wool was singed off her head,
and, though she escaped with nothing more than a
benumbing effect, which lasted some hours after-.
ward, nearly every part of her body was_covered
with deep, livid impressions of the letter H, just as
if she had just successfully emerged from the most
thoroughly tattooing process that was ever devised.
Moreover, a chronic deafness, from which she had
suffered for many years, was found to have been
effectually and permanently cured by the shock she
had received.

“We are all more or less marked for life,” writes
Mr. Yam to one of the local papers, “but otherwise
the devastating bolt effected but slight damage, and
the Lord’s will be done!”

>-o——____—
To Correspondents.

 

4@ GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

A, H. B.—“T have been trying to find out the origin ot the signs
ofthe Zodiac, and such names as the bull, the bear, the ram
etc., given to different groups of stars, and have come to you, as
a last resource, to throw some light on the subject.’’ This is a
subject that has puzzled the wisest heads, even of men like New-
ton, Laplace, Dupuis, and others, and we can only give you the
same substance of the various suggestions and speculations that
have from time totime been made. Long before astronomy
had any existence asa science, men watched the stars with
wonder, and began to associate with certain groups of stars the

names of familiar objects, animate and inanimate, which, to
their tanciful and untutored minds, they seemed to resemble.
The flocks and herds, which een the earliest observers of
the heavens watched, would naturally suggest to them such
names for certain groups of stars as the bull, the ram, the kid.
Other grocps would remind them of the animals from whom
they had to protect their flocks, such as the lion and the bear.
The figures ot men and horses, ot birds and fishes, would also
come to ber nized as were pictured to their fancy with more
or less distinctness among the mysterious star-groupings. Thus,
it is very probable that the first observers Of the stars were
shepherds, huntsmen, and husbandmen, who depended for their
subsistence on a familiarity with the progress’and change of the
seasons. The subject of the constellation figures 1s tull of inter-
est as relating to the most ancient of ali human sciences, and it
is impossible for us to do anything like justice to it in the very
limited space we have here at our comniand.

Volunteer.—The English system of enlistment for the army is
that from which we have inherited our own. It rests for its ba-
sis on voluntary enlistment, carrying with it, in time of war, the
payment of large bounties. The term of army service is twelve
years, with re-enlistment totwenty-one years. After serving
three years in the rank, soldiers are permitted to go into the re-
serves, where, in consideration of being called to military duty,
they receive sixpence per day, and in case they are called back
to the colors, they also acquire a right to pension. This reserve

force numbers at its maximum strength 80,000. The militia isa
yoluntary service, and enlistment is for the period of six years.
It is intended for local defense, but can ordered anywhere
within the limit of the United Kingdom, and is also available for

rrison duty in the Mediterranean fortresses—Gibraltar and %
ir: It consists of about 120,000. Then there is

alta, for instance.
a@ militia reserve numbering about 30,000, which is available for
any duty in case of emergency, and the term of enlistment is
also tor sx years: Next to the regular ey of Great Britain,
the volunteers are the most important body, thelr strength being
approximately 180,000 men, organized as infantry and garrison
artillery. In ease of invasion the volunteers are mobilized and
held for permanent service. There is also another arm of the
service which must not be overlooked, and that is the yeoman
cavalry, consisting of about 13,000 men, each of whom furnishes
his own horse,

Alison Trent, Normal, Ill.—Ist. The seven wonders of the an-
cient world were the Egyptian pyramids; the Mausoleum, or
tomb of Mausolus, king of Caria, in Asia Minor; the temple of
Diana, at Ephesus; the walls and hanging gardens of Babylon;
the brazen statue of Apollo, called the Colossus of Rhodes; the
statue of Jupiter Olympus, at Athens; and the Pharos, or light-
house, built by King Ptolemy Philadelphus, at the entrance to

the harbor of Alexandria. Of these, only the pyramids remain
at the present day. 2d. By the terms of the late treaty made at
Berlin, Cyprus becomes an English protectorate. 3d. e Eng-
lish Bible now 1n use by Protestants, called the King James ver-
sion, was made by a commission of forty-seven eminent divines
appointed by King James I. The work was commenced in 1604
and completed in 1611. The basis of the work was a translation
called the *‘Bishop’s Bible,” compared with other translations,
and also with the original Hebrew and Greek MS. versions,

 

A, H. O.—‘‘Can you tell me what amount of coal one of the
ocean steamers running between New York aud Liverpool con-
sumes On an average during twenty-four hours? Also why, in
leaving New York, do vessels run in a curved line instead of
straight across to Liverpool?” The average ‘daily consumption
of coal on board a steamer sailing from New York to Liverpool
is about seventy-five tons. The reason why vessels take “a
curved line,’ as you call it, is to take earantage
Stream, which flows by the coast of Newfoundland, and then al-
most directly across to the British Islands. ,

T. A. H.—Our correspondents’ column is just what it alway®
has been; it is a family page, and treats of subjects that interest
the heart and affect the morals; and if we do not always give ad_
vice when stating a case, it is because we believe the statement
bears itself a moral to every sensitive mind. We have no fond-
ness for preaching; a word in season is better than a sermon, for
the word is heard, and the sermon is not. ‘A drop of oil will go
into the ear, when a pint willonly run down the neck,”

Springfeld.—lst. The Springfield breach-loading rifle, now in
use in the U. 8. army, is 45 calibre. You can buy a bullet-mold
at any gun store, 2d. The target used at Creedmor tor 300 yards
or lesa, is tour by six feet. The bulls eye is a dark circle, eight
inches in diameter; the ‘‘centre” isaring twenty-six inches in
ciameter; “inner,” a ring of forty-six inches; ‘‘outer,’’ the re-
mainder of the target.

Practical, New York.—In a matter involving so much outlay
as the business ot stock-raising, you should consult persons of
experience, or those in the business. That it pays, there can be
question, but to be made to do so, it must be engaged in ona
tolerably large scale. Texas, Kansas, and others of the more

southern States and territories beyond the Mississiypi offer fine
facilities ior the business.

Katie, Paterson, N J.—We do uot see how wecan aid you, as
your principal ground of complaint seems to be the penurious-
ness of your husband. While it is very unpleasant to be obliged
to pinch yourself continually in order to keep the house going,
itcan scarcely be considered sufficient ground fer ae
Probably if you adopted some other plan than scolding, you
might unloosen his purse-strings.

Mrs. L. L., Rochester, N. Y.—By applying to the Commission-
ers ot Charities and Correction, or at the Foundling Asylum, you
can obtain an infaat for adoption, and be given full legal con-
trol of it. There is no probability of yest right to the child
eyer being disputed. All that is required is a guaranty that you
are proper persons to have the custody of the iniant.

Anzieus Mother.—There is no institution where you can place
your boys. Have youno gentlemen friends whose offices you
can enlist in procuring them employment where their services
will be considered an equivalent for their board until such time
as they can be made more useful? It seems to us that would be
the better plan,

Argus, Ottawa, Can.—lst. The chromos may be sent by mail,
but the package must not exceed twelve inches square. 2d. Can-
adian postage-stamps are not available for use on this side of
ae line. Send coi or Canadian bank notes, or a P.O. money
order. i

John-—After you sell a MS. to a publisher, you have no farther
rights in it—no more than you have in any other article you may

dispose of. Suppose you had a horse, and sold it to two or three
individuals, would you call that honest? Yet it is a parallel
case.

Monte Madrona, Nashville, Tenn.—The U.S, Government does
not pay a premium for ceinsof rare dates. This business is
monopolized by reer who have a mania for making collec-
tions of that kind.

J. B., Glen Carbon, Pa.—Ist. Consult a fashionable tailor. The
Prince Albert coat is still in favor, pants are of medium width,
and overcoats are worn long. Giovesof any of the darker or
more somber tints are suitable for gentlemen.

Cc. C. MHcD.—The areas are as follows: England, 50,377 —
miles; Wales, 7,425; Ireland, 31,874; Scotland, 30,685; a,
50,914, and Lilinois, 55,409.

Oonstant Reader, New York.—Write to the New York Cliyper.
They keep posted on and chronicle the movements of show
people.

Kate, Mendon.—Love
imagination. We are
young man’s love... - s : a
 @. F. M.—The first time that Congress met in the Capitol
building at Washington, was oring oe second session of the
Sixth Congress, which met Nov. 17, at

Canada, Jersey Ouy, N.J,—We are unable to answer your
question. Consult alawyer familar with Canadian law and
practice.

Nesselblatt.—You are not correct in your surmise, but the real
author is quite as popular. ’

Inventor.—The manufacturer can be secured in his invention
only by taking out a patent.

Joseph Meyer and Jacques.—See paragraph at the end of this
department, headed ‘‘To Purchasing Agency Correspondents.”

Three Cousins, Painesville, O.—Write to the American News
Co., Chambers street, this city.

F. C. B., Jonesville, Mich.—There are none of the Jady’s
sketches printed in book form.

O. Pleasant.—We do not wish to purchase any MSS.
Interesting Reader, Pa.—It is a frand.

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
rocured through the New YORK WEKKLY Purchasing Agency:
‘orney’s “Catechism of the Locomotive,” $3; Dick’s ‘‘Quadrille

wders and love drops exist only in the
aid we cannot aid you in securing the

 

trom which corrections were made. 4th. The Christian church,
as a distinct organization, was founded during the ministry of
the apostles. 5th. It is asserted by many Baptists that a suc-
cession of churches, essentially Baptist, though under various
names, can be traced from the third century to the Reformation.
In England, the Baptist church dates back to the time of Henry
VOL, the beginning of the sixteenth century.

Subdscrider.—William Tell, the legendary hero of Switzerland,
has long been regarded by many historians asa myth, while
others, admitting that he is ahistorical character, scout the
story ot his shooting the apple from his son’s head, his subse-
quent killing of the tyrant Gessiler, and the other romantic inci-
cents in connection with his name related in story-books, for
the reason that they are not narrated nor even alluded to by
cotemporary chroniclers, and are first found in writers of the
fifteenth century, while Tell is said to have died in 1354. To iur-
ther strengthen the belief that no such occurrences ever took
place, there is no such name as Gessler inthe records of the
Austrian bailiffs. The same incidents are also related of an-
other hero in the ancient avnals of Denmark. To definitely set-
tle the disputed point, the Archawological Society otf Geneva de-
termined to thoroughly investigate the matter, 2nd in 1872 pub-
lished the result of their research, which “‘couclusively proved
that the romantic story of William Tell Was a fiction inves be-
ginning to end.” "

Harry F. joves and corresponds with a young lady with whom
he has one great fault to find—a fault which seets likely to prove
an extinguisher to his love. She is entirely devoid of sentiment,
Her letters contain nothing but matter of fact triyialties about
her health and her friends’ health, and hopes respecting Harry’s
health, and gossip about ber acquaintances. He says ‘“‘she has
no imagination, no ideas, no taste for thoughts that b;eathe and
words that burn, but atill she is affectionate, and has many
qualities.” He is puzzled to know what to do. He has not told us
what her good qualities are. Is she clever at anything? Has she
ayood taste in dress? Has she a correct judgment in household
matters ? Does she know at once whether the pie or the meat is or
is not well done? Does she know alegirom a shoulder? Oan
she carve it well, or can she carve anything? Can she do any-
thing at all well? The mere want of sentiment may tell us
what she is not, but it does not tell us what she 1s. She may be
a very clever woman, and there. are many sentimental women
who are not fit to be either wives or mothers.

Lottie M.—The pearls which are feund in oysters are sometimes
called ‘the tears of oysters,’’ and on examining you would find
that there are dark and dingy pearls, as well as white and bril-
Jiant ones, the former being found on the dark shell of the fish,
and the latter upon the smooth inside shell. The smooth glitter-
ing lining upon which the fish moves is known as the nacre, and
is produced by a portion of the ora called the mantle, known

actically by gourmands as the beard ot the oyster. When hy-

ng in its glossy house, should any foreign substance find its
way through the sheil to disturb the sm nness BO essential to
its ease, the fish coats the offending substance with nacre, and a
pearl is thus formed. The pearl ir in fact a lictle globe of the
smooth, glossy substance, yielded ordinarily to smooth the nar-
row home to which his nature binds him, but yielded in round
drops, real pearly tears, if he ja hurt. We do not sup ou
ever dreamt when you wore your hair clustered with pearls that
they were the product of pain and diseased action endured by the
most unpoetical of all shell fish.

Gotham.—The Smithsonian Inetitute, in Washington, was the
gift ot an English gentleman, James Smithson, who was born in
London, and graduated with bonorary degrees at Oxford in 1786.
He was an illegitimate son of the Duke of Northumberland, and
died at an early age, after aremarkably strange and brilliant
career as a man of Jetters. He bequeathed at his death the sum
of $515,169 to found in Washington, under the name of the Smith-
sonian Institut«, an establishment for the inerease and diffu-
sion of knowledge among men. accumulated interest on
this sum sufficed to builc the present edifice at a cost of
The corner-stone was lnid in 3847, and it is built on government
Jand, and is controlled by a ot Regents, consisting of the
President of the United States, the Vice-President, Chief Jus-
tice, and four 8 nators, four Representatives, and six citizens ot
the United 8t. the last of whom are usually men ot high
scientific attaiuments.

J. C. S.—In order to obtain a legal separation from your wife,
who, according to your statement, treats your children so cruel-
ly, it will be necessary for you not only to show a single act of
cruelty and violence, but you must establish such a continued
course of bad conduct on her part toward yourself and your
children as to satisfy the court that it is unsafe for you to any
longer live with ber. Occasional, and even frequent intoxica-
tion is not of itself sufficient ground tor a separation; nor do oc-
casional bursts of passion, from whatever cause, amount to legal
“cruelty,” so long as they donot threaten bodily harm. “Cruel-
ty” is where there is unkind treatment. accompanied by word
menaee, creating a reasonable apprehension of bodily injury.

J. C. McE., Hamilton,{N. Y.—‘What is the meaning of the name
‘bric a brac,’ which I frequently see mentioned?” The etymology of
the name is rather vague. It evidently comes from the old
French expression, “de bric et de broque,” which means “from
right and from lett”’—from hither and thither. The word bric
signifies, in old French, an instrument to shoot arrows at birds
with, and some etymologists derive the word brac from the verb

, to sell or exchanze—the root of which is Saxon, and
also the origin of the word “broker.” Its signification in pure
English is second-hand goods, but has of recent years been used
to indicate objects of some artistic value made in olden times,
and which are much esteemed by modern collectors.

A. F. D.—“What is the difference between ‘reflecting’ and ‘re-
fracting’ telescopes ?”” In the former the rays of light froma
star, or any other object, pass down the large tube of the instru-
ment and fall on a metallic mirror, the polished surface of which

reflects them toa peat called the focur, and there forms a very

the object. You can then examinetheimage
with a magnifying glass. The refracting telescope has no mirror,
Instead of this, the rays of light fall upon an “object glass,” or
powerful jens, which brings them to a focus, and then you use

Call Book,” 50and 75ccnts; “Manual of Etiquette,” 76 cents;
Mrs. Waru’s “Sensible Etiquette of the Best Society,”

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Eula, Providence, R. I.—lst. Much jewelry is out of place for
young ladies at any time. 2d. Diamonds and camel’s hair
shawls are considered unsuitable for unmarried ladies untal they

have passed a certain age. 3d. Handkerchiefs trimmed with

lace should be reserved for balls and evening parties. 4th. Nat-

ural flowers are always more youthful than artificial ones. Sth.

Sertuniee; if used atall, should be used in the strictest modera-
on.

F. M. & F. R. D.—ist. If the gentleman is engaged to the lady,
he may present her a ring; if only a friend, a book, gloves, hand-

 

kerchiels, work-box, writing-desk, a set of jewelry, and many

other articles, which would be useful and ornamental as well.
2d. The ng arm is usually offered while promauading or walk-
ing through a hall or picture-gallery, but in the street keep the
lady are the side that will best protect her trom the passing
crowd.

H. H.—When a gentieman has been introduced to-a:lady, and
she invites him to cal! upon her at her home, he may call at any
time that is convenient for him todo sea He should send in his

card, and if the lady is not at home, or has other company, he
should make a formal call and retire. If she asks him to call
again, he may do so, and trust to his good fortune to.find her at
home and disengaged.

Ned Hartel.—ist. In ascending stairs the gentleman should al-
Ways precede the lady. In descending stairs the Jady should

precede the gentleman, 2d. In taking a lady to the dining-room
a@ gentleman should offer his right arm; she should, however, sit
at his left at table. 3d. In turning music for a Jady a gentleman
usually stands at the right of the lady.

£z. G. F., Boston.—Ist. A lady may with propriety ask any gen_
tleman friend to write in an album if she‘desires him to do soa.

2d. It is customary for any one writing in an album to sicn the
oo infuwll 3d. We have not space to spare to write verses for
albums. q

A Constant Reader.—It is not customary for a lady to invitea

gentleman to escort her to places of amusement, or accompany
her to any place of an evening or at any other time, unless he
is an olc acquaintance or an acknowledged lover.

Vechla.—Alter the gentleman refused to write to the lady,

we do not see how she could well write to him without compro-
mising her dignity. She had much better wait until she receives
a letter from the gentleman before writing to him.

Four Years’ Reader.—A party in which a young lady makes
her first appearance into society is called “ceming out,” or

 

Latest Fashion Items.

Vestings of cashmere, brocaded with small fig-
ures of old gold, pale. blue, magenta, silver-gray,
garnet, and a variety of shades, are stylishly com-
bined with French and India cash meres.. &#

_ Velvet is brocaded on silk and satin for eombina-
tions or for vests appropriate with the richest quahi-
ties of solid silks, satins, velvets, and-some of the
costliest silk and wool materials,

Large merino plaids are in the scarlet and black,
black and white, and blue. green, and gold, which
distinguish the Scottish tartans.

Dress materials, suitable for polonaises, eoats, or
vestings, are in raised plush stripes, bordered by
hair stripes of silk. The general effect is dark, and
aeperre in handsome navy-blue, myrtle-green,
olive, seal-brown, plum, or garnet, with the fine
silk lines of pale-blue, gold, pink. red, or white.

Brussels cloth is woven with little loops project-
ing from its surface, and comprises a great many
varieties, the most pleasing of which is wool, inter-
mingled witb fine silken bars, and also those with

 

the looped pattern in narrow stripes or small fig- »

ures,

The Marie Roze bonnet is one of the most stylish
shapes of the season.

Handkerchiefs for ladies and gentlemen are plain:
hem-stitched, with polka dot centers.

Camel’s hair felt hats and bonnets are strikingly
novel, showing, like the material of that name, long
hairs lying flat over a felt-like surface.

npn een

Nothing so lowers a dead body in the estimation
of the finder and the coroner’s jury as to search the
pockets and find it without a penny. Even the dis-
eovery of a pocket Bible fails to atone for its dis-
reputable impecuniosity ‘.

A patent medicine advertisement demands, “Are
you wearing out?” Yes; we are wearing out our
old clothes, and this necessity sufficiently embit-
ters existence without the trial, friend, of your
Bitters.

Did you ever at the dusk of asummer evening
pass a pond where the frogs were playing euchre,
and hear one inquire, “What's trumps?” and an-
other answer, “Clubs?”

 

the eye glasses as in the other telescope.

Hot-boxes are hated by engine-ears.

of the Galf —

ev

 

 

 
 

°

a.
‘\

@ a
ee

a

 

 

st

 

 

 

 

=i THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. S3=-

 

 

 

_ runs away on the

THE BOUQUET.

BY FPRANOIS 8. SMITH,

 

 

A rich bouquet was sent to me
Composed of flowers rare,
Whose tints combined exquisitely,
Whose fragrance filled the air.
The giver wrote, “I hope to win!”
And ere I sought repose
I found a diamond hidden in
The petals of a rose.

The gem was costly—I was poor—
And as entranced I stood,

From one whose heart was true and pare,
There came a simple bud.

“Take back the glittering gem !” I eried,
“Its luster bears a sting!

The humble bud is deified!
°Tis love’s sweet offering!”

 

Thorn in Her Heart

By BERTHA M. OLAY,

AUTHOR OF

"THROWN ON THE WORLD;” “A BITTER
ATONEMENT? ;” “A NAMELESS SIN;”
“LOVE WORKS WONDERS ;”
“EVELYN’S FOLLY.”

{A Thorn in the Heart’? was commenced in Wo. 50, Back
meer can be obtained from any News Agent in the United

 

 

CHAPTER XVI.
LORD DUNHAVEN’S FIRST TROUBLE.

He read the letter twice over, to be quite sure of
its contents, then he went direet to the telegraph
office and sent atelegram to Lady Darel. It said:

Join me at the Hotel D’Or, Calais, with the great-
est possible speed. Say nothing.”

He was quite unable to meet the crisis himself;
he felt that it required the delicate discrimination
of a woman to deal with. ; %

No one must know, that was the first necessity;
he would not forthe whole world that people should
have such ajoke against him; he bit his lips with
rage as he fancied the menathis club laughing,
because his wife had run away from him on their
wedding-day; no matter what it cost, the secret
must be kept. The next thing was to send a tele-
gram to Meurece’s, saying that in consequence of
an alteration in traveling arrangements jhe rooms
would not be needed. .

Then there was the lady’s-maid and the valet; it
seemed to him that the best plan was to trustthem.
Hecould secure their secrecy by a heavy bribe,
there was no doubt. :

Then he looked with dismay atthe luggage, all
the trunks, the packing-cases, the trousseau that
had been thought necessary for the Countess of
Dunhaven. Never was man so bewildered. He
was almost ready to curse his fate; never was man
so utterl porn: He went tothe Hotel D’Or,
and tried to collect his thoughts; of one thing he
was quite sure, he could not bear those chattering
servants near him, they must go.

He sent for them both to his room, and felt in-
clined to mutter something like an oath, when he
saw a suppressed ismile lurking round the yalet’s

mouth. - ‘ : :

No doubt a man | does look absurd when his wife
runs away from hjm. still more absurd when she

edding-day.

“T want to speakito you both,” he said. “I want
to trust you. and I hope that you will keep my trust
sacrediy. There has been some serious misunder-
standing with Lady Dunhaven, something has
happened of which I knew nothing until you, An-
nie, gave me that Jetter. It may be some little time
beforeIsee Lady Dunhaven again. If possible,
Lady Darel will bring her on the continent to me;
the misunderstanding is a grave one, but you un-
derstand that I do not wish it to be mentioned.”

They told him they quite understood that. Then
he continued ;

“Tam going on to Italy at once, and I prefer
that you both find situations here in Paris, so that
there may be no danger of your forgetting, and
ever speaking of the matter.”

He offered them a bribe for their secrecy, so heavy
that he knew they would never betray him. Annie
parted from him with tears in her eyes; the valet
undertook, before he went, to place all the luggage
in safety, and to bring his master’s portmanteau to
the hotel. Still he felt uneasy. They might talk,
and the men at hisclub might laugh; then what
should he do? He tried another bribe.

“Tf you two ean both send to me—come, send, or:

write to me in five years’ time, and swear to methat
not even the faintest word of this has escaped you,
I will double then what I have given you now,.’”’«

He felt quite sure of their secrecy now; there was
no fear of his being betrayed. Annie assured him
that she should go to Paris and find a situation
there; the valet intended to purch some prett
little hotel or restaurant. No fear that he woul
risk his future by any indiscretion.

Then he stood alone on the sands. Night had
fallen, a soft, dark, ens night; the stars were
shining, and small golden gleams were reflected in
the water; gleams of light flickered on the sands,
the waves rose and fell with a soft, musical sound,
the wind stirred them faintly.

He was quite alone; the four walls of the hotel
were horrible to him; he could not breathe; he
wanted to be alone and think, 80 he walked up and
down the yellow sands, and it is no exaggeration to
say that he would have given all he had to undo the

ast. -

P He was naturally tender of heart.and he could
not endure to think of all the pain that lonely, des-

_ olate heart must have sufferec

How careless both his mother and himself had been.
Why had they not remembered what a common
thing it was for her to sit out among the roses. by
had they not,in common prudence, remember
the probability of their being overheard? There
could have been no need for the conversation ;
he remembered it word for word; he remem-
bered both those unpleasant little speeches;
hew he had said that it was, to his shame, he wanted
the money, and not the girl—how he said there was
nothing in her for any man to love,

He was impatient of his fate when he spoke in
that way, but not cruel—he would not have uttered

‘the words for the whole world if he had known that

she would overhear them.

Akeen sense of pain came to him, keen regret.

He seemed to understand what she had suffered;
60 sensitive, so loving, so tender of heart, she must
have suffered an intensity of pain to make her run
awiy.
“T was the only
been kindto her. It was astrange kindness. If I
am the kindest and best friend she has had,” he
thought, “then Heaven help her!”

Over and over again the sad, sweet music of the
waves seemed to ring out these words: “Iam dead
to you all for ever, and for eyer more!”

Poor child! it was a sad life taken at its best, and
the end of it was living death—death to all whom
she knew and cared for.

“IT might have been kinderto her,” thought the
econscience-stricken young husband—"I might have
remembered how young and friendless she was.
should have been kinderto her but for that ac-
cursed will—it embittered and soured me.”

He remembered the time when she had bent her
fair head and kissed his hand—the touch seemed
there now. he could nndo that wretched
past. He had never cared more for or thonght
more of his young wife thanon that night of his
wedding when he paced the sands alone, and she
was dead to him. e would have given much then
forthe power of consoling her, to have taken her
in his arms and kissed away her tears, to have
poe to be kind to her, to make her happy, to

ring alittle sunshine into her life, to talk to her
aot a future brighter than any dreams could
ever be.

It was too late now; _all his good inclinations, his
po feelings, the tardy affection awakening in his

eart for her—were all too late, too late.”

It was surely the most curious
man was ever placed in. He had the money, it was
true; but the money seemed nothing to him.
would always be more or less of acurseto him, for
it was his through the broken heart of a young girl
—she haddied to everything that it should be his.
She would live—ah, God, how would she live!—that
he might be weulthy and free.

How would she live, this helpless girl, this dangh-
ter of a dend man, whose name he bore, whose hon-
ors he had inherited—how would she live? She
eould not work. she could not beg. He could not
bear the thought. He paced to and fro on the yel-
low sands, the waters rolling to his feet. the golden
stars shining down on him, the wind whispering
round him.

“Tf I have sinned.” he thought, “I suffer. “I
would give alll have if this could be undone, anda
little patience, a little kindness on my part might
have averted it all.”

He could do nothing until he saw Lady Darel.
Wild schemes for finding his lost wife came to him
wild idens of offering great rewards for news o
her, every possible and feasible plan oeenrred to
him. He did not sleepall night; he was haunted
by the thought of a fair, sad, young face, and eyes
drowned in tears. Now that she had gone from
him, was dead to him, he began to think there was
more beauty in that facethan he had noticed be-
fore; ha remembered the sweet curves of the lips,
the beatiful eyes, the wealth of golden hair. It was
too late now; she had heard him say there was
nothing in her to win any mun’s love. If that pale,

osition that any

de
a.
—

sweet face were near him now, under the light of the
stars, he should feel differently about it, but it was
all too late. The waves took up the rhythm, tne
wind repeated it—too late—too late! All night, as
he tried to sleep, the words seemed to float over
him, and they were the saddest he had ever known.
He rose in the morning ill and depressed; he said
to himself that he had not believed it possible he
could ever care so much for anycreature living,
that he could not have believed anything could
have distressed himso much. |

Lady Darel had begun to think of a rest, for it
was six o’clock, and most of the guests had taken
their departure. Now, the vision of a recherche lit-
tle dinner in quiet, a long, luxurious rest on the
sofa with a novel, hadtaken possession of her.

The day hi:fd been one of complete triumph for
her. She had been complimented and congratu-
lated to her heart’s content. She was quite de-
lighted and elated with all that she had heard. She
was delighted too that the money was her son’s;
with his title and position there was no honor to
which he might not aspire; as for the girl she was
certainly an incumbrance ; she might improve
though. or she might be kept out of the way at any
‘rate; there was little use in wasting thought over

er.

“Hands,” said my lady, to the butler, “I shall
dine alone in my own room to-day. and bring mea
small bottle of Madeira with the yellow seal.”

She really wanted a little rest and a little comfort.
A dainty dinner was served to her, the choice old
Madeira was uncorked, and at felt better. A
delightful novel, called “The Morals of Mayfair,”
lay waiting for her, and Lady Darel gave a sigh of
complete content. ;

She slept and read until the clock struck ten. She
began to think it was time she rang for her maid,
Se there was a tremendous peal at the

“A telegram, my lady,” said Hands.

She opened it quickly, and fell back almost faint-
ing when she read these words— :

“Join me at the Hotel D’Or, at Calais, with the
greatest possible speed. Say nothing.”

“In the name of Heaven, what has happened?”

 

CHAPTER XVII.
CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN,

It was some time before Lady Darel could recover
herself. What could it mean? Yet great as her
agitation was, she was always careful of appear-
ances, altways thoughtful of the proprieties of life.
She called up an expression of perfect indifference
in her pale face. Bia <a iad

“That is a sudden summons,” she said: ‘‘a friend
of mine is ill and wants to see me.” :

Hands, the butler, by dint of his great experience
and knowledge, was on some kind of confidential
terms with his mistress. ;

“I am sorry to hear it, my lady, but it is a good
thing the telegram did not come this morning.”

“Find Bradshaw’s Railway Guide for me,” she
said, quietly, and he hastened to do her bidding.

Dear Heaven, what had happened? The lelegram
was from her son; had it anything to do with him?
Was anything wrong with him? Was he ill? Yet
no, it could not be illness; in that case he would
surely have said so; he merely says:

“Join me with all possible speed.”

Surely nothing was wrong over Lady Hilda. If
she were ill, he would say so; besides which the
young girl had really been of so little consequence
in their lives, tnat my lady hardly thought her son
would send a telegram about her. She puzzled her-
pec 0 what it could possibly mean, what it
cou 5

Her son would not give her this fright for nothing
—it must besomething serious. Then she was 50
tired, fatigued,. and. wearied, how could she go?
Hands brought in the railway guide. ve

“Qan I find the times of the trains for you, my
lady?” he asked. 4

She took it from him with her usual stately

grace. — See
“No, I thank you,” she said, “I am merely going
into the country.”

 

She found that travel as quickly_as she would,
there were no means of reaching Calais until the
following evening, but the night’s respite was no
boon; she did not sleep for thinking what had gone

wrong.

“I shall be absent for two or three days,” she said,
as she was leaving. :

The servants were rather surprised—it was not
the wayin which my lady usually traveled. She
took no one to the station with her; she went in a
eab, and no one knew where she had gone.

Lord Dunhayen was at the station to meet her.
She did not know how great her suspense had been
until she saw him there, alive and well.

“My dearest Leonard,” she said, “I have had a
terrible fright!” ‘

“My dearest mother,” he answered, “I have been
driven almost mad; but we will not talk here or in

 

 

person. Ane said, who had ever |

the streets—we may be overheard; we will not
speak one word until we reach the Hotel D’Or.”

When they entered the pretty salon Lady Darel’s
first word was:

“Where is Lady Hilda?”

And one look at her son’s agitated face told her
where the wrong lay. ‘

“Sit down. mother,” he said; “that which I have
to tell you will be a shock to you as well as to me.
Lady Hilda has left us forever! She did not come
to France, and we shall never see her again.”

He was right in thinking that it woul
to her; her face grew very pale, and she trembled.

“Oh, my dear Leonard, the disgrace! What shall
wedo? We shall be the luughing-stock of all Eng-
land! She ran away, you say? hy did you not
prevent it?” ie

“T could not. Read this letter, and then you will
understand.”

As she read, her eyes filled with tears.

“Poor child!” she cried. “Oh, Leonard, how she
has suffered!” .

Her first emotion was one of un utterable sorrow
and regvet, her next “of anger at the girl who had
brought this disgrace on them. ;

“Lam sorry she overhead us, Leonard,” she said;
“it must bave pained her very much; but she ought
not to have left you in this fashion.”

“She thinks that I care for nothing but the
money, mother, and she believes that I shall be
happier without her. I am sorry, for I really
mennt to be kind to her, and I am grateful.”

“What can we do!” asked my lady; “after sucha
wedding, too—everything so well-arranged, every
one BO pe a i ag We shall be the laughing-
stock of all Englund. I never heard of a man’s
wife running away on her wedding day. You will
never hear the end of it, nard.”

“IT shall never hear the beginning of it, mother.
if you will help me,” he said. “Why need I—surely
you and I can keepa secret?”

“You an: I can, bat yon forget the servants—yon
had two with you; and only think whata perfect
neewae such a piece of intelligence must be to

em.’

The young earl told his mother what he had
done, how heavily he had bribed them, and how
solemnly they had sworn secrecy. She looked up
in wonder at the sum he named.

“It was a great deal of money, my dear,” she said,
“a great deal; but it was well spent.”

“T would rather pay double,” he cried, “than have
this secret known, It must be kept, mother, and
you must help me.

“TI will do all I can,” said Lady Darel; “butitisa
terrible disappointment to me.”

“I shall go to Paris,” continued Lord Dunhaven.
“You see what Hilda says, mother—that we need
not waste any time in looking for her, that she
would rather die by any torture than live with us
again. Still I shall search for her, and to you I in-

Ij trust the search”

“T will do my best to find her. I wish I had been
kinder to her, but she was sostrange, so unformed,
so different to every oneelse. I was stern with her
for her own good—she was but a child.”

“We did not understand her. mother,” he said,
sadly. “She was a generous, self-sncrificing. ten-
der-hearted, sensitive girl; but it is of no use wast-
ing time in regret; we have to think how tosave
ourselyes from being laughed at. First of all I
shall goonto Paris, just as though this had not
happened; you will return to Englund and
look for her wherever yon think there is a chance
of finding her. Ishallstay there six months, and,
with g management, no one will know but that
my wifeis with me. At the end of six months,
which wasthetimel intended to take for my wed-
ding tour, I shall, if she be found, return home, and
all will be well.”

“But if I eannot find her?” said Lady Darel.

He was silent for n few minutes.

“If she eannot be found,” he said, “there is
still no reason why the world shonld know that we
are not together. Atthe end of that time you will
receive letters from me saying that we intend to

rolong our tour; you can read them to your

riends, and still no one need know that she is not
with me.”

“T see,” said my lady. “and then ?”

Ha sighed deeply, and paused again. -

“Then, mother,” he said, “I see no chance but
for me to remain abroad for some yerrs at lenst.
T shall not like it. but I prefer that to being langzhed
at. Ishall remain abroad five or six years; surely
yoo have found her, or have heard something
of her.”

“And if not ?” said Lady Darel. “I like toseemy
way laid straight before me,”

“If not, I must come home and brave it ont,” he
answered; but Lady Darel’s face brightened.

“Tf we can keep the secret five or six years, [shall
not despair of keeping it altogether,” she said;
“you muy safely leave itto methen. I shall either
say that her health will not allow her to return to
England, or that she isin alunatic asylum—indeed,
I shall not eare what Isay to gain my ends,”

“IT am relieved,” said Lord Dunhaven, “I am
glad I sent for you, mother; woman’s wit is always
' quicker than man’s. I felt that I could bear any-
thing rather than have the story known. What is
to be done with the luggage ?”

“T will take Hilda’s and place it carefully away,”

 

 

be a shock }h

 

she replied. “You go to Paris, and trust all that to
me

He kissed her and thanked her.

“IT wish we had been kinder to her; but I never
dreamed that she had so much spirit. I wished we
had not pained her so deeply. I shall hate the
money. mother; it would take but little to make me
swear that I would never touchit.”

“That would grieve her, if she knew it, and there
She sense in such a resolve, Leonard—none at
all.

Lady Darel went back bythe evening mail, taking
the luggage all with her; this she stored away in
one of the many warehouses in which London
abounds. She returned, without having aroused
the least suspicion as to where she had been.
Then she began,a life that could only have been
carried on by a cleverwoman. She talked of her
son incessantly; she read extracts from his letters,
always using the word “we’—using it as though it
meant himself and his wife, yet so cleverly that, if
at any moment the whole truth had come out, no
person could have found her out in the slightest
untruth.

Then, after atime, she dismissed her servants,
gave up her house, and told every one she was
going to travel in order to see, not the beauties of
the continent, but of her native land. That was
but a way of disguising the fact that she intended
to goin search of her son’‘s lost wife.

She went first to Hurst Sea, half-hoping, half-be-
lieving that there she should find either herself or
some news of her; but there was none; on the con-
trary, news of the wedding having reached there,
she had many inquiries to answer about the young
countess.

She went from one place to another, from the sea-
side to the country, and back again to town: but no-
where and from no source could she glean the least
information of her. She was indefatigable, but it
was quite useless. ; "i

So the time passed on. Atthe end of six months
Lady Dar-] announced to all her friends that her
son would prolong his stay onthe continent. At
the end of six years she announced that her son
was returning to England for a short time, but that
he would return alone.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
AN ALARMING ACCIDENT,

Lady Hildy Dunhayen threw herself back in the
railway carriage with the air of one relieved from
an intolerable burden.

She was alone now, alone forever-more—she was
deud to them for alltime. Shecould not collect her
thoughts, not one idea was clear to her exceptthis—
that living, she must live with a thorn in her heart,
and that for all time she was dead to him.

“I have done right,” she said; “I could not have
remained with him—I must have left him; he has
all he valued, my money, and not myself. I could
not have borne his handsome, indifferent face look-
ing coldly at me—I could not have borne it.”

Her brain whirled, her mind seemed to be one
chaos of confused thoughts; the only thing clear to
her was the keen, sharp pain of the thorn which
had pierced her sensitive, loving heart.

er eried the porters, and the train
stopped.

Then the practical difficulties of her situation
rose before her. Where was she to go—what was
shetodo? Her first and most pressing impulse
was to hide all traces of her flight; sne felt sure that
both Lady Darel andthe earl would muke every
effort to find her, for thesake of appearances, and
she was resolved never to be found. ;

Saltpool is asmall junction not forty miles from
Dover; she found that atrain was starting almost
immediately for London,and from London she
knew how easy it was to go. to any part of England.
She took a ticket for London, and when the train
stopped there, she walked out of the London-
—— aotion feeling that she was indeed alohe in

e world.

Could it be possible that, in the earlier hours of
this same day, the noblest people in this’ city had
been gathered togetherin her honor? Could this
be the same place where, with the honors due toa
young princess, she was married—she who stood
in the darkening night, more desolate than any of
those who stood shuddering on the bridges or un-
der the arches?

“Itisa mighty city,” she said to herself; “how
many women sleep to-night under the blue sky,
and have, like myself, athorn in their hearts.”

Where should she go—what should shedo. The
wide world was all before her, what should she
choose? It was notsofar from the station tothe
bridge; a great longing came over her to go there
nnd watch the calm, deep river. She— y Dun-
haven, an earl’s daughter, an earl’s wife—she
stood there :
Where the lamps quiver

‘ar down in the river;

ouseless and hoineless
She wandered by night.

Women passed her with painted faces and light
words-on their wretched lips; young girls went by
with the langhter of demons coming from their
young mouths; men pases her with sneers and
jeers; she saw none of them, She stood watching
the deep. calm waters, brightened by the golden

glow of the lamps; there wae ence; it would be
but a momentary thrill’as shé fell, a splash in the
‘river, and & long sweet rest in the arms of death.

“The money would be his own then,” she said,
“and I should be dead—dend with the thorn in my

eart.’

She was sorely tempted; noone loved her, no one
eared for her, her death would set her husband
free; there would not be one single creature to say
one word of regret; not one tear would be shed for
her. She clasped her hands with a sudden low cry.
Why should she, who longed for love, whose heart
was filled with love—why should she be the most
desolate and lonely of all creatures? Only Heaven
knew the nEveOREy. She could not understand it. A
heavy hand was laid on her shoulder, a gruff, but
not unkindly voice, said:

“Now, my good young. woman, you really must
not stand here in this kind of fashion—you must
not, indeed! It looks as though you meant to jump
over,

But the policeman drew back startled when he
saw the fair young face—he recognized n lady, and
with involuntary respect touched his elmet.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said, “but we are
obliged to be particular.”

She walked on—she would not go to any hotel to
sleep, lest by so doing she should Jeave any traces
of her flight—she would rather walk through the
streets until morning. As she walked up and down
the deserted streets, she thought of her young hus-
band on French soil.

“He will not regret me.” she thought. bitterly;
“he has the money—he will ever be pleased that I
am out of the way.” é

The night was long—the stars shone out brightly,
the clear, sweetair intermingled no longer with the
busy sounds of busy men. orning came. and at
six o’clock she was at Euston Square. She had not
decided where to gc—she .said to herself that fate
should decide that for her. Atrain was in the de-
pot, and wherever the train was going she would

#0.

She listened—it was for Rugbv, Crewe, and Ches-
ter. She would gotoChester. Once more she pur-
chased a ticket. and was_soon in the old, qnaint,
pretty town of Chester. Then feeling ill almost
unto death, she remembered how lorg it was since
she had had either food, wine, or sleep. She went
into a coffee-house and asked for a room. She
eould hardly drag her wearied_ limbs up the stairs,
she could hardly keep her tired eyes open until the
tea she ordered was brought up to her.

When she had drank it she fell into the deep sleep
of exhaustion. It was evening when she nwoke;
her ideas were much clearer, but there was a
strange. terrible feeling in her head; a red mist
seemed to flout before her eyes and obsenre every-
thing; a sound, like the rushing of waters, filled
her ears. She chaser that perhaps the fresh air
wontd do her good. She arose, and went down
stairs, ay

“T will keep that room,” she said, “as I shall re-
turn to-night.” ‘

Once out in the streets again. she remembered
her strange head-gear, and purchased a plain bon-
netandagray waterproof. A longing came over
her for the sea. _Ifshe could bnt once walk across
the yellow sands, and sit where the waves would
ripple to her feet!—if she could but once more lose
hér thoughts and her sorrows in the sad, sweet
rhythm of the waves!

There was no sea, but there were green meadows,
and tall green trees; bright, sunny fields, where
the birds were singing, und the children played.
Perhaps the rést and the quiet out there might do
her good—might take the burning pain and heat
from her brain—the cruel red mist from her eyes.
She walked quickly through the streets, ont to the
green. open country, where the flowers and trees
seemed to more her friends than the men and
women in the crowded cities,

She walked down the long high-road, and then a
lovely green lane charmed her. She went down,
and found some grand clover meadows: she crossed
those, wondering wh¥ the earth and sky seemed to
meet—why the greén™world whirled round her.
Then came a long, white, hard high-road; she
went down it, little dreaming that she would never
reniss it.

The strangest sensations came to her; it never
occurred to her that she was faint and giddy with
long fasting and want of sleep; that she was ill
from emotion. Strange fancies came to her, strange
voices called her from the trees and hedges,
strange faces leered at her from the green boughs;
onee or twice she cried aloud, then laughed at her-
self for her own fears; but the langhter died away.
and the fears grew greater. Theshadows of even-
ing were beginning to fall, the golden light of the
sun was fading. '

Her hands burned like fire as she walked along,
strange fits of depression eame over her; she sat
down by the hedgerows, unable for some minutes
to move orstir. She grew worse and worse; her
brain was on fire with the eruel fever that comes
from exhaustion. If she could but reach some

 

’

rest! She walked in the middle of the white, hard
road; she heard the sound of ecarriage-wheels, but
it did not omen to her that she was in any danger—
that she had better go out of the round—that if she
remained where she was she would be run over.

It was dusk then in the evening; owing to asharp
corner those driving did not see her. The next
thing was a cloud of dust. the quick gallop of hors-
es, a2 woman’s scream, a low ery, and then a mo-
ment of unutterable anguish. Lady Hilda Dunha-
ven was lying under the horses’ heels, with a
gaping wound in her temple, and the gray look of
coming death on her face; her hat was crushed,
and the golden hair streamed on the ground.

A . a of horrified silence, then a girl’s voice
cried:

“It is a woman!—we have run over a woman!
What shall we do ?” ‘

. There was great consternation: the coachman
umped down from his box, the footman from the
ack of the carriage; one held the horses’ heads,
while the other raised the prostrate figure. His
face grew pale as he looked at her; the great, gap-
ing wound and the gray hue of that young face
startled him.

‘Is she hurt ?” asked the lady, quickly. :

“Very much indeed. Iam afraid she is killed,”
was the answer. 4
_ The lady, who seemed to be quick and decided
in all her movements, came hastily from the car-
riage, and going up to Lady Hilda—

“Killed!” she repeated. “I hope not—I hope not!
Lay her down on the grass, one moment, Smith-
son.

The man Jaid her on the grass; the lady knelt by
her side and Jaid her hand over her heart.

“She is not dead,” she said; “her heart beats. I
will tell you what we must do. She must be placed
in the carriage, nnd we must take her home.”

“Home!” said a sleepy, indolent voice. ‘You
don’t mean home, my dear ?”

“Where should I mean? Do you suppose we can
drive her to the moon, or leave her lying here?
poth ing of the kind—most certainly she goes

ome.”

“Well, my dear, do just as you like. There is
nothing in the world worth troubling about. Take
things easy, they are sure to come right,” quoth
Sir Peter Pitcairn, who was one of the most indo-
lent men of his time.

“The poor creature would die, most probably,
while you are taking things easy,” replied. Lady
Pitcairn. “This comes of rapid driving, Smith-
son,’

“Indeed, my lady,” said the coachman, “I was not
driving quickly at all, but the young lady stood
quite in the middle of the road, and did not stir.”

“It looked to me Jike suicide,” said the footman,
as he helped to place the silent figure in_the ecar-
riage, and during the short drive home Lady Pit-
cairn was busy in discussing the idea,

[TO BE CONTINUED]
MONTE MADRONA:
4 f OR,

 

THE MYSTIC TEN.
_/& WILD STORY OF THE MINES.
By Will B. Schwarts.

(“Monte Madrona” was commenced in No. 48. Back Nos. can be
obtained from any news agent in the United States.} ~~

“© QOHAPTER XVI.”

 

AES oenecny *

THE DOG MESSENGER,

The laugh which followed Old Ailmentary’s nar-
rative was suddenly checked, asthere came a loud
knocking upon the door of the cabin.

Harry Love took it upon himself to answer the
summons. ;

Ping Gastro, holding a horse by the bridle, stood
at the entrance, and a short distance away, in the
street, theburly sheriff descried Ione, mounted
upon her magnificent black steed, Tornado.

This was the first time Harry Love had seen the
beautiful Faro Queen to get a good look at her form
and features, and his admiration betraved itself to
such an extent that the Mexican was obliged to re-
peat his words, ; , h

“You will pardon me this intrusion, senor, but is
Monte Madrona here?” he said, politely.

“Eh! Monte. Yes, of course; here he is.”

The fair-haired gambler, overhearing the Mexi-
can’s speech, came forward. ij

“What is it you wish of me ?” he inquired, coldly.
He had not forgotten the treacherous rart Gastro
had an in the eard game with Derringer.

“Ah! senor Madrona, I trust I find you unin-
jured by Jast night’s events,” began the Mexican.

“I fortunately escaped all harm, sir; no thanks
to your friend Duke Derringer, however.”

Gastro showed his white teeth for a moment in
a smile. And Monte, entching sight of Ione, lifted
his hat to her, with the grace of a courtier.

“Excuse me from entering into any arguments
concerning the terrible events which have hap-

ened,” said Gastro, witha wave of his hand. “I

1ave no time to waste. Weare about to leave the
Bar—my daughter and I—and Ione craves the
honor, of a few moments’ conversation with you be-
fore we go.”

You intend to leave the town alto-

“Oh, yes: my house is destroyed, and I do not
eare to rebuild it—the place has become distasteful
to me,” answered Gastro, carelessly. i

Monte said no more. but stepped to the side of
the horse upon which Jone was sented.

The Mexiean was about to turn away, when
Harry Love detained him by a gesture. Old Ail-
mentary had also approached to the door-way.

“Do lI understund that you contemplate leaying
Bummers’ Bar?” inquired the sheriff.

“Such is my intention. senor,” answered the Mex-
ican, eying Love, euriously.

“Is not this rather a sudden departure?”

“That is as you please tothink. Thisisacountry
of sudden changes.”

‘: ng do you mean?” demanded Harry Love,
sharply.

Gastro laughed, carelessly.

“I referred to the sudden change in your speech.
It has undergone a marked improvement since the
other night when you introduced yourself here.”

“It is a pity you could not have remained here a
week longer.” ;

“Ah! Why?”

“You would then see something which would ns-
tonish you more than the change you perceive in
my voice,” - ;

“Really? Well, you arouse my curiosity to such
an extent that I have half a notion to remain.”

“An angry sparkle began to appear in the blue
orbs of the sheriff; he saw that the Mexican was de-
riding him. J

“Undeceive yourself, Ping Gastro,” he said, cold-
ly, “the spectaele you would witness would not af-
ford you the pleasure you anticipate.”

“Then Ican congratulate myself on leaving.” said
Gastro, shrugging his shoulders. i

“Ah! by the way, where do you intend going?”
inquired the sheriff, regaining his. tranquillity.
“May I inquire?” 5

“Certainly; it is no secret; We go to Mariposa
first: from thence I bave not determined yet where
our destination will eventually be.”

“And Duke Derringer—does he go with yon?”

Harry Love made the inquiry in the most careless
manner imaginable, but if he had hoped to en-
trap the Mexican, his wishes were doomed to disap-
pointment.

“Duke Derringer?” .eried Gastro, in real, or
—— arr “How is that possible? He

s dea

oe says he is dead?” inquired the sheriff,
sharply.

“Why. I understood—in short, was he not killed
last night?” and Gastro looked the picture of amaze-
ment.

“You are the first to say so.”

“Carramba, senor; then I am mistaken? I fan-
cied I heard some one or that he had been killed
by the explosion lust night.”

“No such good luck happened,” answered Love,

ryly.

He was not deceived by the Mexican’s acting.

Gastro was silent, and a gesture from Ione at that
moment, called him away.

“No snuke-in-the-grass ’bout_ him, eh! Harry?”
observed Old Ailmentary, as the Mexican sauntered
away. “Taint ol’en’s I mek enny remarks ahind
a feller’s back, but I’ll bet a bedbug’s eye-winkers
agin an ounce thet he’s a skunk.” Ls

“I believe you, old man,” Harry remarked. “If
he is not one of the band of the ten, he ia at least
hand and glove in with them.”

“Thar’s nnuther thing ez air tumblin’ my brains
round, Harry. Ever since t’other night, when I
heered thet gal a torking to Monte—jest ez sweet ez
maple sugar on a shingle, her vice hez bin a both-
erin’ me,”

“Yes? Ain’t in love, air ye, old man.” ;

“In love? Oh! no Harry; don’t re mek no mis-
take ’bout thet! The oldraigia air bud so’s gastral-

ons: but I’d rather take’em all singly, doubly, or
otherwisely, then ter fall in love agin, Oh! great
grubhs, yes; I’ve hin thar!”

“You don’t say? Why, then, does she puzzle

‘Taint she herownself, but her vice. I never
seed her afore the other night. The vriec’s what I
eant git through me. Know Lheered it sumwhare;
but jest edzactly whar,I cain’ttell ye nuther. I
don’t forgit a thing like this of’en bnt——”

And Old Ailmentary finished with a perplexed
shake of his head.

“Well, never mind you may remember by and
by,” said Harry, smiling atthe old man’s annoyed

 

 

friendly shelter where she could Jie down and be at

gia, catarrh uvthe stumick an’ delnsion tremend-’

 

looks. “I want your advice now on the best way of
getting at those bandits,”

Old Ailmentary gave a'sudden spring, and stood
regarding the burly sheriff as though Love had
Beau gay been transformed into a hideoua appari-

ion.
.,,areat Grubbs!” he gasped, in astonishment,

Dye got it!” :

“Eh! got what?” cried Love.

“The vice—ereeiminy it ’most takes my breath
away—I knew w’are ‘twar, an’ wily it hes bin a puz-
zlin’ me now.”

“Indeed? And you mean to say?”

Old Ailmentary whispered a few words into his
ear. ’

Harry Love started violently as he heard the rapid
sentence. —

Impossible—I can’t believe that one so beautiful
could act such.”

The old man raised his hand warningly.

Old Ailmentary don’t make no mistake in thet, ”
he said, firmly. ‘It was thar whar I heerd it.”

“You are sure?”

“Dead sartin sure.”

A look of disappointment gleamed for an instant
upon the face of the sheriff, but it soon gave way to
his usual natural look,

I could not have believed it possiblehad any ono
but you told me,” he said, coldly,

Meanwhile Monte had eporonened Tone, receiving
from her a charming smile of welcome.

,uxcuse me for taking up your time, sir,” sho
said; ‘but as we are about going away, 1 wanted a
moment’s conversation with you.”

All you wish, beautiful Ione; it is with sorrow I
hear of your departure,” answered Monte, bowing.

Ah! you ean thank your servant for it. then; it
was through his instrumentality that our house
— Seneenr yi ” answered Ione, with a slight

“You mistake, Ione; you must go further back.
Say rather that the treachery of Duke Derringer
made the course taken by Cupid imperative,” said
Monte, firmly.

“Well, no matter, recriminations will not avail us,
nor will they alter my father’s intentions of leavin
this place; and, besides. it was not of this I wishe
to speak.”

Believe me, Ione, I regret exceedingly what hap-
pened last night; but you will readily perceive from
the proximity of these masked outlaws that it was
a preconcerted plan to capture me and end my life;
and only forthe devotion of my friends it would
have succeeded.”

I admit it, and do not think fora moment that I
attach the blame of the consequences which fol-
lowed to you; but it is of last night that I wish to
speak. You will probably remember that you are
slightly in my debt?”

‘I have not forgotten, Ione—you have only to
mention your claim to have it conceded.”

I shall claim your promise to-day, but not here.
I Wish you to meet me two hours hence on the road
leading to. Mariposa. You will know the place
where I will await you by a large. tree, which has
fallen across a dcep gully.” .

“I know the spot, and will be there agreeably to
your wishes; but why—pardon the curiosity—do
you wish me to come tliere?”

“T have my reasons, which must remain my
secret for the present, moreover I wish youto bring
that child, Purl, along with you.”

Monte drew himself up haughtily at this.

“You will pardon me, lone, if Isay that Purl—that
child, as you persist in calling her,in defiance of the
fact that she is 1 woman—can have nothing to do
with your claim on me, and therefore her presence
© the meeting you have appointed would be use-

ess.

“You are mistaken,” answered Ione,” flushing at
his imperious.-manner;.‘her, presence is impera-
tiye for the fulfillment of my claim"y0
“And why. may Linquire ?” said Monte, coldly. -

“That, I refuse to answer now. You shall know
when you meet me.” 3x86 ee

“And if I refuse to do as you.command ?”

“You -will do so at- the -peril of your honor as a
gentleman,” answered Ione, distantly.

For a brief space Monte was silent; the girl’s re-
quest filled him with a vague apprehension of evil.

“Ione,” he said, steadily, “let us fully understand
each other inthis matter. I promised to fulfill your
wish, itis true, believing that you would claim a
thing of but nominal value. Whether that promise
was rashly given, or extracted with evil designs,
the sequel will prove. I will meet you as you wish,
and Purl shall come also; but remember this—she
must have nothing to do with our compact.”

“And why not?”

“T love her.” answered Monte, firmly.

The flushed face of the beautiful queen turned to

trembled visibly. ‘

“You love her?” she repeated, mechanically.
“And she—does she know it ?”

“She does, und returns my love.” And Monte
eyed the beautiful girl before him steadily, a dim
suspicion of the truth beginning to steal upon him.

By an effort, Ione recovered herself, and smided
again; but her color was slower to return.

“You are candid, my king of card sharps,” she
said at last, her careless laugh not entirely effacing:
the sneer from her lips.

“And why should [ not be?’ answered Monte,
proudly. “No honest man is ashamed to acknowl-
edge the love he bears for the woman of his
choice.”

“Yon are right. But I see my father approach-
ing, You will not fail me?”

“Certainly not. Let me see—two hours hence wilt
make it eight o’clock; I will have just burely time
to get there.”

Gastro now approached, and mounting his horse,
with a polite “Good-day, senor,” they were off up
the street, and a sharp turn in the road soon hid
them from view.

Brooding conte over the strange turn of affairs
Monte reentered the cabin in order to give Cupid
some instructions, after which it would be neces-
sary for him to start out immediately if he hoped
to be at the guily at the time appointed.

‘Are you going with us on our raid against the
bandits. Monte?” inguired Harry Love. who for
some time had been in edrnest conversation with
Old Ailmentary, mapping ont a plan of action.

“Yes; I have instructed Cupid to buy a couple of
horses for that purpose. I want to see Derringer
again; therefore I am with you.”

Harry Love laughed.

“Well, you'll have a chance, I’m determined to
wipe out these outlaws.”

Monte was about to leave the cabin, when he:
turned, a sudden thonght striking him.

“IT suppose you will take the Mariposa trail?” he
inquired.

.. Yes, for some distance,”

“All right then; you will probably overtake me
on the road, for I havean engagement up that way;
and, besides, it will save me the unnecessary jour-
ney of returning. You remember where I had the
fight with the panther, old man?”

Kerrect,” answered Old Ailmentary.

“I will await you there.” :

Saying this Monte left the cabin. A short time
after Cupid also left to earry out his master’s or-
ders. arry Love stretched himself out upon the
eabin floorto snatch afew hours of much-needed
repose, and was soon oe

Old Ailmentary, left to himself, fell into a long
train of musing, in which the face he had seen rise
through the smoke of the fight the previous night
occupied a prominent part. Then. as the hours
wore, his face grew sad and melancholy, and the
hard lines upon his features softened wonderfully.
Once he groaned woud, and whispered, sadly:

“Oh! Clytie, why did you leave me? I who loved
you dearer that my life.”

His musings were suddenly cut short by a flerce
scratching on the door of the cabin, which was in-
stantly followed by a long-drawn howl.

Aroused by the yell, Harry Love sprang to his

eet.
' Deca was that?” heinquired, fully awake in an
nstant.

“Blessed ’fI knows—sounds to me likea dorg,”
answered Old Ailmentary, opening the door.

The nextinstant a dark object bounded into the
room, and aftera on glanee around crouched
at the feet of the old man, whining.

“Wal, I swar ’f’t ain’t the dorg uv that crazy fel-
Jer!” cried Old Ailmentary. “What air it, Raven?”
he continued, stooping to pat the dog upon the

ead.

The mastiff whined sont and strove to tear
something from his neck with his fore feet.

Old Ailmentary, directed by the actions of the
dog, saw that a blue-silk handkerchief was knotted
about the collar around the dog’s neck, :

As this article seemed to annoy the dog Old Ail-
mentary unfastened it, andthe moment it was re-
moved the snimal bounded away through the open
door-way like » shot. and his deep bay was soon
heard growing fainter in the distance.

“Great grubbs, what ails the eritter ?” cried Old
Ailmentary. “Acts ez though he were mud; but,
ereeiminy, ’f this ain’t funny.”

“What is funny ?” inquired the sheriff.

“Why, this nose-wipe nir mine,” cried the old
man. “Reekon the dog must have found it, and
knowd it war mine.” ‘

“That may be, old man, but where are your wits?
He coutdn’t have tied it around his neck. Why,
hallo, here’s a paper!’

Sure enough, one corner of the handkerchief was.
tightly tied about a slip of paper,

“Tt’s nu’ message, I'll bet,” cried Love, betraying
eet Shri “Open it, old min, and let’s see
whut itis.”

The -handkerehief was unknotted after some
slight diffieultv, and the paper spread out upon the
hand of Old Ailmentary.

It was covered with writing. and as the old man
mastered the eontents of the missive he dashed it
suddenly tothe floor, and a grating eurse burst
frm his lips. : ;

: “What is it?” eried Love, stooping to pick up the
etter. ‘ ;

“Great grubbs, there’s the devil to pay again, an
no er ready!” gritted the old man, sav-
agely.

 

 

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CHAPTER XYII.
IONE CLAIMS HER STAKE,

Following the course of the river, whose turbid
waters rolled sluggishly down past the town of
Bummers’ Bar, Monte Madrona soon came in sight
of the solitary cabin wherein dwelt Purl and her
grandfather.

His knock upon the door was answered. by Purl
in person, and as the girl saw who the visitor was,
she uttered a joyous ery of welcome.

“Oh, Madrona, Iam awtlully glad to see you,” she
said, giving him both of her hands, and looking up
into his handsome face with a glad smile upon her
lips. “I thought. yeu were never going to come, or
that, perhaps——”

“She hesitated, and glanced at him shyly. .

“Perhaps what? Come, tell moe at once, ‘said
Monte, a mock grayity, upon his features, as he
looked down into the beautiful face upraised to

rim.

“Now don’t look that way, Madrona—you frighten
me,” pleaded Purl.

“Very well, then,” and Monte stolo a*kiss from
her lips, “forgive meformy boldness. Now finish
what vou were about to say.”

“Well, then, I thought that perhaps you had—haa
forgotten me,” answered Purl, shyly.

“Forget you?” cried. Monte, reproachfully. ‘Oh,
no, Parl, you wrong me by that unworthy thought.
I could not forget you, did 1 wish, and God knows
that I am only too happy in the knowledge of your
loye for me, to trifle with it. have for the past
four or five years led a wild—perhaps a fast life, but
it was with a worthy object.in view, and during all
that time I have striven to be honorable and true to
my manhood, My life. has been a sad one, and
some day I will tell you its history. You arethe
only woman who eyer roused emotions of love
within my heart, Purl, and you are the only ono I
ever loved, or can love.” 2

The fair-haired gambler spoke with an earnest-
ness in his voice, a seriousness upon his every fea-
ture, that attested strongly of the deep feeling

_which stitred his heart.

“Forgive me, Madrona; 1 know it was wrong in
mo tothink that of yon; but it has been so long
since Isaw you,” said Purl, plaintively. _

Monte smiled proudly, realizing the girl’s great
love, which made a day seem an age. _

“Tt has been just a day, dear Purl, since you saw
mo,” he said, with a slight laugh, f
. “Well, ain’t that along time?” cried Purl. “You
must not laugh at me—it is twenty-four hours, and
that’s an awful long time.”

“Allright, Purl, P11 bo goed, and won’t laugh at

you any more. Butcome, get your hat and cloak, I
wan't you to take a walk with me.”
: A fow moments sufficed for the girl to follow out
his wishes, then arm in arm rey proceeded on tha
trail vad the meeting-place the Faro Queen had
appointed.

During the walk Monte briefly narrated the ex-
citing events of the previous night, and more than
once Purl shuddered at. the recital, when she re-
alized the dangers her lover had passed through
unharmed. When ho had finished she threw her
arms ground his neck, and.gazing keenly into his
eyes, inquired:
ane tuli.me truly,am I the only one you
ove ?”

“As Heaven hears me, Purl, you are,” answered
Monte, ‘fervently. ‘Why do you ask? Do you
doubt me?” P .

‘And you don’t love Ione?” the girl inquired,
ignoring his question.

“‘No, Purl, Ido not.”

“Not the least, single bit ?”

“Not the leart, single bit.”

: Tm gad ot that; because I want al’ your love
myself.’

“Do not doubt it, dear Purl.

' woman I ever loved.” . §
“And I know I would die, dear Madrona, if. you

You are the only

_ did not love me all.” ;
‘here were a few moments during which the walk
was continued in silence.
“Madrona,”
“Yes, Parl.”
“T hate that Ione,”
“Why. Purl, you astonish me!”
Well. I do,” and Purl clenehed her little hand
sayagely.
“But why, Purl? Has she eyer harmed you ?”
“Oh, no; butshe loves you, Madrona.’
“Do you think so?”
“I know it,” answered Purl, decidedly.
ti I pity her, then, for I cannot return the affec-
on,
Further conversation for the time was cut short,
_ a3, on turning a bendin the road; Ione,the Faro
Queen, was discovered, evidently awaiting them,
some little dlstance ahead on the trail.
“Purl,” said Monte, suddenly, “I want you to sing
ee eon again which you sang yesterday in the
orest.
Why, Madrona?” F
“T want her to hear it,” answered Monte, looking
at_his companion in a peculiar manner.
Purl smiled as she caught his moaning, and in
hor full, rich voice sang:
“ Beautiful wildwoods, from Heayen’s hand true,
I love your sweet shadows, all sparkling with dew;
‘£ love the great redwood—the pine tall and lone,
ut I love most of all the beautiful Madrona.
Pride of the forest and king of the trees—
With wide-spreading branches thrown out on the breeze,
Fold your arms round me—I kiss you alone,
Tlove you, my king, beautiful Madrona,” , |

hen the song was finished they halted beside

foregoing morning. Ione was standing near the
edge of the chasm, while her horse was fastened
to a stout bush near by.

The rival beauties eyed each other for'a few mo-
ments in silence, each striving to read the other’s
thoughts. i ;
on” lifted his hat politely to the beautiful Faro

uecen.

Jone was the first to speak.

‘ “Allow me to oe you, child, on your
vocal powers,” she said. ‘“Passure you they are of
a high order and rare merit.”

“Thank you,” answered Purl, simply.

‘Iono let us not waste time in idle compliments,”
said Monte. “Be pleased to state your claim on
me at once.”

.. “¥Youarein a hurry to hear your fate. my bravo

king of card sharps,” said Ione, smiling wickedly.

__\“The more so as I expect friends along here

shortly, and besides Lam detaining you,” answered
Monte, coldly. .

“Not in the least, sir. We have ample time to
reach our destination—father and I.”

‘Nevortheless, be pleased to finish as soon,as
possible. Aly time is limited”. {

“Very well, Monte Madrona, it shall be as you
say, “answered Ione, calmly. ‘‘Listen. In the first
place, I suppose it is unnecessary to remind you
that I have your word of honor that you will grant
whatever I ask?” ;

“Such is our compact; have no fear that I shall

‘deny your wish,” but as he said the words, Monte

felt.the samo peculiar sensation pass through the
finger encircled by the serpent ring—Ione’s gift—
which hoe had experienced when he first placed it
upon his hand. — » ; ;

“Good; my wish then is, that you will never speak
to that girl, al. your side, again as long as you live.”

At the words of the beautiful Faro Queen; Monte
uttered _a hoarse ery.of despair. ie ef

“My God, Ione, you are mad!” he eried, wildly.
“You will not—cannot be so cruel as te ask sucha
thing ef me. Think what you are Saying. Your
words pierce my heart like so many poisoned
daggers.” *

“IT have: your word of honor that you will grant
what Task,” said Ione, coldly.

‘TI: know. it, Ione, but for Heaven’s sake’ ask mo

“I love Purl, better than life itself. I cannot do
as you wish, for you ask me to give up my very\ex-
istence.” .

“Ha, hat you are working upon my good nature
and sympathy now, Monte,” said. Ione, laughing
pitilessly, “Bah! what is it I ask of you? simply to
give up talking to aslip of a girl who is far below
you in station’and education—a mere nothing.
ae ring I wagered against what I ask is treble its
valne.”

With a frightful imprecation Monte tore the jewel
from his finger and dashed it,to the feet of Ione.

“There, take your cursed ring—a ring whose
symbolism befits your nature. well,” he cried, des-
perately. “I refuse to grant your wish.”

“What? ‘In defiance of, your solemn promise?”
cried Ione, turning pale with passion.
“Ay, [ will lose honor, life—all, before I. will
give up Purl.” cried Monte, hotly.

., Ab? and Ione drew herskirts proudly atout her
ag it to depart, “and I took you. for a gentleman.”

Purl who had been a mute, suffering hearer of all
that had passed, sprang forward with a sharp ery,
and laid a detaining hand upon the arm of the
beautiful woman. ;

. Wait, fone,” she said, lowly, “Madrona is a gen-
t:eman, and he shall keep his word with you.”
... What do you mean, girl?” cried ‘Ione, aston-

ed. ,

‘Purl did not answer her, but turning to Monte,
she said, quietly: |

“Mndrona, promise what she wants you to.”

What! promise to give you up, Purl? Never!”
answered Monte, firmly.

Ob. yes, you must, Madrona; she has said that
Sg have no honor and are notagentleman, Prove

hat you have, and are both—I wisly it,”

The girl’s face was very white as she said this,
but her oyes gazed resolutely into the face of the
fair-haired. gambler.

‘But, Purl;’ you ask an impossibility;” eried
Monte, wildly. “To give you up, you whom TI have
learned to love as a part of my life, would be like
tearing the heart from out of my bosom. I will
not promise,”

But, dear Madronu, grandpa has taught mo that
when aman loses honor heis no moro worthy of
respect. ’ou are bound in honor to do as this. wo-
man wishes, and you must obey her.”

You ask me then to give you up?” said Monte,
in the culmness of despair.

 

the gully made memorable by the panther fight the.

«se »

And although Parl’s face was very pale, she gazed
stendily into the eyes of Monte Madrona.

“Purl, you do not love me,” .

Purl uttered a heart-rending cry, and sinkin
down at tho feet of the fair-haired gambler, covere
his hand with kisses.

‘Dear Madrona, do not say that,’ she moaned,
piteously; “it will kill me to give you up, and your
doubt tears my heart with anguish.” ’

Monte raised the girl to her feet and strained her
convulsively to his breast. f

Ione was trembling like a leaf stirred by the first
ominous breath of the burricane.

And inthe midst of the silence which followed
the anguished ery of the girl,a dozen men, fore-
most.of whom were the Lowry brothers, sprang
fromthe underbrush which fringed the trail and
surrounded our hero.

 

OHAPTER XVIII.
CRAZY FRANK TO THE FORE.

Both of the girls uttered eries of terror as the
band of ruffilans burst upon them so suddenly, and
Tone sprang toward her prancing horse, flight be-
ing for the moment uppermostinher thoughts.
But this was only momentary. a

Naturally courageous and high-spirited, her
training from early childhood had been’ such as
pondered her wonderfully self-reliant and devoid
of fear.

She turned to see the fair-haired gambler seized
by ahalf-dozen men free himself by «a desperate
effort, and hurl his assailants aside as though they
were mere children, following up his momentary
advantage by striking downa couple of the ruf-
fians with blows of his clenched fists that sounded
like the dull thuwd-thud of a horse’s hoofs upon the
spongy turf,

But tien, as though fearful of Jesing their prey
after all, one of the cursing desperadoes crept up
behind and. struck him aterrible blow upon the
head with a clubbed revolver. :

The fair-haired gambler flung his arms up_over
his head, and fell backward like a man suddenly
stricken by death,

Purl uttered a piercing shriek.

It was Ebb Lowry who had struck the cowardly

ow.

For one brief instant Ione stood as if petrified;
then, with a wild ery, she drew atiny revolver from

-her bosom, leveled it, and fired at the assassin.

Her aim was true.

Stricken to the heart, Ebb Lowry fell to the
ground a corpse.

But the frenzied woman never paused to note the
effects of her mad stroke for vengeance. She saw
the man she loved lying motionless, bleeding, dead
as she believed, at her feet, and sinking down be-
side his body she would have clasped his head in
her arms, but Purl was before her.

The girl had pillowed his bleeding face upon her
breast, calling him by endearing names to return
to life. to her, pressing’ her lips to his, lavishing
upon his insensible ears the fondest epithets mor-
tal lips could frame into ‘speech—unheeding the
fleree threats and imprecations of the outlaws, who
had gathered about their dead comrade’ * 7

Fortunately for Tone, nan Gastro rode hastily
up, and leaping to the ground he thrust the cursing
desperadoes aside, and touched his daughter upon
the shoulder.. : ;

“Come with me, girl.” he said, sternly, as she
raised her eyes.atthe touch. ‘“Youhavewroughta
poy piece of business for once. Come, I say, or

shall-use force to compel you.” ’ ‘

rus see—they haye killed him,” cried Ione, pite-
ously,
“And what if they have, what isitto you?” grated
Gastro; “he has done mischief enough to deserve
the fate a dozen times over. Look!he is opening
his eyes! Would you have him see you kneeling
inthe dustat his side?”

‘The Mexican spoke the truth. Monte had opened
his eyes and faintly raised his head with a wonder-
ing air. Purl uttered a joyous cry as she saw this
a of returning consciousness in her fair-haired

over.

Gastro sent forced his daughter away as Monte
slowly struggled to his feet. t

he fair-haired gambler was instantly seized and
his hands securely bound behind him. .

“ Beware!” cried Gastro, authoritatively. “ Re-
member Derringer’s orders—on your lives do not
harm him! Tie him up and bring him to the cave
—blindfolded, mind. You have already gone be-
yond your orders.” ; j

“An’’f he did, Ebb hez paid fur it with his life—
thanks to thet cub. o’ yourn,” growled George
Lowry, insolently. “She kin thank her luck she
ain’t a man, fur I’d a let daylight through her in
less’r’n no time.” }

The Mexican made no reply to this rude speech,
but placed Ione upon her horse, springing into his
own saddle, and galloped away, holding’ firmly to
her bridle-rein. ;

Meanwhile Monte was holding a rapid conversa-
tion with Purl, and urging her to run away.

“Quick, Purl!” he whispered, “get across the
gully—there is still a chance for you to escape!”

“No, Madrona, I will not leave you,” answered
Purl, clinging to his arm. “Where they take you
I will go also.” a

“Purl, this is madness; I tell you to escape!”
Monte fairly hissed in his excitement. ‘Besides,
you can‘aid me. Godowninto the town and in-
quire for an.old man called Old Ailmentary—tell
him what has ‘happened. Quick! get away while
the chance is still open.” ;

Still Purl hesitated, but a commanding look from
her lover determined her wavering thoughts, and
fleet as a mountain deer she bounded over the
gully‘on the log.

Several of the outlaws uttered cries of alarm as
they saw the escape, and Harry Lowry sprang for-
ward in pursuit.

But as the Missourian passed Monte, the fair-
haired gambler thrust out his foot and tripped him
neatly upon his face, °

With a grating snarl Harry Lowry leaped to his

 

anything but that,” gasped the fair-haired gambler. |-

feet again, and struck the bound man a cowardly
blow in the face which felled him to the ground. |

‘Then, without pausing to note the effect of his
rage, the Missourian sprang across the gully after
the fleeing girl, who had just reached the edge of
the forest. ‘

A short race it was. The slight girl was no match
for the’ Missourian, who covered the ground with
the strides of atrained athlete. Before many rods
were passed Purl felt a hand close firmly upon her
shoulder, and she was brought to a sudden halt.

“Wait, my pretty. You have forgotten to say
good-by!” cried Harry, with a triumphant gleam
a his eyes. ‘We don’t like folks to be so imper-

ite.” i :

“Let me go!” cried Purl, struggling desperately
to free herself fromthe man’s grasp. “What have
done to you that you run after me in this way?”

“Ye heven’t done nothin’ yet. pretty; but I reck-
on ye could do a heap ’f we “lowed ye to git down to
the town,” said the Missourian, significantly.

Purl saw that’ her captor had divined her inten-
tions, and her heart sank within her. But she kept
up asemblance of courage to the last.

__. Well, now that you have caught me what do you
intend doing with me?” she choy aha ealmly.

“Well, I.reckon ye’ll jest walk back to where ya
started to»run from: fust; arter thet ye’ll go with
thet baby-faced feller we’vo captured. Come, walk
ahead, an’ don’t tempt to run again, ’eause I kin
ketch ye jest ez easy.” nid

Without deigning to answer the ruffian’s speech,
Purl sétout on the woodland trail to return t> the
round, well knowing that it would be useless tore-
ist. and fearing ruder treatment if she attempt-
ed it, nit,

Monte Madrona saw her brought back witha
fleree pain burning at his heart. He had mee that
she would escape and earry the news of his eap-
ture to his friends.
ray of hope upon him, Harry Love would be along
there shortly, and, not finding him at the appoint-
ed ‘place, would glean fromthe: signs upon the
ground what had happened and follow their-trail.

ut.as if the outlaws were gifted with power to
read what was flashing through his: mind, all signs
of the struggle were obliterated and. dust seattered
over the blood-stains on the ground. Then horses
were brought forward, the two e¢aptives, exch
strongly guarded, were placed upon the backs of
a couple of mustangs,the outlaws sprang into
their saddles, anda fey moments later the road
hed the gully was deserted. The body of theslain
issourian had been earried away for burial by
his two brothers. j

Then forth from the underbrush crept a slight,
boyish figure, with an odd, old face, his form trem-
bling with some great excitement, and holding a
large mastiff by the collar, |

It was Orazy Frank and his dog, Rayen. The de-
mented youth, had pvgenaln pees an unseen wit-
ness of the scenes which had just transpired.

“Oh, Will, brother, what eam Ido to save you ?” he
eried, speaking his thoughts: wneonscionsly aboud.
“What shall we do, Raven ?—what can we do? They
will kill him thistimesure. Ah me! poor, poor Will!
Oh, if he were only here. Ha! I haveit. Iwill
send Raven to find him. Yes, it is the only hope.”

The strange being drew from his pocket a slip of
paper and 2 pencil, and knecling down, he dashed
off the following:

“SPIRIT OF THE Storm—Come quick! Monte Mad-
rona and Purl have been taken. prisoners. by the
Lowry boys and. those wicked men who were going
to hang him last night. Come at once, and bring
your air spirits with. you. -I will follow those men,
and leave a broad trail to guide yon. At the gully
where we camped yesterday morning.

“CRAZY FRANK.”

Having finished the letter, the strange boy drew
from his bosom a blue silk handkerchief, at which
he gazed long and earnestly. At last, heaving a
deep sigh, he Knetted the letter in one corner, and
fastened the whole about the neck of his dog.

“It is all I have of his, and I must part with even
that. Great Hoaven! when-will all this end? Iwill

 

go mad if it continues much longer.”

Placing a loose end of the handkerchief to the
nose of his dog, he cried:

“Find, Raven! Away!” :

The dog sniffed two or three times, then giving
vent to adeep-mouthed bay, he set off toward the
town, with his nose close to the ground. He had
caught the scent, and his muster knew that he
would follow it to the end. _—

“So far, good!” muttered Frank ‘“‘Now then to
follow those outlaws. Iknow where they will go
to, and Iwill find out the secret of that glen this
time, or perish,” — :

He drew from his pockets a pair of Derringer
pistols, which he examined carefully. ‘

‘Satisfied that they were in good order, he thrust
them back into his bosom, and tightening the belt
about his waist, set off up the trail at a swift, steady
run,

He ran, when it was practical, on one side of the
road, where, it not being cut up so much by trayel,
his footsteps showed distinctly in the dust.

Steadily the boy pushed on, showing no sign of
fatigue in his long, swinging stride. Once he halt-
ed to examine the trail of the outlaws. and a pleased
expression flashed into his eyes as he saw that the
parece were only being urged forward in a slow

ope.

ushing on again with renewed exertions, the
boy soon heard distinetly the hoof-beats of the out-
Jaws’ horses. His task now was to keep them within
hearing distance, which was an easy matter. as the
rufflans seemed inno hurry to reaeh their destina-
tion. Shortly after Frank had come within hearing
of them, the hoof-strokes suddenly ceased.

A glance at his surroundings convinced the boy,
who seemed familiar with the country, that the
outlaws had reached the trail which led up to the
mountain glen, and ensconcing himself behind a
favoring bush he peered cautiously forth.

He saw that his conjectures were right. The out-
laws had halted, and the two prisoners had been
taken out of their saddles und set upoh their feet.

Then once more the majority of the outlaws put
their horses again in motion, and soon disappear-
ed_on the winding mountain road.

Some half-dozen of the ruffians had given their
steeds in charge of their comrades, and remained
behind with the prisoners. Among these were the
two Missourians, the elder brother of whom car-
ried the form of Ebb Lowry upon his shoulder.

A moment later they, too, plunged into the bushes
out of sight. :

_ As soft-footed asthe ey panther stealing upon
its prey, Crazy Frank followed after, his gliding
form making an audible sound among the thick
undergrowth through which the faint trail wound.

Half the distance to the glen had been made with
safety, when the lad incautiously trod upon a dry
twig, which broke beneath his weight with a sharp,
clear snap.

Frank uttered an impatient exciamation atthe
mishap, and drawing aside from tlie trail he con-
cealed himself beside a fallen tree.

His fears that the outlaw had heard the sound
were well founded, for a few moments after he had
‘dropped into his place of concealment,. he heard
stealthy footsteps approaching, which halted an
instant later directly in front of him on the trail.

Looking cautiously ont from his hiding-place the
boy saw two masked men, with revolvers in hand.
standing in an attitude of listening, their eyes
glancing sharply around them. i

“Carramba, comrade,” said one, after waiting a
few moments without hearing anything suspicious.
“You must haye been mistaken,”

“Not so. I heard atwig snap—I am sure of it.”
answered the other, in a voice of conviction.

1 pome animal, then, must have eaused your
alarm. ' .

“It. must be as you say, forI ean hear and see
nosbing suspicious, Come, let us rejoin our com-
rades.,’

The two men replaced their weapons in their
belts and, moved again, the bushes soon hiding
their forms from view.

This incident convinced the boy that he had no
easy task before him in following the outlaws, and
for the rest of the way he proceeded with redoubled
precaution. ; BBO.

Consequent with this his progress was less rapid,
Bie wien he at length reached the glen it was de-
serted. + 7
_ Then while the yonth gazed with Seca anes:
into the narrow little valley, a heavy hand suddenly
fellupon his shoulder. >

Turning, with asharp cry breaking from his lips,
he saw the same two outlaws. whose suspicion he
had aroused, standing beside him.

/ (TO BE CONTINUND.),

DORA ELMYR'S WORST. ENEMY,

Author of “THE PHANTOM WIFE," “THE
“FORGER’S SISTER,” “WHO OWNED
THE JEWELS,” ete.

(“Guilty, or Not Guilty” was commenced in number 49. Back
numbers can be had of all News Agents inthe United States.]

 

 

 

_Elmyr was aware of those fears. Oh,

One thought, however, threw a}

PART FIRST

- CHAPTER XI._
THE OLD TUB GOES TO THE BOTTOM.

The most skillful payin would not haye ven-
tured to assert that Dudley Elmyr was not doomed
to die. But his kind, patient old doctor, and his
devoted mother brought him, with infinite doubt
and trouble, through a terrible crisis; and, at last,
it could be confidently announced that the peril
was over, The le peril, since, even were he to
live, his medicahattendant had serious fears that
his mind woul wrecked in the storm; and Mrs,
how she
prayed, in those days!—not only for life, but for
reason, for her only remaining child. No one, save
the parents and the physician, heard the strange
ravings of the delirious patient, who uttered words.
which made them shudder, albeit they were, or
seemed, the meaningiess fancies of fever,

Dora—Dora—Dora—was.the theme of these delu-
sions; and ever he spokeof himself as her mur-
derer—with half‘incoherent mutterings of drown-
ing—the lake—the spade—calling on Hank to dig
the grave deep, deep, and cover it close. and not to
whisper to the birds of the air, fox there was a pot
of gold, hidden in the old ruin, and he should have
half—half—half of it. —

“My poor, poor boy!” the shivering mother would
moun; “wedid not realize that he felt his sister’s
Parr so keenly.” ’

“If he only comes out of this withasound mind
we shall we thankful, Mrs. Elmyr,” the doctor
would say.
_ Hehad passed the ordeal and was slowly mend-
ing, without a sign that his brain had been more
than temporarily affected. At last a diy eame when
Gertrude'could admitted. for the first time, to
weep over the shadowy semblatite of her handsome,
haughty lover. The smile on the thin, white face
reassured her: the doctor laughed merrily, telling
her that beef-tea was working wonders, and that
beefsteak and porter would work still greater
miracles. She must begin to look up her wedding-
finery, the old gentleman suid: for his patient would
need a wife, this autumn, if ever—he would reeom-
mend them to marry as speedily as possible and
take a long trip off: somewhere. tosome other scene
or land, where Dudley might be won into forgetful-
ness of what had so neurly destroyed him.

A wedding, while the Eimyr family was in sucha
state of suspense and wretcheiiness, was a strange
thing-to discuss; yet all parties saw that sucha
course was advisable, considering the state of Dud-
léy’s health; and Gertrude actually put by, with
only wfew tears in: private, the fact thatshe was a
Hildebrand, anda Ketcham, and a benuty, and
‘ought to have aspiendid, showy wedding, consent-
ing to quietly marry her lover, early in the autumn,
when they were to take a trip to Europe.

In allthis time no_tidings of Dora—no tidings of
Gilbert Van Eyck. His friends looked incessantly
forsomeword from him through the muil, think-

ing, that at the landing of the Dismal eee © at her '
8

Southern port, he would’ contrive to post a letter to
them, knowing how: anxious they would be. No
such word, however, arrived.

Very early in September Mr. Elmyr returned from
the city,,one day, very much excited. He had gone
down, as he did every few days, in a vain hope that
the detectives might have some information for
him. On this oceasion they hada startling piece of
news; viz. that old Job Whittierand his: son had
returned from theSouth as passengerson asteamer
from Charleston, and with the statement that the
Dismal Swamp and threeof her men had gone to
the bottom in a storm. m

Mr. Elmyr had not, himself, gone to see. the Whit-
tiers, who would hold noecommuniention with him;
but he had commissioned the detectives to caseer-
tain. if possible, the names of the lost sailors, with
a deseription of their ip heme appearance. Itap-
peared only too probible, from his silence and his
non-arrival, that Gilbert was one ‘rf those lost.
And, who could-tell, perhaps their daughter had
been left to such a fate, as the surest and safest
way to get rid of her.

The fears and sorrows of the parents were re-
vived in all their first intensity. They refrained
from telling the Van Bychs the bad tidings, until
some certain information was obtained. Neither
did they dare breathe, bofors Dudley, the agitating
rumor whiel: had roached them.

The following day’ Mr. Elmyr returned to New
York. Thatsame morning Mary Robinson made
her third visit to Monthaven. :

Eagerly Mrs. Elmyr went to meet hor, when she

 

heard who was in the parlor. ‘
“¥ou came to 1 me of the loss of the Dis-

Guilty, or Not Guilty:

# i A. ‘ J . : de - 2 7
é By Mrs. VV Victor, = y h

mal Swamp?” was the mother’s first hurried ques-

lon, '

“Idid. You knew of it, then?” :

“None of the particulars, Mr. Elmyr was in town
yesterday and has gono again to-day. We ure ter-
ribly afraid that young Mr. Van Eyck was one of
the lostcrew. Do you know?” ;

The girl’s eyes wavered and sank. 4

ete tes it is only too true,” she said, in alow
voice,

Mrs. Elmyr gave a faint scream, but recollecting
that Dudley was in the ehamber overhead, and that
he must not hear or suspect what was, transpiring,
she governed her emotions With an almost super-
human effort,
that she must sink and die under her thickening
trials. It was not only that she had loved and re-
spected Gilbert, but that all her hopes of her daugh-
ter had also received a fatal blow.

Mury, looking about her, in alarm lest the lady.

should faint, sawa pitcher of ice-water with a gob-
let on asilver tray, and bronght the glass to Mrs,
Elmyr, who swallowed a little, and then sat wring-
ing her hands and moaning, ile

“Thank God, his mother is dead,” she sighed, at
last. “She is spared such suffering as mine! But
his father!—his friends! Oh, my poor Gilbert, you
died in the brave effort to rescue my child!”

After a time a few tears rolled down her pale face.
Wiping them away she looked mutely at her visitor
to tell her more, _

“Captain Whittier arrived home night before last
with Lyman,” continued Mary, in answer to her ap-
peal. “They erme in the steamer from Charleston.
Thad along talk with Lyman yesterday. And the
very fitst thing I want to say to you, is this—that I

take back what I said of Lyman that first time I

came here, My jealousy made me unreasonabl
suspicious. Ido not think, now, that he bash
anything to, do with the disappearance of your
daughter. ‘Ido not believe that she ever saw or
stepped on bourd of the Dismal Swamp. Ido not
think tnat Lyman would be 60 reckless and foolish,
even if he wereso bad, as to attempt to abduct a
young lady. Tacknowledge that I have made my-
self shamefully ridiculous to think so foraday. I
love Lyman more completely than ever, Mrs. El-
myr, and,” she added, her eyes sparkling and her
bosom heaving with pride and love, “it is all madé
up between us, Weare to be married the week be-
fore Christmas, as was flest planned.”
“Abont the vessel?” asked the poor mother, im-
Le eal “How was she lost?—where?—on what
a ~99

“On the night of the sixteenth of August, ma’am.
The weather had been terribly sultry down there
for several days—not simply hot, but close and op-
pressive. Lyman wanted his father to remain in
port until some change should take place in the
weather, for he foreboded a tempest after sucha
sultry time. But they bad been longer than usual
tuking on their cargo of pine and turpentine, and
the old man was anxious to get home. He’s awful-
ly obstinate, ma’am, Captain Job is.’ Nobody ean
turn him when he’s once set. I forgetthe name of
the port where théy loaded up the sloop. It’s only
a little pier, ma’am, in a sheltered cove, somewhere
on the coast of North Carolina. It;s a lumber
region,not much settled. Anyhow, they put out in-
to the sen, with signs of a storm brooding in the
nir; and bad been out about fourteen hours, when,
inthe middle of the night,a terrible wind, with
lightning and rain, came up, allin a few minutes,
as it were. They couldn’t manage the old sloop in
such atempest. Shewas no better than ‘a tub at

the best. She was pronounced unseayorthy two or

three years ago, so that Captain Whittier could
never get much insurance onher. He had a little,
T believe, but not more’n a couple a thousand dol-
lars, and that in two different companies. Anyway,
she didn’t stand the strain over half an hour before
she began to leak so they knew they should haye'to
take to the boat without loss of time. They only
had one boat; she was big enough and-strong
enough to hold’em all. The captain thought the
would all be saved. They put some biscuits an
bacon, and a keg of water in the boat, and got their
money and papers,and were letting themselves
down into her, when the sloop gave such alurch
that three of the sailors were thrown off their feet
and pitched overboard. At that minutethe vessel
began to settle, and those in the boat had to pull for
their lives to escape being. carried down with her.
“The night was ‘black as tar,’ Captain Job says,
except when a flash of lightning would show them
the froth and big waves for asecond. The Dismal
ewan had gone down out of sight, utterly, and
though there was someof thelumber and other
articles floating about for a while, they did not see
any of themen. They kept hailing and SHAN Oe
and staid as near asthey could tothe spot unti
long after daylight. The sterm didn’t last over
three hours. ; s
_. Whenthe sun rose, there wasn’t eyen a board
in sight, and the water green and wild, tossing and
running ata great rate. They rowed and rowed
abont and around until noon, when they give up
all hopes of the lost men, and tried to make shore,
whioh they did that very afternoon. They landed
‘in a wild, woody region, and had to earry their pro-
visions with ’em as there wasn’t sight of road or

ouse.
“They set ont to travel south, for they knew very
well where they were; and, asthey expected, on
the second day they reached the very place where
they had taken on their lumber. Here they got a
wagon aud span of horses, and traveled two days to
the nearest town, where they got conveyance to
Charleston by rail, and from there took a steamer
to New York. Or

“Cuptain Job says if it wasn’t for the loss of the
men he wouldn’t care an oyster-shell for the old
sloop. She wasn’t worth much more’n she was in-
sured for, and now he’]l be drove into building his
new vessel.” Danae:

“What makes you.certain that young Van Eyck
was one of the lost sailors?”

“Becuuse IT ere as per paaly asT could,
without letting Lymansee what I was driving at.
Ithought if he hadn’t found out for himself that

For a few moments she believed:

expressly to ascertain if the facts were as stated.
Going and coming by steamer, the officer wag not
long in fulfilling the errand upon which he
had been sent, He returned to New York with the
rreport that three sailors from the Dismal Swamp,
reported wrecked, had shipped on an English
merchant-vessel. He even secured the names of
these men, and their ages, as down in the agent’s
books. He found that Captain Whittier had reached
Oharleston, overland, in the manner stated, and
had there reported the foundering of his sloop,
and the loss of a part of his crew. The suspicion,
and the faint .h pes to which that suspicion had
given rise, were dispelled like clouds before the
dawn. The Elmyrs no longer had a shadow of
reason for pursuing the Whittiers with accusations
so criminal, and, apparently, so ill-founded. If
they still fell, or secretly believed, that those people
were concerned in that black deed of treachery
which had lost him their darling, they found no
way of proving their suspicions.
Dudley, constantly fretting about Gilbert, ‘and
watching for his return, had, finally, to be told of
his friend’s fate.
Although’ now nearls
strength, the news had such ‘a prostrating effeet
upon him that, for a few days, his friends feared a

but from sorrow, constantly asking:

‘Why did I let him go? by did Ilethim go?”

Gertrude was obliged to make herself very loving
to oonsole her lover, inclined as he was to a mor-
bid melancholy. His great fondness for her pro-
bably saved him from any worse consequenees
than this. remorseful melancholy. She was to be-
come his wife in one short fortnight; and a young
man could hardly be utterly sad with so beautiful
and affectionate a woman so soon to be his own;
for Gertrude actually became affectionate, treating
Dudley more like a spoiled child than a lover.
, The shadow under which they both dwelt was
irksome to her, and she longed for the time when
they could pass out from under it, alone and to-
gether, into the sunshine of foreign travel,

She longed for her wedding-day, unwitting—as
we ull must be, of the future—of what that day was
oO prove.

ow could sho foresee that the. shadow was to

deepen into midnight blackness?

CHAPTER XII

WAYLAID,

Hank Schultz had given himself a great many
airs during the latter part of the summer, Mr,
Etmyr had had trouble with him more than once,
The humble, industrious man, who had worked
steadily and well for his employer for three years,
was grewing insolentand indolent. In the midst -
of his more serious afflictions that was no light ad-
dition to Mr. Elmyr’s burdens, since he had been
wont to rely upon Hank as upon his right hand,

work as he needed them, and his master had neyer
complained of the extra help. To drive, to take
care of the ladies’ wishes, to keep the horses and
carriages in good order, and to oversee the farm-
hands, bring their accounts to Mr. Elmyr and pay
them off, had been Hank’s duty. Hitherto he had
not only done this cheerfully, but he had. often
labored in the fleld without being asked to do so,
it seeming but play for him to thus exercise his
herculean strength. Asthe season wore on all this.
was changed, He demanded the employment of a.
lad to assist him about the stables, idled away his

wanted, and several times answered Mr. Elmyr
with an impertinence which would have insured
his instant dismissal had not that gentleman been
so absorbed in his son’s illness and his other ea
that he felt indisrosed to notice trifles or to
Hank’s place with a stranger.

As Dudley got better this conduct of Hank’s did

not mend.
“Ishall certainly have to get rid of him!” Mr,
Elmyr gaid one day to his son, as the Jatter was
walking about the stable-yards with him, for the
first time after his illness, looking at his own favor-
ite Bore and renewing his interest in things in
general.

“Why, what’s the matter with Hank? I thought
him inyaluable.”

“So Lonce did. But he does not seem the same
man. Hen eglocts everything, and his insolence is
unbearable.’

“Don’t bear it, then, father—not for a day,” said
Dudley, his pale face fiushing—he was wenk, and
small things irritated him—his haughty disposition
could not brook insolence from an inferior.

Hak, leading out his young master’s horse, over-
heard both sentences, and.as he camo up to Dud-
ley with the animal, he looked the young gentleman
full in the face with a smile, so bold, sly and mali-
cious that the other stared at bim in astonishment.

“Tdid nots’pose you could spare mo so easy,”
remarked the man in a low voice, stooping to kook
at the horse’s foot. :

“TL have always liked yor, Hank, that is true; but
Ishall scarcely continue my good opinion if you

 

Theard

 

the new hand who had shipped _at the last hour was
Miss Dora’s lover in disguise, I wouldn’t say any-
thing about it at present. 1 asked him whether the
men were young or old,and ail that, who were
washed overboard. Hesaid two were old sailors
who had been with his father a good while, and one
was abandsome,slim young chap, an American,
who didn’t seem like acommon sailor, although he
handled the ropes pretty well, and whom he had
suspected of being some gentleman’s son run away
to sea on account of some trouble at home.”

“Alas! it must have been our poor Gilbert.”

“And now, ma’am, I eannot say how sorry Iam
for you, nor how I hope and pray that your daugh-
ter may yet be found, alive and well,’ said Mary,
rising togo. “I promised to come and let you
know ifLever had any news, and I kept my word.

am dreadfully sorry about the young gentleman,

think we were all too hasty in blaming the Whit-
tiers. If Mr, Van Eyck had not heen so quick in
suspecting the guiltless, he wouldn’t have met
such afate. You don’t know how happy I feel to
think Lyman has explained everything to my sat-.
isfaction. He laughs at my having thought he
would do anything so bold and. ruinous as to ab-
duet a young lady, He culls me ‘a little fool,’ but I
don’t mind that, for he excuses me, and seems to
think so.much of me.” at :

Human nature is selfish. Each individual is the
Riset about: which the universe turns. Mary Rob-

nson, elute xt her own dispelled jealousy, happy
inthe return of her lover, truly sorry as she felt
for the pale, hollow-eyed mother before her, could
pot conceal her own bright spirits and renewed
hopes. : a oaae

‘Mrs. Elmyr felt. really relieved when the girl had
taken herself away. The triumph which her vis-
itor could not repress jarred upon her sensibilities
most cruelly.

She must hide the fresh, unbearabls ache from
Dudley, who, although now able to come down to
table, to sit at midday on the sunny portico, and
to take short drives, was still unfitted forthe shock
of hearing of his friend’s, his almost brother’s death,
and the thick, unbroken darkness which had now
settled about his sister’s fate.

To Mr. Elmyr was alloted the sad dnty of reveal-
ing tothe Van Eycks their relationship in a com-
mon sorrow-—that their young, bright, beloved boy

had fallen a victim to his rash effcrts to discover

the whereabonts of Dora. :

A new sorrow overshadowed the whole neighbor-
hood. Friends joined with the Elmyrsito keep the
sad tidings from coming, just yet, to Dudley, who
was rapidly regaining his strength, and who ex-
pected to marry Miss Ketcham some time in Oct-
tober,and go away from the memories which
oppressed him, on along bridal tour. |

Ho had opposed this wish of friends ‘quite
violently at first; had said that it was no time fer
him to be journeying about, amusing himself,
when his parents were bearing such a load of sor-
ron: but he had. yielded to the persuasions of his
mother.

Mary Robinson’s story of the shipwreck of the
Dismal Swamp—the same as told by father and son,
and sworn to, by them and the mate, to the insur-
ance-offigers—grew to be less fully believed in some
minds than it was at first. iB

There Was onesuspicions circumstance which did
not fail to arrest the attention of the detectives em-
ployed by Mr. Elmyr. This was the fact. that nene
of the crew who had sailed the sloop were to ba
found. When questioned about this, old Job had
at once asserted that, on their reaching Charleston,
the men had found alarge merechant-vessel about
to sail on a two years’ voyage, first to England,
where she was owned, and from thence to the Bast
Indies. The ship bad brought manufactured goods
to Charleston.and taken back raw cotton. On ac-
eount of sickness among her crew sho was in need
of new hands: and the shipwreeked sailors, know-
ing that Captain Whittier eonld not omploy them
again until he obtained command of a new craft,
had willingly aceepted the proposition of the Eng-
lish captain to ship on his vessel.
‘name of the ship, and alltho particulars, without
the slightest hesitatlon orembarrassment. How-
ever, the matter was thonght of sufficieut conse-

 

He gave the! off

cease to merit it.”

‘Hem!’ was the reply—nota word to mean much,
but the tone was exasperating and defiant.

oweyer, nothing more was said or done at. the

time. The man’s demeanor did not improve as the
weeks went by; he even _grewto be overbearing to
poor, gentle, suffering Mrs. Elmyr.

“T feel almost afraid of that man .’ she remarked
one day to her husband. 45053

“You are nervous,” he answered, “Yet, I confess
I do not understand him. I never sawa person
so much changed for the worse. They say he has
bought quite a farm down at the foot of the lake, I
had no idea he had enough money Jaid up to make
such a purchase. Indeed, he told me yesterday
that he would set up for himself next spring, and
that I must find some ono to take his place.”
“He, knew you intended dismissing him, per- —

haps.’

Bat he has bought tho land and paid for it; and
ry Smith, the carpenter, talking with him
about a house which Hank intends to have put up
in the spring.”

“It is strange,” mused Mrs. Elmyr, to whose Pree:
occupied mind every occurrence, no matter how
far-fetched or disconnected, seemed to bear on her
daughter’s disappearance. “Oh, my husband, has
it ever been suggested to you—hayve you ever
thought that he may have been paid money for
helping ot . :

“My dear wife, do not say it,’ hastily implored
Mr. Elmyr; such a thing is very improbable; there
is no evidence--we must he cautious how we impli-
eate innocent vee Hank is as prudent and
saving as were his Germanancestors. Iehas been
laying u eerpenees all his life. I am not surprised
that he should have money. As to his behavior, I
suppose he has got tired of the place; some men
must always be changing. I have resolyed that I
wiil not keep him until spring. As soon as the
wedding is over, and Ihave time to look about for
another person, I shall dischargo him. ;

Mrs. Elmyr said no more of the formless suspi-
picion which. was, haunting her; but_ shoe looked
upon the man with such feelings of distrust and
aversion that she never could repress an inward
shudder when he came into her presence.

It wanted but.a few days to the wedding. Dudley
lrad been down to the city to select a bridal gift for
Gertrude. Hoe wanted his mother to give him the
costly necklace which had been so strangely recoy-
ered from the water the day after Dora’s disappear-
ance, that he might have the stones set in modern
style;, but. the mother still clung to tho belief
that her daughter wonld sometime come. back to
claim her own, and give him, instead, a thousand
dollars out of her own little private savings, and

de him purchase a locket and chain of pearls for
Gertrude, To make this purchase Dudley had
gone to thecity, and returned with the pearls in
his possession. : 3

Hank met him at the station with the light, sin-
gle bugey Which he commonly used on such occa-
sions. He lookedsullen ard morose; but Dudley
was dreaming of his bride, and paid small atten-
tien to his man’s demeérnor, who, as they droye
along, cat at the horse viciously with his whip;
and then, when. the high-spirited animal reared
and sprang away, checked him up tg a dead stop.

“What's the matter? Why did you strike him?
You know he won’t bear the whip!” exclaimed
Dudley, his. attention at length aroused.

“Yet he has to bear it, and to pull up when I say
80,” answered the man, turning his largo, sullen
face full on his young master. “You seo I’ve got
the reins in my hand, and I’ve got the strength to
use ’em. I’m the master of your horse—but not
more’n I’m your master, Mr. Dudley Elmyr, and I

ust want to say Ithink you’ve been champing the
bit uite too freely since you got well,”

“What do you mean?” was the inquiry, too full of
surprise to be as angry as it might otherwise have

sen.

“Oh, Is’pose I don’t mean nothin’. Your mem’ry
isshort; but_mine islong,and I don’t like your
airs lately., When a gentleman makes a prom
toa poor fellow whom he gets into ascrape with
him, he is expected to keep it.”

“What promise have I made you, Hank? Ido not
understand what you are talking about, much less
the demeanor you put on.” & han :

“That’s all very high and mighty, sir, but it don’t
go down with me. You may bé, avery fino gentk-
man; but if you break tho Jaw, Freckon you'll be
taken upas quick as a poorer man: Now, I don’t
eare to peach on you. I’m as willing to keep mum
es you are. But you must keep your word about
tho money.”

“What money?”

“The thousand doHars. you promised me the
night we went fishing, before you was took sick.
You’re going to marry and clear out—to tho other
side of tthesea—and I don’t know as I shall ever
see your face again, It’s my opinion you'll have
an excuse for staying abroad. Now,I ain’t unrea-
sonahle, but I must havo my money before you're
. Mr. Dudley. ‘A bird in tho hand is werth two
in the bush.” Gretchen has promised to marry me

 

‘and I want that €
quence, that a detective should bo sent to Charleston | ding-day.”

next April; Pvo contracted to have a house buil
housand dollars bofore your wed-

.

   
 

restored to his ordinary

relapse. He seemed to sniffer not only from grie?,

leaving to him the whole responsibility of the out- _
door work. Hank had kired men to do the rough |

own fime, was frequently not about the piace when. .

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ee

Fhe faces of the muster and the man were each
studies at that moment. Hank’s was cool and yet
eager, exultant, wearing a threatening smile, as he
bent forward and peered up with a firm gaze into
the eyes of his companien bent upon him witha
puzzled, cold, half-angry, half-startled air, which it
would have taken a most cousum mute actor to
copnterfeit.. eee ah a

“T haye no recollection oLaromising
sand dollars. I do not. know why
eannot believe that I did.”

“Phat’s d d cool, anyhow.”

“Get ont of this buggy,or Pll kick you out!”
eried Dudley, in a sudden passion, with the grin-
ning face brought too close to his own. ‘“We haye
put up with your insolence toolong. Get out, I
say; and when Lreach home I will report you to
my father.”

For an instant Hank appeared actually _bewil-
dered. Instead ef lerving the carriage as he was
ordered, he serateched his head and stnred at the
furious young gentleman; then he brought his
heavy hand down on the other’s knee, and said,

owly:

“Look here, Mr. Dudley, it’s gettin’ through my
brain that you must have lost your TO ONy during
that brain-fever. “You must have. lost it. I say, or
you wouldn’t dave order me out o’ this yehicle—not
you! Hither that, or else you think to lie me down,
and that your word will stand better than mine in
a court of law because you're ag nan. Do you
pretend you don’t recollect owing me a thousand
dollars, and for what service you promised it?”

“T recollect nothing of the kind; and itis my be-
lief that you are trying to take advantage of that
ilness to levy black-mailon me.” —

The two looked each other steadily in the eyes.
Hank’s expression gradually changed from that of
eunning triumph toa vacant stare of astonishment.
To him it became evident vither that Dudley Elmyr

llost his memory of certain affairs during his

 

you athou-
should, and

 

- delirium, or else that he was the coolest, most dar-

ing scoundrel om earth. Which was it? He had
reason sufficient for believing his young master as
hard-hearted a villain as ever walked unhung—it
was not that be doubted his badness, it was that he
deubted the cournge of any man thus to face him
down under such circumstances, for he deemed
that he had young Elinyr fully in his power. He
had indulged his gloating covetousness all sum-
mer, with the sweet belief that he had but to ask, to
threaten, in order to force not only one, but two,
three, five thousand doilars out of the man who had
made him aeonfidant in’ a matter of such import-
ance.

He now swallowed his disappointment: and his
rage with an effort. His dull mind burned for re-
venge; but he loved gold too well to risk the loss of
all he liad hoped for by taking his revenge too sud-
denly. If Mr. Dudley’s memory truly had failed
him, he had means to revive it, and to bring proof
of the truth of what he asserted. If Mr. Dudley was
simply playing*’sharp” in order to save the bribes

e had offered, why, he had little doubt_he could
threaten him info keeping his word. If not, it
would then be time to have his revenge. Any day
before the young gentleman got off to Europe
would be time enough for that.

“Mr. Elmyr, there’s a misunderstanding, that’s
piseas removing his great hand from the other’s

nee, and giving the horse the signal to move on,
“Supposing we say no more aboutit just now, but
to-morrow, or whenever you have time, talk it over.
I don’t want to be unreasonable, but: I do want my
money, and must have it.” 7

“T may have forgotten something; I find that
I have forgotten many things connected with
the time just before I came down_ with. fever,”
answered Dudley, less angrily than he had before
spoken; “yet why [should have promised you any
such sum, Leannot comprehend.” .

“Tthink I can rub up your recollection of the
matter, sir,” said Hank. “Supposing you come out
to the stables to-morrow, about noon, and we’ll talk
it over, and see if we can come to an understand-
ing.

“Very well.” >

As they were now approaching the house no more?

was said.
Whatever may have been in Dudley’s mind either
of guilt or of wonder, he put it aside the more easily

that he was so pleasantly absorbed in thoughts of ent

his evening visit to Gertrude, and the handsome
gift he had selected for her, ; ;

Soon after tea he walked over to Mr. Ketcham’s,
where he spent a happy evening in the company of

shortly after his daughter’s disappearance, for any
certain information concerning her...The amount
offered was five thousand dollars. The cold blue
eyes of the reader sparkled as they seldom did.

... What. a fool ve been all summer,” he said,
‘waiting onMr. Dudley’s motions. I never took no-
tice of the reward. It wiilgo agin tle grainfor Mr.
Eimyr_ to pay thatto me, bunt he'll kaye to do it. The
law will give it to me. Oh, ho, Mr. Dudley, I shall
have my money and my revenge both. ‘his is an
unlucky day for you, if you only knewit. Dis-
charge me, hal”

He folded the piece of newspaper, earefully plac-
tng itin his side coat-pocket, finished packing his
trunk, and looked about the room. ‘

“My traps are ready fora moye,] delieve. Dis-
charge me! hal. Won’t you wish you hadn’t ?”

The devilin the tellow’s eye.

se

mutter this to himself, promised trouble tu his late
employers.

c (TO BE GONTINUED,)
: et P \
P etty Schemer;
lL, QBerof ;

HUSBAND WELL WON.

By MRS. HELEN CORWIN PIERCE
Author of “THE UN WELCOME GUBST,” “THE
GURSE OF EV ERLEIGH,” ete.

[‘‘The Pretty Schemer” was eommenced in No. 44. Back num-
bers cau be optained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXXVIII.—OontrxvED,

 

 

on her heart. :

“IT must go in,” she said, nervously. ‘Idare not
stay out here any longer.” ; ;

“What are you afraid of?” he asked, suspiciously,
“that Lord Shirley will see you?” +

“No. Not that, of course. But what would any
one think to see me out here with you, and poor
mamma Iving there so?”

“But do you love me, Rose?”

“You know L do,” ,

“Sometimes [think you do. Sometimes I doubt
it. God knows [thought it when I eame here to-
night,” he said, passionately, “‘or I should never
have come. [thought you would be half erazed with
joy to hear that I was all right with my uncle again.

was.

“T anvgiad, Phil,” she answered, trying to speak
warmly. He frightened her when he got excited
this way.

*“And you love me?”

**Yes, oli, yes.” r

“But you don’t say it as if you meant it.”

rene sighed. ;

“On, dear. How shall I say it? [am almost sick,
Phil, I have been with poor mamma almost con-
stantly for the last two weeks.”

“My darling! AmTIhard on you? Tell me once
more that you love me.”

“T love you, Phil,” she said, meekly.

“Better than you do Lord Shirley?”

“T hate him.”

That was true at any rate. Wei ©)

Phil Shafton ,aimost crushed her in his arms for
saying it.

“When will you marry me, Rose?” he asked

 

ext.
On, if she had only dared tell the truth again and
say “Never!” z

But she did ‘not. : :

“Not very soon,” she said, and seeing his coun-
tenance change, added, “you know it could not be
soon now.”

“Why not?” :

“It would not be proper.” :

“Oh, hang propriety,” he said, irritably. “How
long must we wait?”

“It would never answer under a year, at any
ate.

“A year!’ he exclaimed, almost flercely. “You
might as well say never. Do you think after all I
hiave suffered on your aceount, that I will endure a

 

his betrothed. Gertrude was delighted with the
pearl necklace, and its pendant locket set with
pearls and small diamonds. She allowed the giver
to clasp it about her dazzling-white, slender throat,
and to kiss the rosy lips thus brought temptingly
near to his own. k L

She was very gay—for her—showing him dozens
of pretty and costly things which her friends had
presented her, and oxgecng him to be in raptures
with the news. that the wedding-dress was safely
completed and sent home, _ ’

In a more joyous mood than he had been since
the great calamity befell his house, Dudley parted
from his betrothed a little before eleven olock,

whole year more of such suspense and uncer-
tainty?” :

“Never mind. We won’t decide it now,” Rosa-
mond said, temporizingly. “Lam going away from
here to-morrow.” :

“T am glad of that. Have you broken off with
Lord Shirley, Rose?” : RSS

“Not yet,” she answered, looking away from him.

“But you will.”

She drew a long breath.

“When”? :

“As soon as I can manage it, Phil. Such things

ean’tbe donein ahurry.
tive, and his eyes lightened

“Yes, I suppose'so.”

 

and started to walk home. The night was frosty
and clear, no moon, but superbly starlit, sothat he
keeping the path, while the
the trees and clumps of brakes by the
wayside checkered it with black masses of gloom
here and there, ; dseY S 3

neonseious of a hideous danger lying in wait
for him he stepped quickly along, humming, under
ins uth, some. bars of a love-song which Ger-
trade had been singing for him. Just before reach-
ing fhe gate which opened into the private grounds
of the Eimyr place, he had to pass a dark piace in
the road where'the trees grew high, almost locking
their branches in an are’ above the way, while the:
fence on either side, overran with clematis and
Virginia ereepers, shut out still more completely
the faint, silvery radiance. of the night. Still hum-
ming to himself, his heart warm with the thrill of
Gertrude’s parting kiss, he entered the interval of
shadow. Snddenly the song ceased, there was a
dull thud, the sound of a falling Doug followed by
the light echo of rapid steps flying along the road,
élose in the shadow of the fence.

A tremendous blow from aclub orslung-shot had
fallen upon Dudley Elmyr, as he was about.emerg-
ing from the trees, und stricken him to the earth.
His assassin, lingering a moment to make sure
that he neither moved norstirred, then ran from the
spot, leaving his victim prone on the frosty grass.

He lay as quiet as if dead. : ; ,

A silent hour rolled on, All who loyed him were

eacefully sleeping unwitting of the danger which
Gad befallen the young Man. |

His mother stirred und moaned in her.dréams,
but it was with uneasy visions of her lost daughter
—potofherson, ~~ . s

udley was not killed outright. The chilly air
finally aroused him to a vagne sense of discomfort.
After a time he sat up on the damp ground, groan-
ing with asudden, sharp pain in his head and neck,
bewildered, unable, to place himself or his sur-
roundings.

It.was some minutes before the truth forced itself
upon him. Then he remembered that he had been
walking along’ the road, and that something had
stunned him. He put up his hand to the back of
his head. ‘There was a great swelling there, his
neck wus stiff, and his collar wet with some sticky
liquid which he knew must be his blood. He had
to remain quiet, and tostrive after his benumbed
senses for some minutes more. ,

“This is Hank’s work,” he then said to himself.

After several efforts he staggered to his feet, and
stumbling, dizzy, more or less confused, managed
to reach home, and to arouse the household. Their
consternation was none the less from the previous
alarms they had suffered. Mrs. Elmyr wanted to
dispatch a messenger for the doctor, immediately,
but the father, after a careful examination of the
wound, pronounced it not very serious, and said
that a wet bandage would be all that was required
until morning. Soon after daylight the physician

came. ;

“hey are bound to ruin your brain, one way or
mack or a remarked, “Have you any idea who

1s done this, my boy ?’

“T believe it was our man, Shultz; but Ihave no
proof of it. He was very impertinent during the
afternoon, and made some threats,”

“The, blow was well aimed. I suppose, in the
darkness, the assassin did not correctly measure
If you had received the full force of
the blow you would have been instantly killed.
Thank your lucky stars, you are not much hurt,
The wedding will not be delayed an hour on ac-
count of this little accident. Bat you must be on
your guard, my boy, are have an enemy like
this, or Miss Ketcham will be a widow before she is

a wife.

The old doctor, laughing at his own bull, was yet
uneasy. This second attack on. the family of his
reson Elmyr was a mystery which he did not
relish. uy

The family was greatly excited. No one under-
stood this midnight work of the assassin any more
clearly thun Dora’s strange disappearance. The
tivo events seemed to be connected; and yet, a
might not be in the-least. One thing was decid
upon. k Schultz must go, that very day. He
ened his young master. ;

After brea tas Mr. Elmyr sent for him, paid him
what was due of his wages,and discharged him.

Hank grinned maliciously as he took the money,
touched his hat, and walked away without a word
of expostulation.

“ZT s’pose they believe J attacked Mr. Dudley,” he
said to himself,as he went into his room over tho
earringe-house, to pack np sueh property of his
own as he liad there. “More like it was some com-
montramp, who happened to be on the road, and
saw his opportunity to get somebody else’s pocket-
book. Lain’t heerd if he was robbed, Zdon’t want
Mr. Dudley’s hife—Lord, no! Hell serve me better
alive than dead. Lordy! wot a rod I’ve got in pickle
for him! I sha’n’t offer him terms agin,”

Picking up a pieces of old newspaper which had
been wrapped about some article ef clothing, his

Phil Shafton bit his
did not see it.

savagely, | ;

“T must go in now,” she said.
more than an hour” — eer
Shafton dtew her into his arms again, a strong,
stern, iron clasp.’ . ;
“When cant you again?”

“Lam going to my brother’s house from here. -I

will write you.” ;
avin you? Trulynow?” |
, u

co = ‘ @ y < - .
He felt the insincerity of her words. They hurt
him like a knife. But he would not acknowledge
it. .His very life seemed to hang on her truth, ;
“Put your arms round my neck and kiss me,
Rose,” he said, at last.” God knows I need to be-
lieve in your love. I feel more like a devil than a
man when I doubt it.”

“Whatever happens, I must.go in,” thought Ros-
amond, and suddenly putting herarms round his
neck, kissed him. ;

She was false to him—she meant to be. She
was deceiving him frightfully; and all the time she
loved him as much as it was possible for her to love
anything, and she could not help thinking, as she
kissed his handsome face; that it might be for the
lust time—it must be. r :
Then, with one arm round his neck, and one
hand aguinst his cheek, she sald:

“f do love you, Phil. [am as bad as I can be, but
I love you.” : L . d

With which strange speech, she kissed him again,
an¢ slipping from bis arms, ran toward the house,

Pl il aon took two steps in pursuit, and
stopped. ? as
Some ohe—a& Woman—was coming slowly along
the walk at the foot of the terrace.

He drew back, watebing her, and wondering if
she had seen Lady Rosamond,
It was Barbara.

“T have been here

ditt

She was in the habit of coming
out at this hour, and pacing this walk for awhile,
because it was retired somewhat, and screened from
the house,

She had seen Lady Rosamond. She had seen
Philip Shafton. She had come in full view of the
pir just as they were separating, and she was near
enough to note the tenderness‘ol that parting em-

race, An?

Involuntarity she had stopped for an instant,
staggered by the shock of seeing Lady Rosamond
in the arms of a stranger; then she had walked on,
an angry, half-happy thrill at her heait. She was
angry at her falseness; she could not help a swift,
darting joy, which seemed to whisper, “She can
never expect to marry Lord Shirley after this.”

Swiftly as Lady Rosamond had darted by, she had
seen Barbara, and recognized her.

“That womin ugain ?” she muttered, but had the
self-possession not to pause, dashing on, with the
hope that Barbara bad not known her, or had not
seen Phil. As she was entering the house, she met
Lord Shirley.

 

OHAPTER XXXIX.
IN TWO WEEKS,

she earl looked surprised at seeing Lady Rosa-
mond,

“Have you been out ?” he asked.

“Only for a walk in the grounds,” she answered,
biting ber lips. She was sorry he had seen her, “*
that woman tells him thatshe saw me out there
ao at now, it will not be so easy to deny it,” she
thought."

“IT have been inquiring for you,” the earl said,
“Tsentto your room. Will you come into the mu-
sic-room for u few moments ? Your brothers are in
the library.”

Lady Rosamond bent her small head coldly and
followed him. ‘

What eould he want? Had the detective told him
what Garth said, or was he going to make unother
appeal to her to release him from his enguge-

ment.?

"Whatever it is,” she thought, “I will be as hard
as adnmitnt, will not yield. Oh, I can do any-
thing after using Philso. Poor Phil!”

‘The earl placed her a chair, but remained stand-
ing himself.

understand that everything which belonged to your
deceased mother is yours now?” |
“Yes.” Rosamond answered, wonderingly.
"Those topazes ? ‘"
“Yeas ”

“Then I am sure-——” he began eagerly, and
pansed, “Ludy Rosamond, if you do not proseeute
her, if you refuse toappenr against that old woman
at her nppronching trial she will be released.”

Rosamond’s hindsome face hardened, |

“Do you think that would be quite right, Lord
Shirley? Would it not look disrespectful to poor
mamma ?”

The earl colored, ther grew pale agnin. |

* You dou’t believe the womnn took the jewels ?”

“LT don’t know,iam sure, Of eourse if she is in-
nocent it ean be proved,”

“It cannot be proved,” said -the earl, sternly;

 

 

eye chanced to fall upon @ paragraph among the
advertisements which had hitherto escaped his no-

¢

.

 

tice. It was the-reward offered by Mr. Elmyr,

as he continued to}

Lady: Rosamond felt as. if an icy hand was laid |,

“Twill not detain you long,” he said, stiffly. a

ae

‘Rosamond glanced at him. Perhaps she would
next releuted had he not emphasized that one
word, .

Then she was sore yet from the parting with

hil. :
‘ah. but I don’t know it,” she answered. coolly;
Ney oo reign! if she is guilty she ought to suifer
or : P
“Phen you refuse even to oblige me?” the earl
said, bitterly. “I confess I did not expect it.”
“Expect what?” she asked, with hauteur.
“That you would do it, even to oblige me.”
Mis would do much more to oblige you, my lord,

“Tf what, Lady Rosamond?” ~

“If I-did not believe that you were studying all
the time to find some pretense for evading your eh-
gegement to me.”

Lord Shirley’s face turned crimson. He was con-
scious of sv longing to be free, that for the moment
he ‘almost felt guilty of her charge; then he said:

“Not evade, Lady Rosamond. eon were gener-
ous enough to release me, I should know how to be
grateful.’

Grateful indeed! :

Rosamond thought of Phil Shafton again, and
how he lovedher. Would it not be better to be true
to her old lover, than to insist on marrying this
unwilling lord? But then, what a position ’to re-
sign, what grandness, what wealth | And to be
mocked by Sir Givens. ler detested 'brother-in-
law. To be'pitied by her sister, Lady Lucy, ‘T'o
have to hear her brother say, “Itold youso, Rose.”
To resign all her dreams of magnificence. Besides,
how could she ever keep those extravagant prom-
ises she had mnude to Garth, unless she married the
earl? Even Phil would turn from her, if Garth
told allshe knew about her.

It was impossible. She could not go, back if she
would. Circumstances had always been aguinst
her. They were more against her now than ever.
There was nothing for it, but togo forward.

“Teannot release you,” she said, without looking
vat yee Shirley. “I cannot doit in justice to my-

e

“{ understand that,” the earl said. “I had no in-
tention of asking it now. But I do ask you, pre-
sumption though it be, to promise me you will not
push matters with that old woman who never
harmed you.”

“IT am very sorry, but I cannot oblige you, my
lord,” Rosamond answered.

It was the only way she knewto hurt him, and
she saw this did. She exulted as she saw how white
his face grew. :

The earl was thrilting from head to foot with
anger. Heaveus! And he had bound himself to
marry this woman! It was as much as he could do
to keep himself from forgetting that she was a wo-
man in his rage. ;

But even then, he never thought of breaking his
word to her, and she knew it. :

Suddenly she rose from her chair and went tow-
ard him - : a

“My lord, on one condition Iwill do what you
ask,” she said.

“Name it.”

“That we shall be married
from this time.” ‘

The ‘shock of the proposition’ absolutely de-
stroyed his anger. Every other emotion was swal-
lowed, obliterated, as it were by this,

“You cannot mean it?” he said, ut last.

€ >

“But why?”

“Does that matter? I know, your word is sacred.
I do not doubt you in the least. Perhaps it is only
my whim. Perhaps I have a horror of «long en-
gugement. What does it matter to you when weare
murried?” -—, ;

What, indeed, since it wastobe? Since it must
be done, why not associate with the bitter pain of
the deed the thought that insomesort he had
parva his lost love. That thought decided him
almost.

“Lady.Rosamond,” he said,“before we go any
Spe ry Will you answer me one or two ques-

ions?” ;

Rosamond thrilled guiltily, but she replied,coolly
enough:

“With pleasure.” — .
“Were you not engaged to be married once to Mr.
Philip Shafton?”

A curious whiteness swept the little dark face;
ut she answered, without hesitation:

“IT was, eonditionally. My friends and his both

objected, and of course that ended everything.”

# “The engagement has been broken off some time;
1en?”

“It was senrcely a serious enough business to be

called an engagement. Butsuch as it was, it has

been broken off a long time.” !

Ah, if Philip Shafton had heard her! It blanched

even her cheek to lieso about him, even without

his knowledge. _ :

“Thanks,” said the earl. “One question more.

Do you know who put those topazes where they

were found?” ,

“The detective has told him his suspicions of me,”

privately in two weeks

thought Lady Rosamond; “but two Wes cost no
more than one. I do notAmy hed? slie said, boldly;
“eertainly net. How could I know?” ° ;

‘“Youdid not put them there?” ;

“1? How dare you ask'me such a question?”

“IT mean no offense,” said the eet vat
you did not do it you have only to say so. J have
my reasons for suspecting that pou did, but Ido
hot acense you? =~ ;

a did not, my lord. I will swear it to you if you |
wish. , ; , ;
“Your word is sufficient,”he answered, with the
simple faith of a gentleman who, knowing a lie to
be impossible to himself, found it hard to suspect
another of deliberate falsehood. “I consent to your
eondition, then,” he said. “And you?”

ny be guided entirely by you in-regard to old
Varrn,” Rosamond hastened to say, searcely able to
aire her success in so during and audacious a
scheme. ; :
The earl was very pale. He looked like a man
who, after having had ‘hope of a reprieve, had re-
ceived the warrant for his execution at last.
“Weneed not prolong this interview,” he said.
“We nnderstand each other. All details can be ar-

ranged by letter.” - : +.

He opened the door, and held it while Lady Rosa-
mond passed through, bowing her as gentle and

the kindest feelings.

As Lady Rosamond went slowly toward her cham-
ber, the exultation which had been her first feeling
was succeeded by astrunge overpowering depres-
sion. She was seized suddenly with such a horror
of this marriage which had been the length of her
ambition heretofore, that she stopped still in. the
corridor, almost tempted to go back and tell Lord
Shirley he was free,

“Poor Phil.” she thought, “the loves me so. And
Llove him. How canI marry any one else?”

That moment she heard the sound of hurrying
fet nulong the passage, and saw her brother, Lord
ryfine.

His Jenn and sallow face was, black as a thunder-
cloud. His small eyes so like his mother’s sparkled
angrily. ;

as wat tospeak with you, Rosamond,” he said,
eurtly. “Comeinto my room.”

He threw open a dvor, and, after a moment's hes-
itation, she went in with him.

“What is thisabout you and Shafton ?” he de-
manded, fiercely. ase ;

Lady Rosamond turned pale,

“T don’t know what you menn,” she stammered.
“My affairs do notconcern you ut any rate.”

“They do concern me, Iam the head of the fam-
ily, and I will not permit you to disgrace it.”

“You have econeerned yourself very littla about,
me hitherto. I at have been clothe t in rags
und begged for my living for all you. 8o you will
he pleased to continue to mind your own business,
Tom Prynne.” 4

She turned to leave the room.

He stepped quickly between her and the door.

*‘T have just. been over to the village,” he said.
“Coming back I met Phil Shafton at the vark gates.
IT knew by his looks that be hind been here to see
you, und I told him to his face he was u fool tor his
ins; thub you were going to marry Lord B8hir-

ey.
: CHAPTER XL.
“I WISH I WERE DEAD,” SHE SAID,

Lady Rosamond’s black eyes flamed suddenly.

“You did? You told him that?” she eried, and
stopped speechless with passion. d

“Yes; and he.luughed in my face.”

“And then ?” questioned Rosumond.

“And then,” repeated her brother, growing more
angry every moment. “I told him that he ought to
know you better than to believe you would marry
a poor devil like him. when you had such aehunee
as Lord Shirley. He intimated that perhaps I didn't
know you a8 well as he did, and raved about your
love and truth. He sass his unele has taken him
on again as his heir, and hus promised to give him
athousand a yearto marry on. Rose, you _ean’t be
so,great a fool ns_to mean to throw ord Shirley
over, and marry Phil ?”

Lady Rosamnnd’s_ perfect. little mouth closed
tightly a moment. Bhe had felt uncommonty ner-
vous and irritable before. and her brother's dictat-
ing tone and questions, and above all, his daring to
meddle witholees affairs 80 tarone to tulk to Phil
Shalton, stirred her wrath to white heat.

“} won't tell you what I menn todo,” she said,
hotly. “Itis noene of your business.”

“You won't, eh?” returned Lord Prynne, with a
snarl like a vicions terrier, “If you don’t, Vil zo
to Lord Shirley and tell him all about Phil Shaften
and you, and what sort of agame you are trying to

slay.” j
, “Rather difflenit that,’ said Rosamond. “when
you don’t know my game, as you call it, yourself.”
But she spoke a good deal more quietly than be-
fore. Lady Rosamond’s pReMpri wis naturally as
bad as her brother’s. But he had never had to
eurbhis. He never did at home, and seldom abnoad.
The necessity of keeping a eivil tongue in her head
if she wanted to keep a roof over it, had holped her

 

 

“and I am surprised that you shorid hesitate,
espegially as you must she is innocent,”

to self-control when it was absolutely necessary.

courteous a good-night as though they parted with [

cn

Bhe saw the necessity now. She knew her broth-
er’s reckless temper too well to defy it in his present
mood. Soshe moderated her own tone.

“T know it well enough,” he said, ‘to spoil it at
‘any rate. A word from ime, and I believe, by —,
they wouldn’t either of them haye you.”

“For shame, Tom. If you have no regard for me,
een what you came here for, and don’t swear
just now.

he allusion smote him a little.

“Suppose you remember some things yourself,”
he said, sulkily.. A pretty way you remember, to be
fooling with two men, at atime like this,” ;

She stood looking at him a moment. ‘She felt
obliged to temporize with him. Butshe hated him
for it, worse than she did the man she was going to
es Patan Ween in tel! if

om,” she said, ell you a secret, ou
think you ean keep it.” a

“You can do as you like about trying me,” he an-
swered.

“I will try you. ‘Of course, under present cireum-
stances, it would not be at all the thing for Lord
Bhirley and myself tobe married now, or any time
soon—that is, if it was known—but we both dislike
to put it off so long, and accordingly he is to éome
to me, wherever I muy bein two weeks from this,
and we are to be privates married then. The pub-
lic ceremony will take place later at a proper time,

Tom Prynne’s smiull eyes dilated.

“Is that.so?” he asked.

“It is. I had just left Lord Shirley when I met

“But what is your notion of a private marriage?”

Bosamond shrugged her smitll shoulders.

“Itisa whim of his. Heis afraid I may fall in
love with some one else. He doesn't suspect how
much more attractive his position and wealth are
to agirl like me, thin love could ever be.”

Something in her tone made her brother look at
her more sharply than he had done.

For the first time he fancied that she was looking
anxious and worn, and as if life was not altogether
the promising vista to her eyes that it seémed to

is.

“Rose,” he said, in a low voie¢e, “I believe you love
Phil Shafton yet?”

Rosamond winced. —. :

“Don’t imagine anything so foolish. You don’t
suppose lam so mercenary as to marry one man
while I love another?”

“You did have a talk with Shafton to-night?”

“IT happened to be outside, and spoke with hima
moment. I did not want him coming to the house
to ask for me.” :

“No, of course. Did you tell him you were going
to marry Lord Shirley?”

“No,” she answered, indifferently.

_.“You ought to. If you have let him go with the
idea that you mean to marry him yet, you are play-
ing with avery dangerous kind of fire I ean tell
you. He will play the devil when he finds you’ve
lied to him—if_yon have.”

“I know it. But Ishall he Lord Shirley’s wife be-
fore that.”

As she said this she approached the door again,
and he drew back this time and let her go.

How little we any of us can read the future.

“Before that, I shal! be Lord Shirley’s wife,” Lady
Rosamond had said. But how little she knew. How
little she guessed what was going to happen before
even the dawn of another day.

As she left her brother and entered the corridor,
the same unaccountable depression that had been
on her when ho came up, seized her again. She
shivered as with a deadly chill, as she hurried
along tlie passage to her own room. &

She sighed heavily as she entered and shut the
door, and walking into her dressing-room,. stood
looking in the giass at herself.

She was very pale now, her eyes had a haggard
look. -She was searcely' handsome at this moment.

“What a face.” she muttered, “for any man to
play the devil about.”

And then she dropped down upon the floor, and
buried her face in her hands. as
ee I were dead,” she said, “I ought to be

ead.”
Then she heard Garth come into the next room,
and got up quickly, pretending to be lookingina
drawer, and keeping her face carefully averted from
the waiting woman, while she said: ‘
— “Tshall not need you to-night, Garth, you must
be tired. You may retire as soon as you like,
ood-night.” ;
Fhe woman went away a good deal astonished.
‘Tam she had been crying,” she said to her-
self; “her yoice sounded like it.. I wonder what is
up? It can’t be she’s fretting about her mother.”

Tet Shirley left alone, sank miserably into a
chnir, and gazed dejectedly about him.

Like ‘Lady Rosamond, he would have wished
pyeselt dead. Almost in her words, he said to

mself: f a: ote

“T ought to have died before I asked a woman to
marry me whom I knew I did not love.” ~ ‘
After a time he rose, and began to pace the floor.
“T have an excuse for a -Barbara now,” he

thut he had some important and new information
to communicate concerning Varra’s case, and that
he wished to tell it to her personally.
eck wus not gone long@- :
arbarn requested him to’put his communication
in writing. rxy% pa PSs ivr tx
The eyes ofthe unhappy-man darkened... .. ~
i “Mrs. Beck,” he said, “‘tell her that if I never
speak to her again Iwill not write what I have to
tell now: and if she does not come and hear me this
time, I will never'ask’ her again to listen to me.” -
“IT would goif I were you, Miss bara. Some-
thing has happened.” advised Beck. “He looks
wild—he does indeed.” : '
Barbara went, i
The earl heard her

oor.
“hank Heaven!” he said; “I’behold you once
more. Come in, Barbara.. Abuse me, revile me,
ee look ut you, let me see you,orI shall

ie i

He threw up his hands with a gesture of despair,
and covered his face with them. i

Barbara stood a moment compressing her lips.

“You are not looking at me, my lord,” she said,
after a moment, her face white, riety

He lifted his head, desperation was in his eyes.
He extended his hands with a despairing: ges-
ture.

“Vou said that if Ilet Varra be convicted you
would goand take her place; and to save her, I
have promised to marry Lady Rosamond in two
weeks. Oh, Barbara, oh. my lost. darling, be mer-
eifulto mein this dreadful hour.” .

There was silence for some moments,

Heaven only knows what Barbnura’s thoughts all
were. Terrible they must have been, remembering
what she had seen so.short a time before.

Then her voice spoke sadly but icyly. i:

“Fam merciful,” she said, “Iforgive you. “What
have you done?” «OQ <

He toid herall. .

She listened in silence.

“Can a womnn be so shameless?” shethonght.

She eould not bring herself to tell him what she
had seen in the grounds, It almost seemed to her
now that her eyes must have deceived her. How
eould any woman come from the Joving embrace
of one man to dictate terms of marriage—and such:
terms—to another? And her dead mother lying
then in PRG DAME PAAOP- Burbara found it hard to
comprehend, .

“He ought to know what I saw,” she thought,
bitterly, “but he can never know it from me.
could tell her sooner, Yet she must know thatTI,
‘saw her.”

She stags asa ae une pereainaey exasporat-
ing thought came stinging her,

“Tt was because she knew it,and feared. I would
tell him, that she made him promise to marry her
in two weeks. She knows, as Ido, what an obliga-
tion a promise is to him. I don’t believe he would
break it now if he were tosee with his own eyes
what I saw.”

But Barbara was wrong there.

Sternly as Lotd Shirley valued. his word, he
would have considered himself absolved righteous-
ly from all obligations to Lady Rosamond, ifhe had
known even of her lingering in the grounds with
Phil Shafton that night. Certainly if he had wit-
nessed their parting embrace, he could not have
+ eenign sche ie that he owed any fealty to Lady

osamond Prynne.

“Tam very sorry for you. Robert,”’she said at last.
‘“Ithink you have been mistaken all through, in
your judgement of what your honor required o
you. But it is too. lute now for discussion of that
subject. You must go onin the course you have
yourself chosen, and from which you imagine there

is no retreat.”
CHAPTER XLI.
A MAD ACT.

From the music-room Barbara went straight to
Lady Rosamond’s.

She knocked, and the little lady not haying yet re-
tired, und doubtless believing it to be Jane Dunn,
ealled:

“Oome in.” ¥

Barbara entored, closed the door, and witha
ae scream, Lady Rosamond recognized

1er,

Shehad always believed thnt the person who
exume into her room that night soon after her ar-
rival at Shirley Park, and warned her to leive Shir-
Jey on pain of death, was one with the mysterious
woman -whom Lord Sliirley loved and wished to
brenk his engarement with her for,

She had always had a lurking presentiment and
fear that the threat would some time be fulfilled.
Had the time eoine now? she wondered,

Barbara's beautiful lofty face was white as-mar-
ble, and stern as denth itself. In the sapphire bine
eyes wos a look that false Lady Roramond shrank
from. Yet, for very. shame,the little coward sup-
pressed the seream that rose te her lips.

“Lenve the room.” she cried, darting to’ the bell-
pullin the next room, ‘or I will ring. I will raise
the house with my screams.”

light step; and met her at the

=

 

— le

Barbara’s dainty lip curled.
Ishali have quite time enough to say alll wish

before any one could get here,” she said, scorn-
fully. “One would almost think you were afraid of
me, my lady.” N

Tam. | have reason tobe!” eried Lady Rosa-
mond, shrilly, and shaking with nervousness.

Indeed! ay, I ask why? Becanse you have
wronged me much, and would have liked to wrong
me more? Isthat the reason? Or is it because you
are so utterly bad, false, and wicked that you feel
you deserve punishment at my hands? Why’—ns
she noted herinereasing agitation, her shaking
Leta Ber fiehtos ng cao oy ae have
come to murder you ou ce nly loo e it,”

Lady Rosamond shuddered.

Say what you came tosay and go,” she stam-
mered, with pallid dips,
; ‘I will,” said Barbara, and took,.a step toward
1

er.

“Bay it there—where you’ are!” screamed Roga-
mond, élutching the bell-pull; “if you eome a step
farther [ shall ring.” tah oxi't

Barbara’s lip curled again, but she stood stitl.

Very well, This is what Icameto say. I came
to warn you. I saw you to-night as you parted
with your lover in the park—you, almost a married
woman. I have just seen Lord Shirley.”

Over Lady Rosamoni’s white face a hot, shamed
crimson swept suddenly'and died again, leaving
her paler than betore. i

And you told him what you saw?” she eried, with
agneer. “Jdon’tcare.”

I did not tell him,” said Barbara, eoldly. “He
ought to know it, but Teannot telihim. He will
find it out for himself, perhaps, some day. Do you
inean to go on meeting that man after you are mar-
ried, my lady?”

Lady Rosamond’s little hands elenched. Her
/black eyes had sparks inthem. Oh! to have to
stand and be catechised this way by her.

“Because if you do,” Barbara went on. “it will
cost your lover his Hfe. You would not like that.
You do love him, «nu you do not Jove Lord Shirley.
But if Lord Shirley ever knows of your meeting
that man‘ alter youare married, he will kill him.
More than that, he will punish you; not in any
physical way—he will Jet you live, bnt he will never
give you the chance to disgrace him again. I know
him better than you do. He isthesoul of honor;

 

ideas of justice. He will trust you till he knows
you false—no longer.”

“That will do,” said Lady Rosamond, beginning
to get her self-possession back. “You have said
enough. I do not recognize your right to speak to’
me inthis manner.. I will not: permit it. Ido not
even know who you are, nor wish to. Beso good
as to leave my room instantly.”

Barbara looked at her calmly, contemptuously;
with such -immensnrable disdain that Lady Rosa-
mond’s cheeks burned again.

“T know now how meun, base, and shameless a
woman can be,” she said, and turned to go. .

Lady Rosamond followed her to the outer door
and saw her depart. ids
, Leurs of rage and humiliation were in my lady’s
‘black eyes, as she went back and threw herself into
the great white chair, in which she was found after-
ward senseless and bathed in her own blood.

It was Jane Dunn who found her first. The ein
‘had been out on some pleasuring expedition, an

was late getting in. ’

She barely went to the door of the fatal room, saw
what was there, and ran screaming away to fall in
a dead swoon of horror in the corridor, :

When Pau Shafton parted from the false and
cruel girl he loved so madly, his heart was throb-
ming high with rapture.

“She does love me,” he thought; and who could
blame him for thinking so, while her kisses were

oving words yet lingered in his ear.

It was truetoo. In her own selfish fashion, as
mush as she could love anything beside grandeur,
tle, position, Lady Rosamond loyed Handsome

He stood some moments looking after her with
glistening eyes, and tender whispered words. Then

his way-slowly through the park to the gates.
There he met Lord Prynne, and that lean, long,
cadaverous face, scowling at him in the starlit
gloom, broke rudely on his dream of rapture.
What passed between them in substance
ne een a ‘ / ; saree 4
1ey separated, one to go fuming on to the great»
house and takin indy Rosamond to task; the
nee to keep on his way toward the village appa-
rently, : - F ;
_But Philip Shafton did not go far in that.direc-
tion. His steps grew slower ard slower till they
stopped altogether, and he stood troubled and un-
decided in the path. ;
Suddénly he descried another man eoming from
pies villuge way, and this man’s face was familiar
00.
It was Selon.

*
has

He had been over to see his sister

muttered. “that she can seurcely object to.” | in tl n. rd Shirley had influence enough ~~
_. He rang and sept for Mip Mack. ge ilies 3 oF OER want sion almost any time, and thus
} ‘When she came, he told to go and tell Barbara | many an hour of the faithful old woman’s captivity

had been brightened by her brother’s society.

He told her all that passed at Shirley House so far
nas he could learn it, and Selon was: too genuine nn
East Indian to let much happen that he. did not

tract to glittering sparks as he saw andr
Philip Shafton, drawing a pretty correct in:
from his improved appearance. | . ,
He knew the story of the girl, who had died
broken-hearted because of his desertion of her, of
the unele who had disinherited him because of his
mad pussion for Lady Rosamond. He had been
resentan unseen witness of,and listener to, that
nterview between Lady Rosamond pas Nae
before he went to make a Jast appeal to his uncle. '
‘What Selon did not know wasof the meetin
which had just taken place. But it was 1ot difficult
to understand from Shafton’s own looks that his
fortunes must have greatly improved, and to guess
from his vicinity to Shirley House, that he had
been there. es ey
The question was, had he seen his idol, and by
what new deceit and cajolery had she munaged to
pacify and put him off this time?
“If he has seen her,” thought Selon, “and she
still deceives him—as she must. or he would not
look like that—we have only to prove to him that he
is cheated, that she is false, and the thing is done.”

He salanmed elaborately to the sahib as these
thonghts ran like lightning through his crafty
Asiatic brain. 3 id

Philip Shafton lifted his handsome, graceful head
smilingly. He had been yaguely uncomfortable
ever since he parted from Lord Prynne. Not that
he doubted his darling, oh, no, he was as eertain
that she loved him, as sure of her truth as that the
stars shone inthe heavens. He would have a little
careless talk with this simplo fellow, just as ho had
ones before. He should need only togivethe man’s
tongue an excuse to wag, and then he should: hear +
how patent it was. to the servants of that grand
household that Lady Rosamond hated the man it
was supposed she was going to marry.

“Servants have oer aera hethought. “I need
to hear something of the kind to offset what Lord
Prynne said to me.” 4 :

“| see you remember me,” he said to Selon, light-

y..

The man grinned,

“The sahib’s face is not one
returned; “the sahib is well ?” é

“Phe gsuhib is well, could not be better,” returned
Shafton, gaply. “How are they all yonder? There
was talk of amarriage. Has that come off yet ?”

“No, sahib, but it will.”

“Ah; you are sure of that?”

He smiled to bimself.

Selon smiled too.

“Sure. They love much, those two. They are
devoted.”

Ran frowned.

“Yes, sahib. My lord eannot bear her out of his
sight, and she hangs upon him. It is easy to see
that she worships him, as he does her.”

i “abe lady does not marry then for anything but
Ove ?”

“Ah, no, sahib. She need not.. The mother who

is just dead left her a fortune.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

MRS, HOLMES’ NEW BOOK.

BY

MARY J. HOLMES,

t ENTITLED

DAISY THORNTON.

Alarge elegant 12mo. volume, bound in eloth; uniform with
this authbor’s other popular works, “Tempest and Sunshine,”
“Lena Rivers,” “West Lawn,” “Edna Browning,” "“Eugh
Worthington,” “Edith Lyle,” ete., ete? PRICE $1.50,

NOTICE!

to be forgotten,” he

Ba A new novel by 90 popular an author. as Mrs, Mary J.
HOLMES, Whose works have sold to the extent of

OVER ONE MILLION COPIES,
is a greatevent forthe world of novel readers, and thousands

nod thousands are being sold of the new noyel, DAISY
THORNTON,

 

BQ An the Demand is already 60 enormous, Booksellers are re-
quested to send in their orders afonca that they may secure
prompt deliveries,

Orders will be filled in rotation,—‘First some; first served.”
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
Madison Square, New York.

 

he is also a sternly just man according to his own.,

yet warm.on his young check, and the echo of her ©

he turned, and in the same eestatie dream pursued _

We

know. His long, narrow black eyes seemed to con- -

ar

 

:

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|

  

 

 

 

oo“

 

 
 

 

  

 

 

 

 

. Jealous at

forbidden h

 

 

 

 

 

weenie eee haielpretsiaciattain hcsinceenieretiter en atten tlngeeneclarr rarer craweertrial

wcmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. tice

 

 

lh ills Biting

 

“ALL FOR THE BEST."

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

We poor, restless mortals,
Who hunger and thirst

For the good that we have not,
Oft getting the worst,

Soon find that the —
That give life its ze

The sorrows and trials—
“Are all for the best.” .

Without rain to soften
Tho crust of the earth,
Without dew to nourish
The flower at its birth,
The bright sun would prove
But a troublesome guest—
‘Thus clouds, storms, and tempests
Are all for the best.

We think of to-morrow,
And lay out our plans—
Our spring seed we acatter
With resolute hands;
Should it never come up
In its green beauty dressed,
Let us think God so willed it—
Tis all for the best,

Or should it some morning
Climb up from the mold,

And send forth its blossoms
Of azure or gold,

And mildew then blight it,
Despoiliny its crest—

Though we see not the “wherefore,”
*Tis all for the best. ,

The day in its splendor
And glory shall dawn,

When blindness will vanish
Like mist in the morn.

Ah! then, in the land where
The glorified rest,

, We shall see that our trials

“Were all for the best,”

“VENGEANCE IS MINE.”

BY M. SILINGSBY.

 

 

 

 

“Are you walts sure, darling?”

“So sure, dearest Edward, that I heard it from
his own mouth, and saw, him place several large
packages of bank-notes in his safe.”

“Then we can never havex more fitting oppor-
tunity than the present, darling Flora. Let us act
prompby. I have the key to match the impression
‘t took last week of the safe-lock. Let us go imme-
diately and try it.” :

Edward Blastby was already on his feet, moving
eagerly toward the room where the safe in ques-
tion was, deposited, followed by Mrs. Anthony Pol-
dard upon whom Blastby had just conferred the fa-
ee name of “Flora,” prefixing it with a “dar-

ing,’

One year previous to our introduction of the
eharacters above mentioned, and their brief but
gignificant dialogue, Mr. Anthony Pollard, at the
ripe age of forty-eight, had married Flora Lovejoy,
a beautiful, vivacious, weak-minded orphan girl,
of the immature age of seventeen. hy did he
marry her? :

Rumgr said it was partly admiration and partly

ity, for she was the daughter of a dear old college
riend, who had left his only child in somewhat in-

_digent circumstunces when death had seen fit to
- remove him from the theater of human action.

r. Pollard, at this time engaged in extensive
real estate speculations, was esteemed by the
shrewd business community,a man of very con-
siderable wealth.

Flora eaararoy had formed the acquaintance of
Edward Blastby,a dashing, adventurous, handsome
reprobate of five-and-twenty, subsequent to her
marriage with her father’s only friend. He was adis-
solute gamester, with scarcely the shadow of are-
deeming virtuein his composition, yet she had
contrived to become deeply smitten by the Apollo-
like charms and slang elequence of this disrepu-
table fellow. i

Mr. Pollard was well aware of his visiting his
house, for he had frequently encountered him
there, iene gg 8 in his handsome drawing-room;
and, although he had not as yet forbidden these

- visits, he very much disapproved of them—not so

rounds of jealousy, if indeed he were
1, aS upon the association,
He had goneso far several times as to assure his

much on
&

syouns wife that her charming visitor was nothing

ut a low-lived, ignorant fellow, without the least
indication of a
had never taken
yate character.

ene about him, though he

the trouble to inquire into his pri-

Had he done so, he would have

im the house on the spot, and kicked
a out with as little ceremony as a dog had he
still persistedfin coming.

The intimacy had gone on up to the present data
comparatively uninterrupted. Blastby had long
ago suggested the idea of an elopement, and Mrs.
Pollard, overcome by her insane passion forthe
artful villain, had at length consented; but Blastby
was by far too shrewd and worldly a scoundrel to
run away with another man’s wife, however beau-
tiful, empty handed. He had therefore suggested a
fortnight ago that they had better postpone their
elopement till an advantageous opportunity to rob
the unsuspecting husband might occur.

That opportunity had at length arrrived. Mr.
Pollard had drawn three thousand dollars the
afternoon before from the bank with which he
transacted business in an adjoining city, to be in
-readiness to meet a certain demand that would
imature the day afterto-morrow. He had relanely
smentioned the amount to his wife before placing i
¥a the safe. This intelligence she had excitedly
communicated to Blastby on his visit to her the
next forenoon, and the reader is already apprised
of the fact that Blastby had previously taken an
impression of the lock to the safe,and had since
fitted a key, or procured some one else to fit it,
which he now had in readiness to accomplish their
contemplated robbery of the injured husband,

Let us now follow the two guilty accomplices to
the library, where Mr. Anthony Pollard kept his
safe and business papers.

The key was inserted in the lock and turned
without difficulty, and the ponderous iron door
swung back on its noiseless hinges. A thorough
search brought to light between three and four
thousand dollars. This the wily Blastby cunningly
took possession of himself. He then locked the
safe, and turning to poor, misguided Mrs. Pollard,

he said, with a forced expression of tenderness,
but with triumph in his coal-black, restless eyes:

‘How long, dearest Flora, will it take you to get
ready to fly with me? You will have to pack, you
know, and, if there is any space in your trunks,
and any valuables in the house, such as silver-plate
and so forth, be sure and pack them. We may as
well go up foran old sheep asalamb. Can you get
ready for New York by the four o’clock train ?”.

“Yes, dearest Edward, I will be ready and waiting
ong before that.”

“You won't forget to pack everything of value,”
he inquired, with a greedy, avaricious expression.
... No, darling,” replied the infatuated simpleton;

everything that I can contrive to steal away with-
eut attracting the notice of the housekeeper. But

where shall we fly to? All places are alike indif-
ferent to me, dearest Edward, if we can but man-
age to avoid being overtaken by my—Mr. Pollard.”

The word “husband” seemed to choke her.

“We will go to California, my love,” was the in-
sinuating reply of cunning Blastby. “A steamer
will leave New York for the Isthmus some time to-
morrow inthe forenoon. Upon her, my sweet, we
‘will take passage.”

“Shall I meet you at the depot, then, in season for
S cenaaitrediaiinebiem derived

“It wou 6 most advisable course, I think,
dear Flora. You had better leave some sort of a
plausible excuse for old Pollard, explaining your
absence.”

The misguided wife reflected for a moment—an
unusual thing for her.

“T ‘have it!” she exclaimed, triumphantly. “I
will leave him a note, stating—no, I will have the
housekeeper tell him—that I have just received
word to go to my aunt in Bellefield, whichis on our
way, you know—and who’s lying very ill, and is
veny anxious to see me, my poor aunt!”

‘Ha, ha! Capital!’

“Yes; and then I'll order John to drive me and
ad trunks to the depot in season to meet you

ere,

“Good! Ishall.be there in time, darling Flora.”

Tke two parted, to meet, as appointed. in the
ie and Mrs. Pollard went flurriedly about
‘her packing.

_, She reached the station in good time, had the
trunks checked for Bellefleld in presence of the
driver; and Blastby and she, with a nod of recog-
nition, took their seats in separate cars.

At Bellefield—thirty miles distant—she gave her
checks to Blastby, who saw to their being re-check-
ed along the road to New York;and as there had no
one entered the same car from the same station,
the wily Blastby made bold to join her. He was in
high spirits, for he now felt confident that he held
the game in his own hands—or, at least, what was
nearly equivalent to the same—the money.

The next morning at ten o’clock, they were on

oard the steamer, moving smoothly past the
western point of Long Island. Who ean foresee the
ultimate destiny of this beautiful but erring wife
thus securely caught in the toils of a human viper!

* * * * * * * * a

Mr. Anthony Pollard came home at six o’clock on

the afternoon of the flight only to learn that his

wife had gone on a visit to her sick aunt in Belle-
eld.

Having no suspicion of foul play. he took but
little note of the circumstances ; but when two days
later he visited the safe to withdraw the money he
had deposited there, his eyes were suddenly and
aintully opened to at least a suspicion of the
ruth.
. He made hasty preparations for a continuous
journey, and started immediately for Bellefleld in

ursuit.
Pn arriving in Bellefleld he found fwhat he had
more than half suspected before leaving home,

that his wife had not been there, and the aunt, who
Was sin an unusual fine state of health, had not
written a letter to Flora for a month.

When Mr. Pollard communicated the fact of her
disappearance, and the robbery of his safe, as well
as his suspicion that she was concerned in the
transaction with one Blastby, who was a particular
friend of hers, and a frequent visitor at his house,
the indignation of the old lady knew no bounds,
for she was strictly honestin her notions, and no
advocate of Free Love.

Mr. Pollard returned Sroznediataly home after
this, and instituting inquiries about Blastby,
learned thal he had taken the same train which had
borne away his truant and guilty wife. It was no
more than he had suspected; but coming as it did
in connection with the heavy recuniary Joss he had
sustained by the robbery. it was a double blow to
him; and he determined to hunt them down and
oanien them, if time, patience, and money could
effect i

It is needless to follow Mr. Anthony Pollard
through three years of persistent wandering from
State to State and city to city, till he passed through
the Golden Gate,” and traversed the streets of San
Francisco.

He was a man of extraordinary perseverance,
with an energy of purpose that never tired, and he
had not yet quite despaired of finding them.

One drizzly day during the rainy season, as he
Was passing along one of the numerous streets in-
fested with rum and gambling-shops, he saw a
gaudily-attired woman reel out of one of the for-
mer in an almost blind state of drunkenness. She
staggered forward a few steps, and then bringing
up as if to take a last farewell survey of the place
she had just quitted, shilly-shallied for a moment,
as only a woman will when thoroughly inebriated,
and toppled over backward with great force upon
the curb-stone, where she lay motionless, with the
back of her head resting inthe gutter.

Mr. Pollard, atthe moment of the accident, was
not twenty yards distant from the spot where the
unfortunate victim had fallen.

He hurried forward, but before he eould get
there a crowd had gathered round the hapless crea-
ture, some of whom were trying to raise her from
the sidewalk; but she was limp as a rag, and the
showily-frizzled head had prop eed forward till her
once beautiful but now inflamed features were par-
tially concealed. ; :

“Who is she ?” inquired a dozen curious voices,
A seedy individual, in once-fashionable gar-
ments, but with the air of a rove and blackleg, an-
swered:

“She used to be Ned Blastby’s gal a long time, but
he got jealous and turned her adrift about a year
ago. wines that she has been going down-hill with
a rush.’

Waiting to hear no more, but with a wildly beat-
ing heart, Mr. Pollard elbowed his way through the
crowd. Heraised the drooping hwad of the un-
fortunate woman in order to obtain a fairer view of
her features. ;

There was no mistaking them, though they were
strangely altered through a long and persistent
course of dissipation. It was his own truant and
sinful wife; and what was more, she was dead. In
her helpless fall backward upon the curb-stone,
she had broken her neck, making a complete frac-
ture ofthespinaleolumn Withagroan of horror,
Mr. Pollard reeled back among the crowd, but
hastily recovering, he turned abruptly to the seed
individual who had just spoken, and demanded,
almost fiercely:

“Where can this Blastby be found?”

There was murder now in his heart for the first

me.
“You will find him at the morgue, stranger,” re-.
lied the blackleg, superciliously. ‘He was stabbed
ast night in Jim Ryan’s faro-rooms. As soon as
Flo heard of it she went half crazy—for she is still
softon him, though she says she hates him—and
ripped out an oath that she’d drink herself stone
blind before morning, and sailed in. You see the
result, I reckon.”

Mr. Pollard did see it, with a mingled feeling of

pity and disgust for the misguided object upon
woos his affections had once been strongly cen-
ered,

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

And its significance, as well as its adaptation to

the precent scene and. circumstances, occurred
1 usband -

foreibly to the wro nd.
Mr. Pollard returned home, after defraying the
funeral expenses of the wretched woman, and is
now a retired widower, living on the income of the
handsome property he had previously acquired.

HOW TO LIVE TO BE NINETY.

BY MAX ADELER,

Mr. Rufus Wethersby Hicks, of Oshkosh, is
ninety years of age, and in rebust health. In re-
sponse to my inquiry as to the methods by which
he has managed to keep himself in such eondition,
he has written me the following letter,which I pub-
lish for the benefit of the public. Mr. Hicks says:
“In the first place I have always been careful to
sleep with plenty of air in my room. I regard
this a matter of vital importance. The practice of
sleeping in a vacuum will gradually undermine the
strongest constitution, I have found great advan-
tage, too, in sleeping in bed, and not on the wash-
stand or across the towel-rack. My grandfather
used to say that the towel-rack was even more
dangerous to sleep on than the mantel-piece.
“Upon risingin the morning I always jump at
once into the bath-tub, no matter how cold the
weather is; and I sit there thinking whether I shall
turn the water on or not. Generally I conclude
notto. But the exercise in climbing in and out of
the tub does me much good. ore breakfast I
pass an hour or so in parsing. I have become so
skillful now that I ean tell an adverb clear across
the street, and no amount of disguise can hide a
personal pronoun from me, Sometimes, when I
weary of grammar, I take a quiet game of ‘Pussy
wants a corner.’ or practice looking cross-eyed at
the clock, This last amusement always gives me
an appetite. ee es 7
“But a moderate breakfast is best. A man doesn’t
want more than two orthree watermelons, a hind
quarter of lamb, a peck or twoof clams, and a
bucket (a small bucket) of pickles for his first
meal. Eat slowly. Allow at least a minute to a
watermelon, and where gunwads are introduced
in the hash, be sure to spit out the stones. (N. B.—
This is not clear, but Mr. Hicks undoubtedly means
well.—M. ADELER. )

“After euting, the’'system needs a rest. I go offto
some quiet place, like the rain-water cistern, or
the chimney-flue, and try to compose my mind.
Sometimes Ising. It is admirable for strengthen-
ing the lungs,and the chimney-flue develops the
sound wonderfully. Last ednesday I sang
“Home, siveet Home” up the flue so effectively that
it brought out the fire company, and threw Mrs.
Hopkinson’s hired girl into fits. (N. B—The old
man’s mind appears+to be wandering here ‘but he
is evidently trying to tell the truth.—M. ADELER.)
“A little later in the day you want exercisetostim-
ulate the circulation, Sometimes I carry the piano
up and down stairs two or three times: or I open
and shut my umbrella seventeen or eighteen hun-
dred times, or brush my hair for a couple of hours,
or go out and dig potatoes with a lead pencil. I
used to spank the baby. but I have no baby now
small enough to spank. My youngest ehild is 47,
and has red hair, and is in the Nebraska Legisla-
ture. (N. B.—If he is in the Legislature it is posi-
tively certain that a spanking would do him good.
But I do not understand that reference to red hair.
It is not pertinent to the subject.—M. A.)

“TI never touch whisky. it is poisonous. Noman
who uses it can have long life. Who van estimate
the woe that it has brought to the human race. No,
no! avoid the hideous liquid as you would a fiery
serpent. Not one drop of whisky has passed my
lips for ninety-one years. (N. B.—The old man is
only ninety; but let that pass. M. A.) and not a
drop shall. Nothing would induce me touch it,
What I want is a little old apple brandy, mellow
and ripe; possibly with a dask of gin in it; and
even of this I never drink more than two quarts
between breakfast and supper. As for tobaeco
well, when I was ten years old I yowed I would
never smoke another cigar or chew another plug
of tobacco as long as I lived. I havesmoked a pipe
and chewed fine-cut exclusively.

“And now, in my old age,I look back upon the
years of a well spent life, and as I wheel myself
about my garden in my wheelbarrow, looking at
thejogarithmus growing upon my vines and watch-
ing the prcponone climbing upon the trellises.
basking in the sunshine, while the pelicans gambol
about the—”

But this is enough. Mr. Hicks is gradually ceas-
ing to be lucid. Pelicans never gambol; and I have
some doubts about that wheelbarrow performance;
but the reader who wishes to live till ninety and
become a hoary old feller, may study Hicks’ epistle
possibly with profit,

 

 

A Highly Colored Affair.

The better classes of San Domingo are greatly
excited about a question of color. General Yos
Trebla consulted a Dr. Manidew about some trou-
ble whith followed an attack of yellow fever. Dr.
Manidew recommendea transfusion of blood, and
one of the students at Bellevue Hospital offered
himself to make sacrifice of part of his blood in

 

favor of the gentleman of color. The operation
took place, but with the following strange result,
which is now occupying the attention of the med-
ical world. General Yos Trebla sees himself daily
changing color and whitening visibly. And as his
new color comes his rank of general disappears
for he is sure that the Dominican government will
never recognize a white general, On the other
hand,the medical student is getting a black skin
as the reward of his devotion. Moreover, Mrs. Yos
Trebla will not live with the general now, as she is
afraid of having mulatto children. And all three
have sued Dr, Manidew for damages,

A Child Preventing a Divorce.

Mr. and Mrs. Carrington, a young country couple
of the neighborhood of Litchfield, Conn., after
muny bickerings, recently determined to seek a
divorce, on the ground of fnoouapastbilisy. of tem-
per. which, if fully proven, is sufficient ground for
aed matrimonial severance in the land of steady

abits, ;

_Both man and wife had been living apart for some
time, their one child—a charming and precocious
little ah! of between four and five years—being
meantime, by mutual consent of both parents,
placed under the care of Mrs. Landon, an aunt of
the father, and a very good woman at that. The
case came finally up before the court on the 24th of
last month, when the judge announced that, both
parties still remaining in the same perverse state
of mind, the decree of divorce would ranted on
the following day. The custody of the child.was the
only question left open, and both father and moth-
er agreed to leave the decision of this to the incli-
nation of the child herself.

The little girl, Eloise by name, was produced _ in
court by Mrs. Landon, and then the judge, after
explaining the natureof the parental difficulty to
her, asked her whom she would prefer to perma-
nently reside with, her father or her mother. As
we have said, Eloise was a precocious child; indeed
she was one of those out of whose lips the words o
wisdom often come, to the surprise and discomfi-
ture of their elders. —

She did not ery a bit, but after apparently turn-
ing over the momentous question very gravely in
her mind, she took her stand between father and
mother, each of. whom was silently but eloquently
soliciting her favor, and said, very determinedly:
“Look here, papa and mamma, I won’t have any
more of this nonsense. You seem to think that
you can break up housekeeping and run away from
each other as if I wasn’t to have anything to say
aboutit. But it won’t do. I’m the little girl of
both of you. To both of youl’m going to stick, and
both of youhave got to stick tome. There, now—
let’s all go home.”

Whether the little one had been coached by the
aunt to this line of conduct, or it was the result of
herown childish inspiration, has not been made
known, but it was certainly efficacious. Both
father and mother tenderly embraced her, and
<b after some consultation, they embraced each
other.

They agreed to forego their desires for a divorce,
and, accompanied by Mrs. Landon and the little
peace-maker, who had effected this wonderful
change of heart, they once more returned to their
country home, where, it is hoped, they will be en-
abled to overcome past differences and live happily
together, if for the child’s sake alone.

 

 

' FRONTIER SKETCHES.

BY LEANDER P. RICHARDSON.

NoTEs.—These stories are all founded on FACTS. One or two of
them I have found it necessary to elaborate upon, but each of
the sketches has fact for the groundwork.

No. 5.-COMANCHE’S LAST EXPLOIT.

“The sun was shining brightly when I ononed my
eyes,” said Bill, continuing his story. ‘My arms
and legs were free,the rope had been removed
from my neck, my shirt had been stripped off, and
my wounded shoulder was skillfully bandaged. The
first object that met my gaze was the lifeless tigure
of Johnson, still swaying in the breeze. I tried to
rise to a sitting posture, but I had lost much blood,
and the attempt was fruitless. Then a voice sound-
ed in my ear. Turning in the direction from
whence it came, my eyes fell upon the stalwart
form of Ked Jim, the leader of the Comanche band
I have before alluded to. He was a half-breed, and

 

 

 

had chanced to findme. _

Pr Jim,’ he replied, ‘hear heap shoot, shoot
las’ night. Then see big blaze over by river. Red
Jim sabe (know or understand) that is where two
white chief have gone sleep; Jim sabe Vigilance
Gommittee heap hugt for two white chief. Jim
he come down! river on log,swim shoré, see dam ras-
Cals hang two white chief up. Then Jim hear bang-

ng. ele Committee ride away, Coman-
nae ill fall down, Jim run to him; sabe he not

ea > V

“ ‘Yes, but how did I happen to fall?’
““*Red Jim tell that when he get to it. Comanche
Bill heap shut up. You sabe?’

“ “Yes, says I. ‘Fire away,’

““When Vigilance Committee heap shoot, one
bullet he take you on shoulder, one bullet take you
On ppaey belt. Twenty-dollar gold piece he stop
bullet. One bullet he cut lariat over Comanche
Bill’s head, and white chief heap fall on ground.
He almost get stuffin’ knock out of him. You sabe?
Red Jim take off coat, shirt, stop much blood. Co-
manche Bill werry big sleep, sleep, sleep. Just
now be wakeup. Keno!’

“The half-breed’s description was not very
graphic, but it gave me to understand clearly
enough the events which had occurred. My glance
wandered again tothe form of Johnson, hanging
from the limb of the tree. The face had swollen to
repulsive dimensions, and was black and distorted
from suffocation. The limbs were still drawn up
as they had been in the last instants of the dying
man’s agony,and all in all the picture filled me
with horror. The Indian understood what my
look implied, and immediately informed me that
after discovering that Istill lived, he had imme-
diately examined Johnson for signs of vitality. It
took butan instant to cenvinee the experienced
savage that the great outlaw was beyond the help
of mortal hands, Therefore he turned his atten-
tion to me,and succeeded at last in wooing me
back to life.

“Tom Johnson and I had been close friends. He
had taken me bythe hand when all the world
shunned me asa‘dangerous man.’ He found me
inoffensive enough to those Who irated me fairly,
and i Saw in him a desperate nattre, fearless alike
of man or man’s power, knowing no law saye the
first great law of self-preservation, and believing
almost devoutly in himself and his friends. Like
me he had been driven before the mighty blast of
public opinion, and like me he had been east upon
the rugged shore of out? and disgrace. Cattle-
thief though he was,I had grown to admire his
undying physical courage, and _ to love him for his
fealty to me under every condition. | *

“As s00n as my strength had sufficiently return-
ed, I helped Red Jim to eut him down, and together
we scooped out a shallow grave. When that was
done, we laid our friend.away in his last bed. And
over his cold and pulseless body I swore eternal
vengeance upon the men who had taken his life.

‘For a week Red Jim and I camped near that
lonely spot, while my strength was coming back.
And as I gained physically, my determination
strengthened itself. I resolved to rob no more, but
toapply all my energies tothe task of slaying the
man who had assassinated my partner. I mentally
declared that before I had finished, my name should
be dreaded by all comeerned in Tom Johnson’s
murder, as no man’s name was ever feured in Tex-
as before. b=

-““When all was in readiness, Red Jim went to his
band and selected such men as could be trusted.
During his absence I took down the ropes which
had suspended Johnson and myself, and braided
them together, so that they should form one con-
tinuous lariat. And when Jim returned with ten
reliable followers and a fine horse for myself, I
swung that lariat from my saddle-bow. I would
hang evey one of those Vigilantes with the rope
Oy, had used for similar purposes. j

“Thus equipped, we started over into the center
of the State. From friendly sources we Jearned
that Johnson and myself had been betrayed into
the hands of the Vigilantes by a man who had for-
merly helda trusty positien in our band. Upon
receiving this information I determined that the
first blow of my brave Avengers should fall upon
him. It was afull month before we discovered his
whereabouts, for he had hidden himself in fear.

“But one night, when all sas still, we surrounded
the eave in which he was lying asleep, and before
he could offer resistance, he was bound and gagged,
and broughtout into the darkness. Fastened to
the back of a horse, we bore him to the spot where
heand his friends had oe the two greatest
outlaws then in Texas. I had taken good care that
he should not see me during the journey, and so he
_ - means of knowing whose hands he had fall-
en into.

“At sunrise upon the morning following our ar-
rival upon the fatal spot, our prisoner was placed
standing upon the grave of Johnson, the victim of
his treachery, and the bandages were removed
from the coward’s eyes, He looked about him and
recognized the surroundings. His teeth began to
chatter with fear, for he read in the grim faces of
my followers what his fate was tobe. At that mo-
ment I appeared before him. He gave one groan
as his eyes fell upon me,and dropped upon his
knees, begging for mercy, like the arrant coward
that he was. But he mightas well have cried to the
winds. In afewminutes his body was hanging in
mid-air,and hislimbs were twitching in the last
convulsions of death.

“We left him without burial upon the ground be-
neath the tree, and again started on ou mission.

 

For four years I hunted like an avenging Nemesis,

could talk English tolerably well. Lasked how he B

and in all that time it never became known who I
was._ I had promised myself to complete the work,
and I did it. The bones of every man who partici-
pated in that midnight lynching, are now bleaching

nthat lonely spot on the west bank of the Rio
Grande. The vultures and wolves have gnawed the
flesh away, and only the grinning skeletons are left
to tell the trightful tale of human vengeance,

‘Since my mission was accomplished, I haye

wandered about the States and Territories, livin
honestly on the proceeds of what game I could kill
for market, About two months ago I learned that
the Texas autherities had been apprised of my ex-
istence, and had offered a reward of $10,000 for my
capture, dead or alive. At about the same time the
Black Hills excitement came to my ears, and I de-
termined to seek aucty and an honest living here.
I have had enough of the turmoil of life, and I mean
to end my days in peace. But I tell you plainly that
if I am discovered, I shall fight for my liberty.”

We were both silent for a few minutes, thinking
of the past. Still buried in thought, we failed to
notice the approach of a slight-looking stranger;
but we were aroused by his voice,

This is Comanche Bill, I believe,” he said,
quietly.
. Comanche rolled over so as to face him, and
then replied:

“Well, what do you want ?” A

In the same quiet voice came the response:

“Tam Sheriff Clay, of Texas. You are my pris-
oner.’

Quick as a flash, Bill was upon his feet, pistol in
hand. Atthe same time the sheriff drew his own
weapon, and the two men looked fearlessly into
each other’s eyes. Neither of them flinched or
showed the slightest sign of trepidation, as their
revolvers began to assume the horizontal. When
both were in position, Comanche Bill hissed be-
tween by clenched teeth, the single syllable:

re!’

The two hammers fell together, and the reports
sounded as one.

When the smoke cleared away, “Sheriff Clay, of
Texas,” was lying dead in the red dust, and Oo-
manche Bill had staggered against a tree.

The next of the Frontier Sketches will conclude
the series. It is named

THE DANCE OF DEATH,

A Monkey’s Gratitude.

One of the most remarkable incidents recorded
in all natural history was witnessed in a menagerie
performing in Selma,tAla., on the 14th ult. The
Majority of the spectators had been suddenly at-
tracted away from the cages filled with ferocious
beasts to the opposite side of the tent, at which
some small trained elephants were performing,
when a woman’s terrified scream caused ever
head to turn and eyery glance to be directed bac
across thearena toward the recently deserted
es. The scream was from a nurse-girl in the
midst of the crowd. Paralyzed with horror, and
with two frightened children clinging to her skirts,
she was pointing to another and neglected charge,
a chubby little three-year-old toddler, who had
been left to himself on the opposite side of the tent.
The little fellow, unconscious of peril, was exer-
cising his infantile gymnastics app the rope rail-
ing directly in front of the Bengal tiger’s cage, the
hideous occupant of which was just unsheathing
his claws through the bars, preparatory to reaching
out his cruel paw forthe tempting tidbit presented
by the cherub’s body.
An indescribable thrill of horror ran through
every one present, and, none of the keepers being
preecnt at the moment, there was no one with suf-
cient presence of mind to institute an immediate
attempt to rescue the child.
But a rescuer of another species than human
was at hand,
_ 4¢ was a moment of awful suspense. And then,
just as the tiger’s outstretched paw was about to
fall upon the unconscious child, there was sudden-
ly heard a great chattering, and Bopo, a very tame
Brazilian ape that was permitted to range freely
about the tent,was observed speeding over the
tops of the eages. Arriving over that of the tiger,
he suddenly dropped upon the outstretched paw
with such a hideous screech as not only to cause it
to be quickly withdrawn, but to occasion the child
to reel out beyond the rail, and out of danger, with
acry of alarm,
Then appeared the keepers on the scene, the lit-
tle one wus restored to its negligent nurse’s arms,
and the tiger was severely beaten with iron rods.
ut, sad to relate, the heroic little monkey did not
escape without receiving a cruel blow from the
claws, between which and their would-have-been
victim he had so eee, cast himself, though it
was not thought he would die of his wounds.

 

 

The pleasantest part of the incigest lies in the faet
that the child (one of three belenging to Air. and Mrs.
Lam pear, of Selma) had been frequently carried to

the aereeres and had as often manifested a fond-
ness for the monkey by presents of nuts and fruits,
which explains the self-sacrificing conduct of the
latter as having been inspired by an almost hu-
man sentiment of gratitude and love.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

SOMETHING ABOUT CARPETS.
In preparing for housekeeping, the inexperienced must re-
member that the first consideration in furnishing a room must
be the selection of a carpet, for on that one item much depends;
indeed far more than 18 usually conceded, for the carpet infiu-
ences the ‘appearance of the froom, as well as its seeming size,
quite as much as the paper on the wall, and with the carpet the
furniture should either contrast, or nicely blend, in such a man-
ner as not to offend the most fastidious eye.
As it is most difficult to take in or describe the full details of
the tastetul toilet of a really tashionably-dressed lady, so it
should be in the decoration of the room; one should feel the fit-
ness of things and the sense of comfort without realizing where-
in we were pleased.
Carpets are so cheap now, and such pretty patterns can be
found among the low-priced ones, that almost every one can
afford a neat, durable, and really tasteful carpet. At Sheppard
Knapp’s we examined some beautiful ingrain carpets, the
cheaper grades ranging from 50 cents to 75 centsa yard, while
those in all wool, in colors and designs after tapestry and Brus-
sels carpets in antique and modern patterns, cost trom 90 cents
to $1.25 a yard. In three-ply, too, the same novelties, after differ-
ent models, may be found ranging in price from 75 cents to $1.50
ayard. The cheap tapestry, costing from 9% cents to $1.50 a
yard, comes In all the body Brussels patterns, which can now be
bought for from $1.50 to $2.50, such as used to cost from $2 to $4
and $5 a yard a few years ago.
Mr. Knapp also shows us all the novelties in imported car-
pets.
Small figures seem to be most in tavor, ana in some of the
handsomer grades of carpets many colors are blended artisti”
cally. ;
An American Wilton, of very rich design, consists of a graceful
combination of autumn Jeaves and flowers in browns, red, and
light blue, the leaves being richly pointed with spots of gold.
While carpets are usually bought and sold by the yard, in most
of our New York houses, yet if one sends the exact size ofa room
and desires a carpet all in one piece, the order can be promptly
executed in either an article of home manufacture or an import-
ed carpet; but really that hardly seems necessary when the
carpets as made in our establishments are so beautitully matched
and strongly sewn, that only by the closest observation one can
tell where the seams are. :
If other intormation about carpets is desired for Christmas
preparations our readers can write to the NEw YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency, and send name and address in full, so that
@ prompt reply may be sent by mail, as the festival season is so
near at hand, the Work-Box oon in the paper may not reach
our friends in time to suit their convenience; and we would
make the same suggestion in regard to ether purchases to be
made by the NEW YORK WERKLY Purchasing Agency; if our
correspondents will inclose stamp, and send name and address
in full, we will take pleasure in answering all letters of inquiry
by mail so that purchases may be made before the last moment
arrives, and our patrons receive the articles intended for
Christmas and New Year presents in due season.

 

 

‘Thyra Marston” asks if we will be kind enough to give her
some hints about cone-work, as she has quite a number of pretty
pine-cones on hand which she would like to utilize. Use long,
thin nails, cigar brads, or stout black pins, for cone-work. They
go through without much difficulty. Also use the strongest glue
you can get, mixed with some fine sand, and so fasten on the

cones, adding a coating of varnish over all when firmly fixed.
The small cones put between the large ones look well. The best
way is to make a knitting-needle red-hot, and with it bore a hole
in the cone. Through this hole pass a bit of galvanized wire,
knotted at the end to keep it firm. The upper end may then be
easily wound round the head of a nail. Another plan is to bore
the hole in the wood-work of the article to be ornamented,
through which pass a wire, which may go right round the cone
and come out again at the hole, where it must be tastened. By
this meanes the cones are made quite secure, while the wire is
entirely hidden by the expanding leaves of the cone. Mantles
and brackets are decorated very prettily in this style.

“Ethel Sardis.”—You can have either curls or a braid made
out of your combings, if you do not fancy finger-puffs. Golden
hair looks very pretty waved and allowed to hang loosely down
the back, being, of course,combed back trom the forehead and
secured by aribbon or a comb. If you consider that style too

outhful, wave the hair, comb off the face, and braid down the

ack, and loop the braid, ae it with two bows, one on the
top of head over the end of braid, and_the other back of neck.
Why do you wish to alter your dress? Your mother is riebt, the
style you mention will be worn this season, and is very pretty
for young girls, although we would not advise you to make up a’
new suit aiter the same design. Leather or substantial kid shoes
are best for winter wear. Seal-sacques can be bought to cost
trom $65 to $150; for misses or young Jadies, those for about $75
are‘really very handsome. We are glad to be able to serve you,
and at any time you want our advise do not hesitate to write to
the Work-Box, who knows all about girls, their desires, and their
actual needs.

& “Young Lover.”’—Yes, we should think a portfolio full of music
would be a most appropriate present for a young gentleman to
give his sweetheart, either on Christmas or New Year's Day. ‘If:
you write, direct to NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, ‘

send name and address in iull, add three-cent stamp to prepay
postage in your letter, and ask us to send you Cuningham
oosey’s catalogue of ‘Universal Music.’? We will do so with
pleasure, and then you can select such music as yeu know the

 

 

young lady does not possess, and then you can send your order
on to us, and we will make the purchase ,tor you. Upon
catalogue you will find the price as well as name of the music, 60
you will know exactly how much money to send.

“Miss Amelia 8.,” Cleveland, O.—Glycerine used at night on
the hands and face, will soften the skin and heal chaps. We do
not, however, think it should be used in the morning, with pow-
der over it, as some young ladies put it on. To go with our
bottle-green cashmere, get enough bourette cloth to make a
polonaise, using the garments you now have to finish your skirt
in a fashionable style; or, if you like better, you can trim the
skirt with the bourette, and make a basque of the upper gar-
ments you can cut up, and have sleeves and vest ot the bourette,
Such costumes are very tashionuble and exceedingly jaunty.

“Annie F. C.”.—Your samples were sent some time ago. With
a cutaway jacket and vest alter any patterns you may like best
in our fall catalogue of patterns, the skirt may be either prin-
cess, or under and overskirt. Eighteen yards ofsilk will hardly
be enough to make a really fashionable costume, either princess
or with skirt basque, overskirt, or polonaise, but you may use
alpaca for the foundation or upper portion of your skirt, as that
part will be hidden by the silk garniture, e will be glad to
Serve you at any and all times.

“Edie W.’’—Your sample is almost too small for us to judge
the kind or value of lace sent. Moderately large envelopes
nearly square, are now used, and for ordinary notes cards which
ie fit in the envelopes, and have the day of the week printed
in the left hand top corner, are very fashionable an d conven-
ient; for longer notes square sheets of paper double the size of
the envelopes are affected. Your writing is very easily read.
We never like to express an opinion about such a matter.

“Mrs. J. Y.S."—Sent receipt book, “Baking Made Easy,” at
once upon receiving your order and the l0 cents. You will find
the new edition more complete than the one sent you last spring,
and we feel sure you will find in it all the receipts necessary for
ye 3 Christmas and New Year preparations. e box of Royal

aking Powder, and other articles, went by express, two weeks
ago. ope you were pleased with our selections,

“Young Mother.”’—Dr. Warner’s nursing corsets are just what
you want, not only for your own comfort, but for the ‘conveni-
ence of baby. They are neatly made, of good material, with
Tampico busts, with the opening in each, and a tab, or curtain,
cin wie to close when the little one is not nursing. ‘ice,

75 each.

“Frederica K. M.”—We think the princess ecstume will re-
main in fashion for some seasons. At present there is little or
no choice between the princess dress, the skirt with basque and
overskirt, or the polonaise. A very stylish tern of ulster
suitable for waterproof, or other tabric, which is very hand-
somely shaped, with sleeves, is No. 6,343, price 30 cents,

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
CHANCE SHOTS.

Yung man this iz the best advice I kan giv yu just
now; akt natral, or don’t akt at all, allwuss be yure-
self, nothing more, nothing less,

We.should remember this, the world are more
inklihed to giv us kredit for what we are doing,
than for what we hav dun or intend to do.

I hav got az mutch reverence az most pholks, but
i never could see the necessity ov praying thru mi
noze, and understand how diffikult it iz, for the
best ov us. to carry our bizzness into our religion,
and keep the proporshun right.

Yung phools hay been known to outgro their
pholly, but old ones never do.

After a man haz made a reputashun, to prevent
infringement, it would be a happy thing if he could
hav it pattented.

Mi grate ambishun iz to bean inhabitant ov the
whoie world, not alokal denizen, hampered bi pet-
ty prej udices, narrowed down bi mutual ignoranso
and admirashun, to the limits ov a town or city.
The man who will agree to work for nothing, iz
the hardest kind ov a man to satisfy, when yu kum
tg settle with him.

I hav seen pholks spend all their Principal, and
then tri to liv on the interest ofl it. This iz gloomy.
Virtew, ov sum kind, iz the only pedigree thare
iz, and a man kan’t transmit this enny more than
he kan a klear conshience or a sweet breth.

To let yureself down to enny man’s Jevel iz eazy
enuff, but to git bak to whare yu cum from, and not
tare yure clothes iz pure bizzness.

Mi sweet youth. yu waz given 2 ears, and 1 tung,
and 2 eyes, for a wize purpose, hat do yu sup-
poze the purpose w . ae alg
Thare may be persons so rude az to be out oy the
reach ov politeness, buti never metone yet. |
Iadmirethe man who haz got nothing else in
partikular to brag about but hiz avurdupoize, and
robust helth just az I doa lusty steer; after i hay
seen him weighed bi Fairbanks, all interest in him
eeases.

Money kan make a man notorious, but kan’t make
him respektable, but one-haff the people don’t kno
the difference,

IE don’t suppoze thareizany sutch thing az per-
feckt happiness, and what little haspiness tiie iz,
ig, largely com + ov tate. Se eeheeet a we
are happy justin proporshun az we bay sum-
thing Chat others haint got, nor-kant git. v
It iz dangerous to intrust asekret to most pholks:
they are ike adog with a bone in hiz fonts
trots around lofty, with hiz tale over hiz bak, show-
ing the bone to everyboddy.

Probably the grate suckcesses ov life hav most
often been reached bi knowing how to take advan-
tage ov our lucky moments.

I like to cum akrost things thatikant kompre-
hend; this satisfys me; how dependant iam upon
sum grate and misterious Power.
Mi dear boy, lay this up on yure upper shelf—if
yu hitthe Bull’s eye 99 times, and miss the hun-
dredth, the world never forgits the miss, and kant
seem to remember the hits.
Ihayv listened to learned prognostikashuns all
mi life, and have made several smart ones miself,
and i find bi figuring them all up, thata fair artikle
of guessing would beat the whole lot. 2
Menny people are afrade to be natral for fear
they will be culled common, but the truth iz, we are
never 80 Sern, nor 80 interesting, az when we are
perfektly natral.
If it wazn’t for the risks, thare wouldn’t be enn
phun living inthis world; ded sure things (enuff
of them) will demoralize enny man.
Swearing iz not only a wicked, but a brutal habit.
It iz ag ruffain’s vernakular, and the loafer’s argu-
men
Whi do we all luv little children so mutch? Init
not on ackount oy theirsimplicity? And don’t their
simplicity, all ov it, spring from their faith.?
It ain’t after all so mutch what we enjoy, az what
we expekt to, that makes us happy. £5

All the most cunning men hay small heds, so do
the cunning animals. the munky, the fox, the
weazel, and the oppossum. ~~

The man who won't forgit ennything ain’t a going
to learn mutch more.
Thare iz one rule which i beleave haz no excep-
shun to it; when aman falls down on the ice, whare
the water iz an inch and a haff deep, he never feels
proud oy the job.
The man who iz able at all times to hide hiz tru
karakter haza grate deal ov virtewin hiz natur,
and pomny. a grate deal ov deviltry—i forgit
which,
A fanatick iz a party who mounts a common-
lace idea, stiks both spurs into it klear up to hiz
feels, and trys to git a 2-forty gait out ov it,
About one haff ov all the trubble in this world iz
manufaktured to order out ov nothing, and a Jarge
share ov the other baff iz the result ov not knowing.
the tru valu oy things.

 

 

to-day, and for the length ov all tim
kant make nor kounterfit one,

It iz one ov the hardest things on earth for a man
to learn that he plays a kussid poor game oy whist.

The world haz menny people in it who are very
respektabel simply bekauze they are very prop-
per.

A verry amuzing kritter to me iza bizzy phool,a
kind oy human pissmire who haz got nothing to
do, and no time to do itin, who runs around wag-
ging in front ov everyboddy like a lost dog, whoze
best ambishun iz to carry stale news from one lazy
gossip to another, az stelthy and pompous az tho
it waz a state sekret.

e,and man

don’t require enny to make a blunder.

I never knu an old bachelor rg but what thought
he could ey enny woman he had a mind to, nor
an old maid who hadn’t refused menny fust-klass
bids and wazn’t issuing sealed proposals for more,

A fust-klass servant aint fit for ennything@else.

How kan*yu expekt to tell whatkind ov a man
yure nabor will be 90 days from date, when yu kant
even bet on yureself.

——-—_ > © 4

Short Sermons by Telegraph.
NO. 36.

Romans rx. 18.—"‘Therefore hath he mercy
whom he will have mercy, anc whom he wiil
hardeneth.”

How fortunate for us that verse does not read,
‘He will have justice on whom he will,” ete. Where
would any of us be im that case?—for who is with-
out sin against the infinite God? y :

But no, it is divine mercy that_he will haveon
whom he will, and what is it to a dying world, with

 

on

»a sovereign’s right to grant especial
allowing others to persevere in crucifying his son
and their Saviour?”

Who will accept mercy from God?
;. Such are his “elect!” _ Tau E Grara.

ee ee

 

 

 

 

Iluva mountain. God made it for yesterday. for

It requires sum branes to make a mistake, but it

     

he, .

  

"a reprieve constantly before their eyes, if God uses .
grace to some, »

  

eee