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| FRANOIS 8. STREET

New York

 

 

ev ef

 

 

SEVEN PIOKED MEN COMBINING THE

SEVEN PICKED MEN.

By JUDSON -R. TAYLOR,

Author of “THE YOUNG SWORDSMAN,” “THE HE |
BREW HERO,” etc.

|

 

CHAPTER IL
THE SBLECTION OF SEVEN

An officer of noble mien, superbly mounted, |
rode amid the camp of the Czar’s troops, under

PICKED MEN.

command of the great Duke Michael, in Ar-|
menia.

 

By

 

hood from feet ‘to crown, and then abruptly
said:

“Thy name?”

*Alzo Baltowski.”

‘“‘A Russian ?”

“I am.”

“Thou hast the cast of countenance of a pure
Caucasian ?”

“My mother was a native of the Cancasus.”

“Thy father ?”

*‘A Russian.”

“Of what tribe was thy mother 7?”

“A Lesghian.”

A frown overspread the royal questioner’s face.

“Of all the tribes of the Caucasus, the Les-

JUDSON 'R.
Author of “THE YOUNC SWORDSMAN,”

 
 

EOESSARY QUALIP

, April 21, 1879.

188 a)

  

\
Washinaton. D.

Picked Me

 

' Tt was not strange that amongso many thou-

sands representing so many kindred nationali-
ties, that he showld succeed in one morning’s
ride in selecting ‘“‘Seven Picked Men,” combin-
ing the necessary qualifications for the peculiar
and perilous duty for which they were chosen.

That same evening the grand duke was seated
atone in the principal room ef the building used
as his headquarters.

A guard sought admission, and announced that
there was one without who wished an audience
with his highness.

An instant later, and Alzo, the Russo Lesghian,
stood in the presence of the royal commander of
| the troops operating in Asia Minor.

 

7 . i: x ‘ on | hi
The great Turco-Russian war had been in pro-| ghians had been the hardest to subdue, and al-| Ax previously intimated, Alzo Baltowski was 4

gress but a few months, and thus far no decided

suecess had attended the numerous brilliant at-
tacks of the Russians on the Turkish lines.

As the officer rode along, an observer might |
' 7 ; |
have noticed that an anxious look rested upon |

his aristocratic and handsome face.

Had the observer recognized the horseman, he
would have known that there was good cause
for the expression of deep concern that he wore.
The rider was an emperor’s son, and the brother
of the ruler of a great nation, and upon him de-
volyed the responsibility of the success of the
Cross against the Crescent in the field operations
in Asia Minor.

The grand duke rode leisurely along until he
came to a clear stream of water, when ho
brought his champing and spirited steed to a
dead halt.

Before him stood a man of magnificent physi-
cal proportions, cladin the garb of a private in
a cavalry regiment.

The soldier was aremarkable-looking man,
possessing a handsome face, expressive of un-
usual intelligence, and features indicative of ex-
traordinary dash and courage.

Beside the soldier crouched a dog, not less re-
markable in appearance than his master.

The animal wasa cross. between a Siberian
hound and a genuine Scotch sleuth-hound.

The soldier held a gourd in his hand, with
which he had been dipping water from the brook
at his feet.

He had risen from a stooping position upon
hearing the tramp of horses’ feet near him, and
atonce recognizing in the rider an officer of
igh rank, ho removed the great forage cap from
cad and made a military salute.

a, moment the grand duke sat and criti-
eyed the splendid specimen of man-

i ways the most hostile to Russia.
|

| They are fanatical Mohammedan, as a rule,

 

'
| Cancagus.

“Art thou a willing soldier in the Czar’s ranks?
Is thy heart against the great father’s enemies?”

‘My father died when I was but a youth, and
yet I had lived long enough among his people to
become of his faith, as did my mother. I love
the great father; my life is at his service. I love
not the Turk, I am a Christian.”

“Canst thou speak the language
Turks ?”

“Ay; and all the dialects of the nations of
Asia Minor; after my father’s death my mother
returned to her own peopk, and ever since I have
been a guide to caravans to Russia and to
India.”

“Thy age”

“Bight-and-twenty.”

‘‘And thon art.a faithful sabject of the Czar?”

“Ag faithful as to the memory of my father,
and the worship of my God!”

‘Good! thou shalt hear from me anon. I have
special service for which thou art well fitted;
and thou dost acquit thyself well, thou canst
win honor and promotion—ay, more, the friend-
| ship of the great father!”
| A pleased smile played over the handsome face
of Alzo, as he bowed his head, and spoke his
| readiness to hold himself at the duke’s service.

of the

 

The grand duke rode on, and before returning |
| to his quarters he had held interviews with six |

other men similar to that with Alzo.

 

a few extraordinary men, good fellows possessed
of rare courage, almost superhuman qualities
of endurance, earnest patriotism, and various
other accomplishments.

 

The commander of the Russians had need of |
i ‘Thus do we become friends, ay, comrades! |

magnificent specimen of physical manhood.
| Tie was slightly above the medium height, not
the muscular

| betrayed possession of great

power.

He was among that rare class of graceful men
| with large, well-developed physical frames.
| His powerful head possessed the fine features
lof the Cancasian race,
| Every glance of his eye, and indeed every flit-
| ting expression over his fine distinctive face,
indicated that he was a man who would dare
anything—a man who would be cool under any
circumstances, and capable of availing himself
lof every chance, at a time of great personal
| peril.

 

His was also a face that bore the stamp of un-

questioned fealty and honesty; there was that
| in the tones of his voice, and in the clear steady
| glance of his eve, that impressed ono instantly
that he meant what he said; thathe was inca-
| pable of deception, but fearlessly truthful and
correspondingly bold at all hazards.
| Ina low, distinct tone the grand duke said:
| “Alzo Baltowski, thy hand!”
' A flush overspread the soldiers handsome face
upon hearing this strange request, and upon see-
ing the hand of an emperor’s brother extended
toward him as though he were an equal,.and not
an humble private cavalryman in the duke’s
army.

Still in an unabashed manner he extended his
| hand, which was immediately seized and warm-
| ty shaken by tho duke,
| Dost nnderstand ?”
! ‘The soldier bowed his head, his eyes glistened,

but he could not speak; emotion struggled in

TAYLOR,
“THE HEBREW HERO,” etc.,

IOATIONS FOR THE PECULIAR AND PERILOUS DUTY FOR WHICH THEY WERE CHOSEN.

his bosom, which it was hard to restrain from
betrayal.

“Dost understand ?” repeated the duke.

“Thou hast won me, soul and body, to thy ser-
vice!”

‘Tis well; and from this hour thou art in the
interest of » friend, as well as in the service of
the great father !”

It was a simple scene, and yet a marvelously
impressive one.

There is nothing so calculated to touch a sol-
dier’s heart, as a token of absolute confidence in
| him on the part of a superior officer.

No man knew better how to win hearts to his
service than Napoleon the Great, and his method
! in most all cases was as above recorded.

Years subsequent to the downfall of the great
emperor, an old veteran, with tears in his eyes,

 

 

and the most warlike of all the people of the | feshy, but large- limbed, and every movement | recalled a scene, wherein the great soldier in

| just such a simple manner had secured his faith-

i ful allegiance to the death.

Within all that great camp there were two

{men who well understood each other—one was

, the son of an emperor, the other the child of &
poor peasant.

CHAPTER II.
ALZO’S START.

Having settled the matter as to faithfulness,
the grand duke commenced to unfold. his plans,
!in as familiar and off-handed a manner as though
| ne were talking to a distinguished member of
' his staff.

Alzo was informed that but eight persons were
| cognizant of those plans, and the service that
| was to be performed.

Seven of the eight were men who had been se-

| lected for the perilous service—the eighth was
himself.
The nature of the service will be duly disclosed
to our readers during the course of our tale, and
a recital of the marvelous adventures that the
seven chosen men of the grand duke en-
eountered.

One of the most painful conditions of the ser-
viee was, that the chosen men were to seem to
, have deserted the standards of the Cross, and to
have gone over full-fledged traitors to the service
of the Crescent.

Even if captured they were to die withont

 

| traitors, leaving an infamous memory.
! ‘a

In success only was life, and a chance to save
| their memories,

 

FRANCIS 8. SMITH |

giving & sign; good and trae men were to die as |

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
   
 
  
  

Three Dollars Per Year. o.
Two Oopies Five Dollars. No. 23.

 

etc,

\CC=Z ;
|

re) oh bul a
di nen My
Di A .

y

 

i The grand duke instructed Alzo in a series of
pantontimic signals.

Simple they were, but so complete that they
| could be conveyed at any moment, and under
( any circumstances, even when blindfolded, or
\ when bound hand and foot, or when speechless.
These signals were intended only for use be-
tween the Seven Picked Men, so that under the
most extraordinary circumstances they couid
recognize each other, even though they had
never previously met.

It was a part of the duke’s plan that the Seven
Picked Men should not be introduced to each
other, although in case of meeting they would
be known by means of the code of signals, and
then life must be given for a life. They were to
do and dare all things for each other, or in con-
cert, should the contingency arise.

Alzo, under all circumstances, should the men
come together, was to act as chief, and his or-
ders must be obeyed unhesitatingly and to the
better.

A sign alphabet was given to Alzo, by which
he could send messages and communications
with the grand duke.

The method was a simple one, and yet a per-
fect disguise for conveying facts by letter, which
it would. be impossible tor any one to under-
stand under the circumstances, unless they pos-
sessed the key.

The method will be revealed to our readers, as
also other instructions, during the course of our
narrative of the Seven Picked Men’s extraor
dinary adventures.
| At length Alzo Baltowski withdrew from
the presence of the royal commander ot the Rus-

 

siAns.
Ho was dismissed as a. prince would dismiss 4

friend, instead of an humble private of the grand

 

army.

During the course of that same night six other
men, cach distinguished by remarkable gifts,
either physical or mental, were received and
treated by the grand duke in the same royal
manner in which Alzo had been met.

They all received similar instract ions and com-
mands, save that in caso they wero one or all to
meet Alzo, he was to be obeyed as they would
obey the commands of the @zar in person.

Upon leaving the grand duke’s presence Alzo
went direct to his humble tent, and commenced
for an immediate de

 

making preparations
parture.

As he approached his tent he was gy
savage noise like the cry of an

  

a

 

 

   
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

  
  
 

  
   

 
 
 
 
  

  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
        
    
    
    
 
  
   
    
   
  

 

    

 
 

 
 
  

        
 
  
   
    
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
 
  
   
   
 
   
 
 
  
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
    
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
   
    
    
 
   
     
   
    
 
   
  
   
 
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
  
    
 
  
 
  
    
  
     
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
 
 
  
  
  
   
    
  
    
    
  
  
   
  
   
    
       
 

 

antennae parent

— cetera A ATI

      
      
        
      
       
      
         
     
 

 

 

  
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
  
  

   
 
 
 
   
 
 
     
   
  
 
 
  
  
    

 

 

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THE

 

 

 

cneainiaiail

 

 

ther—a noise stra

ery of an infant and the fierce growl
beast.

The Czar’s scout approached irom whonce the |
sound proceeded, and at his feet crouched the
great dog that had been in his company in the
morning when he was first saluted by the grand
duke.

“Ah, ha, my good Boga! thou hast missed me.
Well, well, good dog, I have been thinking of
thee; and now tellme, if Itake you with me on
a journey I am about to take, wilt thou be a
good dog ?” :

The dog made a low, sort of noise, when
his master said, in @ jovial sort of way:

“Aha! thou art quick to promise, good dog;
but wilt thon be prudent and noiseless when
danger is nigh ?”

Again the dog made the same sort of noise,
when his master said: :

“Well, well, good Boga, I’ll trust thee forsooth, |
but if thou dost fail me, though I love thee Vl) |
slay thee! For the good father hath placed |
great confidence in thine old master, and..as I
would sacrifice mine own life, 30 would I thine,
if thou dost in any way become a hindrance.’

Alzo talked to the dog in as grave and serious |
a tone as though he believed the animal realized
every word said to him. ‘

‘Remember, good fellow, thou art warned,
and Alzo bent forward and unleashed the great

of a wild
|

 

dog.

Oar hero was not a man to waste a moment,

He had resolved to go, and it wae ‘his intention
to set forth that very night. :

Among the picket of horses was one nominally
belonging to himself. but twas asorry steed, and
he knew of a better one belonging to a captain
in his regiment, who knew as well as an Arab
the good points of a horse.

“My good captain, I'l] borrow thy steed;
should be be mangled by a shot from the Turk
to-morrow, thou wouldst consider him but a loss
to the Czar. And if I but appropriate him as ex-
cellent for the service I am to do, it will be but
a gainto the Czar. Thou wilt seek another
steed in the morning, or Alzo will have passed
to the doom of a traitor.”

The night had setin black and heavy when
Alzo emerged from his tent, after having gath-
ered such articles as he would need on his}
journey.

He proceeded at once toward the spot where
the horses were picketed, tied ten by ten to the
cords fixed parallel to each other.

Alzo moved along until he reached the steed
he wanted.

The animal was a noble specimen of horse-
flesh, strong-}imbed, speedy, and full of mettle.
It took but a moment’ to unloose the horse and
mount, at the same moment a guard shouted :

“Hold! Who goes there ?”

Alzo knew that he would have no chance at a
parley, and less in a struggle, as he did not wish
thus at the very outset of his journey to shed the
blood of a comrade, although he weil knew that
the occasion might arise when such a shocking
event might be necessary,

 

ngely a ternating between the | lest its echoing report might start a hundred fresh} ‘Thou movest not!”

toes at his heels.

He was ainan of great reach of arm and powerful
stroke, and to accommodate this peculiar advantage
he had had made a double-bladed battle-ax.

Tureomans, as @ rule; when not attached to a regu-
lar corps, aré’ armed with speers, not exclusively,
but in a large measure; and against such weapons in
the hands of a man of Alzo’s strength, his ax Was a
formidable weapon.

Hanging his carbine to his saddle bow, he unslung
his ax, and gradually, although imperceptibly, slaek-
ened the speed of his horse.

The riders were fast closing upon him, and yet
Alzo kept his course, allowing them to approach
nearer and nearer. ‘

At length they were within afew bounds, when sud-
denly our hero turned his horse to the right, urged
him forward a couple of leaps, brought him around
with the quickness of a flash, and the next instant,
with a shout, charged right in among his aston-
ished pursuers.

Right and left glanced his terrible battle-ax, and
within sixty seconds three of the Turcomans were ly- |
ing unhorsed, bleeding in the sand of the plain, while
their riderless steeds, with wild bellows ‘of terror,
sped away through the darkness.

The remaining Turcomans had dashed beyond his
réach, but in an instant the great hound, Boga, had
seized the steed of one of them by the threat, and
Alzo, thundering forward, with one blow severed the |
rider’s head from his body, and dashing on went in |
pursuit of the fifth.

The last man appeared to be armed with a rifle, as |
from his movements it was evident he was about to
shoot.

A flash came, but Alzo’s. body lay parallel with the |
‘body of his charger, and the ball aed away harmless- |

|

 

 

ly across the plain.

Before the Turcomam could recover, reload, or fire
again, Alzo was upon him, and in a trice the fifth
rider, who had dared pursue the Czar’s scout, lay a |
quivering, headless mass of human flesh upon the
parched plain.

 

CHAPTER IV.
ALZO MEETS WONDROUSLY STRANGE CHARACTERS.

Alzo brought his own faithful steed to a halt, and
dismounted.

Boga was at his master’s side.

The latter patted his dog, and slipping his arm
within his charger’s bridle, walked slowly baek to
where the last dead Turcoman lay.

This wonderful man had thus slain five fierce en-
emies within the space of a few minutes.

Kneeling beside his last victim, Alzo strived the
body of such articles as he thought he mig need
forfuture disguises, and remounting his horse, rode
away as coolly as though he had merely been en-
gaged in a friendly joust.

Within the hour he saw rising upon the plain the
dark shadow ot foliage, and riding still farther tor-
ward, he struck in amid the foot hilis under the

 

mountain range that rose in the distance, over the
peaks of which already glimmered the reddening

streaks of anew day.
A short time later he saw a cluster of huts, or odas, |
and soon dismounted in front of one of them. |
His summons with the buttof one of his heavy |
holster pistols brought forth a strange-looking speci- |
men ot humanity. j
The man was dressed in the flowing robes peculiar |
to the Armenian, but, unlike his race in general, he |
had a dirty and unthrifty appearance.
The hut, or series of huts, attached one to the other, |

| belonging to this man, were stored with quantities

“The captain sent me for his horse,” he said, | of the few staples of trade native to that section of |
at the same time backing the animal free from | land.

the others.

“By my faith, but I believe thou art a camp- |
follower and a thief, as *tis not ten minutes since !
ths captain was here to look after his pet.”

“ll waste words with thee, blockhead, at an- |
othr time,” said Alzo; and planting his heels in
the horse’s flanks, the spirited animal reared
and snorted, and then suddenly dashed forward
with the speed of the wind. *

lzo was a born horseman. He knew the |
roads running from the camp well, and before |
the nsiageaped guard fairly realized what had |
occurred, the horseman was far beyond rifle-aim |
in the darkness.

Ere daylight Alzo was beyond the Russian
lines; but in gaining his point he was thrice |
fired upon by single guards, besides being chased
by a seore of horsemen, who, failing in overtak-
ing him, had sent

fe had but escaped a few dangers, however,
to plunge into many perils; in fact, each mo-
ment his life was carried in his hand.

CHAPTER HI.
ONE TO FIVE IN DEADLY CONFLICT. ©

Beyond the Russian lines Alzo was compelled to
seek cover until nightfall. Ligihe a ee
He could not travel in open _ had se-
cured some sort of a disguisé, and
ter that Wa pe ot ay wie S
) rough whic 3 :

the te main int was to make adetour and reach vee
rear of the Purkish army, and, by methods suggestoc

5 8.0 i ay inte_-the city
os the oceasion, he was to find his way inte sho <tty |
tic

 
   
    

i : among
rse aye“? Ss

  
  

Kar Os bo pick Yfricers of the great |

fathor, the, CaGf provided himself with food for man |‘

i horse, atid, as the sun began to peep over the |
mountains, he struck from the road and made toward |
a dense grove of trees and shrubs. “ile

In fact, so dense was the latter that he was com-
pelled to draw his great heayvy-bladed knite to cuta
way for himself and steed.

He penetrated tor seme distance, and then picket-
ed atid fed his horse.

Having the day before bim, Alzo partook of some
dates and dried meat, and then adjusting his blanket,
stretehed himself to sleep as unconcernedly as ai
American trapper under the blue vault of heaven |
amid the Rocky Mountains. }

Alzo was glad torest and sleep after his night’s |
ride; but had necessity required, he could have gone |
nights without sleep, and have remained days in the
saddle. —

He had learned to endure almost every hardship— |
cold, heat, hunger, thirst, fatigue. He wae like the
Yacoute of northern countries—a man of iron. |

So experienced was he in the life of a nomad that |
he had learned how to sleep with comfort where an- |
other would freeze to death. Gifted with extreme |
keenness, guided by. the instinct of a Comanche in |
the midst of the white plain when the fog intercepted |}
the whole horizon, he could regain his road where |
another would have wandered hopelessly to death or
starvation. Ee had learned to guide himself by al-
most imperceptible signs. The projection of needles
of ice, the disposition of slender branches of the tree,
emanations borne from the outer rim of the horizon,
the tramping of herbs in the forest, vague seunds
which traversed the air, distant detonations, the
passage of birds through a fog, and by a thousand
other signs which served as beacons toa keen and
wéti-traihed mind.

When the grami duke selected Alzo Baltowski as
oue of his Seven Picked Men, he knew from certain
indications that he was a remarkable man; but thé
royal Sore er could not have possibly dreamed of
the fact that probably no man living was better
adapted for such a peculiar and perilous service.

The whole character. of our one hero may be
summed up in the fact that he possessed the judg-
ment of a European, the cunning of an Indian, the
endurance of an Arab, the courage of a hero, and
withal a heart possessing the tendernese of a woman,
sinews of steel, and a heart of gold.

}
|

 

| were stirring.

‘but shortly after he came without the hut
a volley rattling around. — Py

| tentive.to t Own 7 a
throughout “proceeding at nightfall, trasting to

“| his assume

| sheathed in a scabbard of glistening steel

i Was

as they are calledin our land, was bevertheless a
place for the care of man and beast.
“Come, my good Jetsa,”’ said Alzo, “it is time you
I have business with thee, and per-
chance we may do, some trading ere the sun is fairly
overhead. Take thou my horse, and see that he is
well fed.” yer, %
It was evident that the Armenian, Jetsa, was.
acquainted with our hero, as he called him b
and after inviting his guest te enter the
his horse. ei = Te
Alzo remained with Jetsa all the -
eating, and sleeping, and, in fact, taki
quite easy. a
Our hero had undergone 4 complete
in appearance.

The main hut, although not a regular inn or tavern,

 

  
  
 

rw
Gad in the flowing robes of an Armenian mereh re
No one would have recognized in the grave-lookin,
merchant the dashing, wiry-made Aizo, the slayer o
the five Thrcomans. ;
The dress was an excellent disguise; from the fact
that the Armenians are in part & sortof neutral peo-
ple between the Turk and the Russian. ~
‘To & certain extent they assimilate in character tox
the Hebrews, being a thrifty commercial py \
Concerns; a

the close-fitting tiniform of a Russian cay Tan
§ oH

 

character to safely pass all regular
troops that he might meet, and trust to his good
right-arm, address, and cunning, as against the ro-
ving hordes of brigands and sobre he was likely to
encounter.

Along in the afternoon, however,a little incident
occurred that caused him to delay his departure.

; A second guest arrived at the oda of the cunning
etsa. .

The new guest was a man of most remarkable ap-
pearance. :

He was of great stature; the common herd of men
stood barely as high as his broad shouiders; in fact,
he towered above the crowd of common men like
Saul of old.

His attire was in accordance with the natural
strangeness of his appearance.

He was dressed in sky-blue broadcloth, and on his |
feet were huge morocco boots of the most brilliant |
crimson color; his head was bound with a bright- |
colored silk turban; by his side was a curved sword }

 

pulsive looking.

Alzo had seen men similarly arrayed whom he
knew to be commanders in officiai service in the em- |
ploy ot the Sultan, and he at once concluded that this |
strange-looking individual was most probably the
commander of some roving band ef scouts . |

He may have been employed in the Sultan’s service |
and a brigand chieftain upon his own account, as it
not unusual for these men to combine both
trades.

Alzo was sitting upon a rude bench beside the door-
way to the oda, when this extraordinary man ar-
rived. : :

As the latter dismotinted from his powerful steed,
he turned and fixed his black, piercing eyes upon
Alzo in the most insolent manner.

Alzo was hot-blooded, and under ordimary circum-
atances not at allinclined to submit to such a marked
glance of insclence; but he was compelled to carry
out his assumed character by submitting as humbly
to such an offensive examination as though he he
been the meanest Pariah.

Jetsa was summoned in an imperious manner to
take the remarkable-looking man’s horse, while the
anim: | agraster strode with a haughty step toward
ss 2 door-way

In order to pass within, his dignity took a momen#
tary tumble, ashe was compelled to bend almost
double, and, when within, but afew inches intervened
on the top of his turban and the eeiling of the

nu

e man’s face was haughty, and not bad nor re

 

_ Alzo strolled away toward the stable, pretend-
ing to assist Jetsa, but in reality to ask him some

questions.

 

The day passed quickly, as Aizo slept during the
most of the long hours.

He was preparing himself for the sleepless hours
which he knew were before him.

When night finally set in he started forth.

Ashort ride and his course opened upon a wide
atreteh of. plain.

Again the night was dark, and yet, having a sure-
footed animal, he dashed swiftly ahead. i

For some hours he had been dashing forward, only
stopping occasionally to breathe his good steed, when
suddenly, by arn Instinct peculiar to himself he be-
came aware that &@ large body of horsemen were ap-
proaching.

Nothing had fallen under his observation, nor had
the least sound fallen upon his ear, and yet, as the
wind waa blowing in his face, he learned by a keen
sense of smeil that a large body of horse was ap-
proaching,

To be captured was death.

He knew that no time would be wasted with him,
Within ten minutes after his capture he would be
strangled as unceremoniously as a mad dog, and his
body cast upon the plain, a prey to some straggling
wolf prowling around from the adjacent mountains.

He turned his horse to the left and urged him-on.

He had traversed fully a mile, and slackened the
speed of his animal, when, suddenly, he heard the
tramp of horses’ hoofs behind him.

Turing in his saddie he beheld five figures flying
madly toward him, ‘

t was night, and yet from their mode of riding he
recognized them as Turcomans, fierce, daring, relent-
Jess foes.

The scout gave a snort of contempt on seeing that
his pursuers humbered but five horsemen.

He had a habft of addressing his dog, Boga, upon
all extraordinary occasions, in the same manner as
he would have addressed a faithful comrade.

“Ah, my good Boga, there comes yourenemy ; what

\all T do with them?’

The great dog, who was running beside his master’s

se in dog-fashion, answered witha fierce growl.
ill, eh? my good dog Well, well, T guess we’ll
to do as you say, or they will kill us, eh,

 
 

  
 

 

   

 

yr %

  

we still keeping his horse at a gallop,
the plain in his rear as far as his
saw no other foe save the five
oping behind him.

ie, anc yet hardly dared use it

“Who is yonder man ?”

“Tt know not; I never saw him before.”

“Dost speak truly %’’

“By all the saints, I speak truly! My heart isina
flutter lest within the hour a horde of brigands may
maké a descent ie the village and carry off ali our
goods and chattels.”

“Thou dost think him a brigand chief ?”’

“T have no doubt bust it is Zelrah, a daring mongrel

of whom I have heard.”

| stroug arms, sent his,tormentor stagg

|he arose again, and ina moment the two powerful

| ing the earth trembie as would the sud

| I pray thee forbear.”

tranformation
When he arrived at the Armenian oda, he had worn
| stant”

he

| giant was dragged to his knees; he lost his balance,

Alzo yawned.

The giant advanced and placed his great hand upon
the‘seeming Armenian’s shoulder, when suddenly the
latter leaped to his feet, and, throwing forth his,

ng back as
though propelled by a battering-ram.

Orientals do not alway@ have an immediate resort
to knives and cimeters, —

They are an athletier
practiced in wrestling,
scufiling in the same
cans, . 3

The giant appeared astonished at being thus sent
floundering back by the sleepy-looking Armenian.

Alzo was not a small man by any means; on the
contrary, he was-a fellow df great stature, broad and
sinewy, with no extra flesh and not any fat,

He was not as large, however, as his ponderous an-
tagonist, and, as compared with the giant, was a
small man.

The giant did net fall, and, recovering himeelt, he
adivanced asecond time foward Alzo.

The latter had not speketf one word; he had been
aa dumb as though a mute.

The giant, however, gave utterance to several ex-
clainations, and by them betrayed the fact that his
assault was well considerdd; and furthermore, that
it was provoked by a suspicion that the Czar’s scout
was not what he seemed. -

After having thrown the giant back Alzo had re-
sumed his seat; but as his antagonist approached,

 
    
 
   

people, and some of them
nd at times much given to
‘as Europeans or Amer

men were interlocked in each other’s arms.

A wonderftl exhibition followed,

The two powerful men writhed and struggled for a
moment, their. great strong muscles snapping and
cracking like so many whip-corda.

A second time the giant was hurled away, and this
time he fell with great force upon the ground, mak-
den fall of an
elephant.

Alzo had still remained silent, and once more re-
sumed his seat .

The giant rose again, and, despite his immense size,
he was wondrously agile.

Clapping his hand against the bilt of his curved
weapon, the giant said:

, ‘Either you or I must die, thou dog of an Arme-
nian |"

Alzo stepped within the oda, and in a moment re-
appeared carrying on hisarm a weapon very similar
to the giant’s.

a etsa now appeared, and protested against a com-
ut. hi

Alzo motioned to the giantto follow him,

witbort a word the monstrous-sized swordsman
obeyed. : 2

Jetsa followed and tonched Alzo upon the arm,
when the latter stooped and whisperedin the Arme-
nian’s ear:

“Tf this be Zelrah, as thou dost fear, thou wilt have
no further cause to fear him more; we will soon set
his head upona pole beside thine oda’s door as a
warning to his brigands should they come.”

“Tt will be. but provocation to them to murder me.

“Alas! I must save my own skin. Yonder colossus
of a man has decreed I should die; *twill be he or me
with the moment.”

Jetsa knew sufficient of the character of Alzo to de-
sist any further persuasion, and a moment later, upon |
a grassy plata short distance from the oda, the two \
strange men, with their equally strange weapons,
stood face to Tace. a

As the men advanced’ eich one foot and laid
their glittering weapons edge to edge, it would a
pear 2s though at the first blow the larger man would
with one blow sever the head. from his antagonist.

Skill, however, is more than strength when it comes |
to the play of naked blades; and when skill and |
strengt) are combined, disparity in stature counteth |
as nafight. >

The two strange men exclianged a few passes, and
the truth of the above wis demonstrated. _

Their broad, curved, glittering blades and
skimmed through the air, and met in curious twist,
but the one seemed a match for the other.

The overband cut asin the broad sword practice,
was met to blunt the edge of the descending steel; the i
right and left cuts as well; the lowercuts were all met |
and followed by trials of strength in hand and wrists |
when the swords became interlaced.

Full twenty ininutes passed, and the advantage
was with neither combatant. eo

Both were breathing heavily, their bosoms rose and
fell through forced, long-drawnt breaths, when an’ in-
&® rest occurred, While their eyes flamed and
eamed like restless balls 6f fire set in the soekets of |
jhuman sical.

     

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

By mutual consent an in of rest was taken.
The twotimen, after a fyi Struggle, slid their\
weapons abart, and, as tops by n common consent,
both Retiree a ew Stas stood still to breathe.
During al}. this ti pre Xk emeiied |
ps RAK dae Ta ; speak, 7
as mu sieat,on fhe con vy let fall many ex-?
mations,  ~ gS . — |

1 ‘Ta inobment’s}rest again they advanced to the‘
deadly duel. |

A few seconds and the perspiration stood out upon |
the broad foreheads of both men, and rolled in
streams down their cheeks.

The long twilight was settling into the gloom of
night, and still these twgextracrdinary men con-
tinued the etrite. : ee f

The larger man showed at length signs of fatigue.

His blows were less furious, and his showed
how agonized waa the tension of his muscles.

Alzo knew now that it was but a question of a few
moments ere his ponderous foe would be at his
mercy.

The giant appeared to realize the fact that he was
failing, and lke an expirmg whale floundering on a
flat, he made one more violent assault, more furious
than any before.

The tireless Alzo, however, waa ever quick and
ready, and his iron muscles seemed to not feel at all
the tearful strain to which they had-been put.

Suddenly the giant’s grasp relaxed, Alzo’s weapon,
like a shooting flash of light, cut the air and was in-
tertwined; a momentary struggle followed, and the

and his weapon flew from his grasp, and went flying
over Alzo’s head.

Then Alzo’s lips parted, and for the first time he
spoke.

His sword was lifted aloft, it quivered an instant
in the darkness, like a five-fiy’s illuminating flash, |
ere it was to descend and sever the giant’s head from
his gigantic shoulders.

It was at this moment Alzo exclaimed:

“Thus perish all foes of our great father!”

Suddenly his sword was checked in fits descent.

He started back, and a cry of amazement fell from
his lips.

Instead of slaying his late antagonist, he extended
his hand in teken of. friendskip.

At the critical moment of Alzo’s exclamation there
flashed a suspicion through the giant’s mind.

Our hero’s descending stroke was checked by see-
ing the giant make the signal sign of one of the grand
duke’s “Seven Picked Men.”

(TO BE CONTINUED ]

>2<+-

Fool of the Family.

By Bracebridge Hemyng,
AUTHOR OF
“DUBLIN DAN,” “JACK HARKAWAY,” etc., eto.
(“The Fool af the Family” was commenced in No. 18.

Back numbers can be obtained from any News Agent in
the United States and Canada.[

 

 

CHAPTER X.
TOMMY MAKES A COURAGEOUS RESOLVE.

Leaving Tommy to pursue his journey, we must return
te Smithers, who, it will be remembered. wended his soli-

ee on that,” cried the major, in a high state of de-

light.
Tell, para’ ” exclaimed Smithers, ‘I’m in your hands
now. What shall we do tirst ?” |
“Leave it all tome, I'll sell the wagon, team, and stores |
to my friend who oan that saloon behind me. We'll en-
gage his rooms over the store, and hire a nigger to wait on |
he guests. I’ve got all the tools for the game, and we'll |
0 to-morrow night. I believe in doing things quickly— |
t Bosttines Come and oe drink on me.” om |
Smithers made no oO jon. Whichever wa € cur-
rent of his fate — tj |

|
|
|
|
1

eran, he was willing to go with it just then.

The major certainly showed himself a man of brains. In
a couple of hours he had sold the stores, wagon, and team,
e ed the rooms for the game, with the sleeping-apart-
ments overhead, hired a negro, and begun business, which
proved very successful.

One afternoon, when the ppajor and his partner were in
the gaming-rooms discussing their future prospects, there
was aVing at the bell below.

Thé negro descended the stairs and saw a boy on the side-
walk, who looked tired, worn, and travel-stained.

“What do you want, sonny, hey?” asked the negro, eying |
him suspiciously.

“Tf you please,” replied the boy, “I want a job, and they
told me that perhaps the major, who keeps here would re-
quire an office lad.”

“Go ‘long; take yourself off right away,” answered |
Czesar, “‘we’ve no use for boys here. If you’re hungry Tu

ib you ten cents to buy some molasses and a bit of
%, n ”

“It’s work I want,” rejoined the boy. ‘I have been in-
formed that I’ve a relative in this town, but I can’t find
him. I anda friend came from San Francisco, but the
Indians attacked us, killed my friend, and robbed us of all
we had. Speak to your boss for me.”

ae that there was some conversation going on
down stairs, Smithers exclaimed :

“What do you stand chinning there for?’

Tne boy started as he heard the voice.

“T must go Y !” he exclaimed. “That voice! Stand on
one side, you darkey.”’

Cesar moved so as to allow him to pass, and the boy
sprang up the stairs. at the head of which Mr. Smithers
was standing.

“Who are you, and what do you want here?’’ asked the

 

 

ar.

“Don’t you know me?”

“Why, yes, I think I do, Is it—can it be——”

Smithers hesitated.

“Tt is I—Tommy,” replied our hero. “Oh! father, I
did not |

 

never felt so giad in my life as I do at striking you.
“How did you find me out?’ asked Smithers, who

appear well pleased at the encounter.

‘T heard you were here, and I started with a friendtodis- | more venture before he leit it forever.
killed my friend, and 1 came on | notice that a wagon containing bars of silver would leave
P | Bilver City ona certain day, and he intended te attack it
The major had been listening to this conversation, and | as it passed through the cany

cover you. The redskins
alone.

he beckoned to the boy. }

“Where's your mother?’ he asked.

“She came with father,’’ was the reply.

Smithers smothered an oath.
since I left Jersey City, and I’ve come here chie to see
mother! Where is she?’

“Dead 1”

“And little Alice and Harold?’

“Dead algo i’’

The tears came into Tommy’s eyes.

The major looked intently at Smithers.

“Say, pard,” he exclaimed, ‘“‘why didn’
before? Did you see your family shot down?

“No, but they were captured by Captain Jordan.”

“Didn’t it ever occur to you that, if you’d been a man,
you would have raised a hand for them. If you’d told me,

you'd said a word to the boys we'd have made a raid on
thé Snake Canyon, and Jordan wouldn’t have stopped
a more travelers.”

‘ommy looked up with determination.

“Tf? father hasn’t courage enough to goafter mamma, I'll
go by myself!” he exclaimed.

“Bully for you, my boy,’ said the major. {

“What's the use, she’s dead and gone now ;
like a fool, Tommy,” remarked Smithers. }

“The boy’s no fool,”’ answered the en “T honor him
for his resolve, and I'll give him a pace to fight with.”

He took one from his pocket, and presented it to Tommy.

“That's to rescue your mother with,’’ he continued.

“Thank you, sir,’’ replied Tommy.

“If you’re not back in three days, I'll raise all Silver
City, 4nd we'll root out this robber, if he hasn’t skipped,
i T’ll bet a five-doliar bill that you capture Captain Jor-

pe

’

1

|

;

|

Tommy bestowed a look of gratitude upon Major Alls- |

ton, and kept atar ctable distance from Smithers.
A man at this moment entered the apartment, and hear-
ing the remark, exclaimed :
“Tl see that.”
Major Aliston turned round and looked curiously at the
stranger.
“You'll do what?’ he asked.
“I'll raise you fifty dollars, and you daren’t go me a cent |
ea ;
’ |
|

 

better.”

“The bet you just made, to the effect that this boy would
capture mme.”’

“You!” cried the major, insurprise. “I never saw you
before, and certainly did not speak of you.”

Boe - wrong in both cases,” replied the stranger. i

“How

“We met three years ago in California, when I saved |
you from being hanged fora horse thief.’’ |

“Great Scott!” cried the major. ‘‘Who are you?”

“Then I was Pero Gormez, thé bandit; now I am @ap- |
tain Jordan, on the same graft }

aie said the major. “I |

“By thi ‘cap, you're right !”’
roTicd tH swint, an fit hadn’t been for you and }
your, brave boys I shouldn’t be citing in-—éhie hair |
oF

++

 

~ ¥ Jordan, the robber of the Dead Snake Canyon. | seemed to make a man of him.

Ow. ee “i ie
“What you here,” cap?’ asked the or. “It |
isn’t exactly sate for youto be in the city. ii the boys

w it——
“That's what I came about, knowing I could count on |
ia , eae to that little service I aid you down in Cali- |
‘OI ”

“Yes, yes.”

“J keep myself posted, and I heard that the boys were
going to make @ raid on the oe
Ag) x did talk of it,’’ replied the major.

“Well, I want you tostop that. I’m going to quit ina
day or two, and shall not give your people any mHRS |

“Tl see to it,” said the major.
Suddenly Smithers left the room, but quiet as had
been his movements, his absence was noticed by the b.

 

|
ra
“Where has that cur gone to?’ he inquired. i
“Tl be Banged if I know.” replied the major.
“Gone to the town, I guess,” said Captain Jordan.
“Well, I won’t give him the chance. My horse is outside,
and I'll skip.”
‘“Good-day, cap. Come and see me again,” said the
major.
Captain Jordan moved toward the door. |

Tommy placed himself before him. |
“You don’t go from here,” he exciaimed, “before you

tell me about my mother.’ |
“She is quite well, sois Alice. As for Harold, you must |
ask the man you call your father about him, for his hand
is red with his boy’s blood.” |
“Why don’t you let mamma go away?’ asked Tommy.
“Simply because she doesn’t want to,”’ was the reply.
et ommy amiled disdainfully, as if he did not believe
his.
“Come and see for yourself,” exclaimed the robber,
will promise not to harm a hair of your head.”

‘Thats a fair offer, and I accept it.”
“You will come?’
“foxpect me to-morrow.” |

The robber nodded his head approvingly, and quitted the

room.

Tommy sank into a chair and looked down, as if trying
to recollect something. ;

“What's troubling you?” asked the major.

“T’ye seen that. man somewhere, and I can’t recollect
where,”’ he replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite. The face is as familiar to me as my own.”

He tapped his forehead with his finger, but the recol-
lection would not come to him, though he was positive
that he had seen Captain Jordan somewhere or another.

His remarks about his mother he could not understand,
for it seemed incredible that she would choose to remain.a
prisoner in the bandit’s cave. All wasa mystery to him.
He was roused from his lethargy by the sound of voices in
the street.

A pistol shot was heard. This was followed by another
and another.

Rushing to the window, whither the major had

t
| could do well as a farmer, and live a lite of
| tentment, but he forgot that ill-gaimed wealth rarely if ever
| does its possessor f
“Father,” exclaimed Tommy, “I’ve gone through a deal | when a shot was heard in the

t you tell me this \ er, when you could go a

| Thompson, who
) Was examining with

| with

| Bay.

“T | Once out on the undulating prairie,
| boldly, and walked rapidly along the track which ser

preced- | in supplication.

ed him, hé saw aman on horseback dashing- wildly up the |

street.

This was the robber captain.

Smithers had met the sheriff of Silver City, and given
the alarm, which caused a body of citizens to assemble.

The robber had barely time to mount his horse and ride
for dear life.

Fortunately for him, the shots which were fired did not
touch either him or his horse, and he made his escape.

Smithers returned to the room.

“7ll have to break with you,” exclaimed the major, “if
you Zo on this way.”

“What for?’ asked Smithers.

“Didn’t you hear that fellow say that be had saved my
life? See here,’ continued the major, “I want you to un-
derstand that you can’t play fast and loose with me. Cap-
tain Jordan will think I put up a job on him.”

The major continued to grumble. but Smithers took no
notice either of him or Tommy.

 

 

Alzo returned and reseated himself beside the hut

door, and calmly sat and smoked with the dignified
silence of a genuine Turk. ;
| Inthe meantime the light began to shadow the
surrounding plain, and soon the strange guest, who
| had taken refreshment, came forth.
Alzo gave no heed, although he soon became
| aioe that the giant was surveying him from head to
Toot.

There was but the one bench, and as the stranger
lit his huge pipe he advanced, and addressing Alzo in
Armenian, said:

“Come, good friend, if thou dost take a strell *twere
better for thy limbs.”

Alzo’s’ blood boiled. The meaning of the man’s
words was patent; he would have turned the Czar’s
scout froni the bench as he would have kicked a dog
from his path.

Alzo did not move immediately, be was revolving
in his mind what risk he would run should he quarrel
with the giant.

It was not the personal risk he was considering,
but the imperiling of the trusts of his sacred mis-
sion.

The matter, however; was 8 lily solved, and in a
most extraordinary and startiing manner.

“Thou dost not move,” said the giant, in a petulant
tone.

Alzo for the first time dedigned to notice his ques-
tioner by fixing a calm and undistarbed glance upon
him.

“Come, thou trading dog. Move thyself or I may
chose to assist thy sluggish limbs!”

The Czar’s scout sat as imperturbably quiet as
though he were about to drop off into a peaceful doze.

CHAPTER V.
ALZO’S BATTLE WITH THE GIANT.

The giant advanced a atep toward Alzo, and ina
loud voice, while his eyea flashed like scintillating
coals of fire, he said:

 

 

tary way toward Silver City, after the capture of his wife
by the robbers, the desertion of his daughter Alice, who
ran to her mother’s assistance, and the shocking death of
Harold.

Trying to dismiss all the unpleasant recollections of the
day from his mind, Smithers drank more whisky, and in
time reached the cit > to which he had emigrated.

Entering the city through a spacious street which was
named Broadway, he drove up to an open space in front of
the City Hall, and then halted his wagon.

A man of tall stature and cadaverous cast of counten-
ance, who was lounging in front of a saloon, with his hands
in his pockets and a cigar im his mouth, approached the
wagon, eyed it critically, and then regarded Smithers with
an inquisitive air.

“Born East, I calculate, stranger ?’ he said.

“Yes,” replied Smithers.

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance. I’m Major All-
ston, and we’l known in this town.”

The major might have added that he was teo well known
to be trusted, for, though a smart, clever man, he was
nothing more than a corner loafer, who made a seanty and
precarious living by his wits.

“See here, major,” said Smithers, “I’m a stranger, and
not posted. You can call me’ Smithers. I’ve got a few
hundred dollars and the goods in the wagon. My inten-
tion was to open a corner grocery to get a living.”

“Won't do; there are too many of them. I'll tell you
what to do, and you can bet your Hfe that I know this
community better than you,” saki the major.

“T guess you onght to.”

“You take me into partnership, and we'll run a game.
The boys round here are all gamblers, and there are three
games in full blast every night, all making money—dead

jles of it—and no skin at that. Sailrightin with me. I

now all the boys, and I can work the racket.”

“‘But where’s your share of the capital?”

Major Allston touched his forehead.

ak he said. I've talent and experience. That’s
worth all the stamps you can put into the concerm. Is it

ago?’
desperate and callous as he was, Smithers did not care
much what he did; he fancied that running a faro bank
was an easy Dusiness, and less tiresome than working hard
all day behind the counter of a store. «-
"*T’ll do it,” he replied, after a momentary pause for con-
sideration. ‘

 

| were preparing for the business of the evening. Tommy

y
In an hour’s time ft grew dark, and while the partners

being very tired, stole off toa bed which had been prepare
| for him in the house.
It was some time, however, before he could get to a
He was haunted by the face of Captain Jordan, and in

vain tried to remember where he had seen it before. That |

it was familiar to him he was certain.

my life I can’t place him. However, I’ll go to the cavern
in the Snake Canyon to-morrow, and then——”

 

He broke off abruptly.

What would happen then, he could not tell, but he felt
assured that important events were about to take place,
which would influence his future career.

Early in the morning he descended from his bedroom.
| No one was about. The major and Smithers had kept the
gaming room open ‘till four o’clock, and then went to bed.

. Passing through the city he walked over the prairie until
| hé came within sight of the Dead Snake Canyon.

Scareely had he-entered the valley than he was surprised
to hear the yoice of Captain Jordan.

“Welcome, my lad,” he cried. ‘Your mother is waiting
to see you. Follow me.”

A winding path conducted them to the entrance to the
cavern in which the robber lived.

In a rude vault, illuminated by the rays of the sun, Tom-
my saw Mrs. Smithers seated on a roughly-made chair,
| with Alice by her side.

She rose hastily, and embraced him with every demon-
stration of fondness, ts

“My dear, dear child, I am so glad to see you once more,”
she eried. “dow much you must have gone through since
| we last met.”

“Tommy returned her caresses, and replied :

“T am happy now, mamma, because I have found you.
But why do you stay here?’

“T have my reasons,” she replied.

‘You would go if you could?” he asked.

“No, my child. I am happy and contented. Soon we
shall leave here and——”

“Wet? interrupted Tommy.
Jordan?’

“Tt do.”

“But he is a robber.”

“He will give up this life, and we shall live happily.

 

“Do you include Captain

 

It | hard to have no place to lay one’s head, and

is not his fault, he has told me all. With me to gaide him
he will reform.”
“What is he to you, mother?’ said Tommy, in per.

| plexity.

Captain Jordan was standing close by.
she ex med: :

“Shall I tell him?’

“Yes,” was the laconic reply.

“He is my husband-—the man I loved before I

Lookiug at him,

met

| Smithers, whom I married, thinking my first love dead.”

A new light now burst upon Tommy.

“He your husband, mamma?’ he exclaimed.

“Yes, my dear, and your father,’’ she said.

Now poy knew why the face had haunted him so.

Captain Jordan was no other than the man Thompson,
who had taken him from Jersey City, and s0 nearly got him
into trouble in New York.

“Do you Jove him, Mamma,” he asked.

“T do,” she replied.

“Then T will give him my hand,”’ said Tommy, “and if
you are not ashamed to be Gallied his wife, Iam proud to be
his son.”

Captain Jordan, or Thompson, took the boy’s hand and
imprinted a kiss on his forehead.

“You shall never have cause to regret ca
he exclaimed.

For the first time in many months Tommy felt a sense
of dreamy happivess stealing over him.

He had found his mother, and what was more, he hi
met with his father under circumstances which induced
him to like him better than he had done at their first in-
terview,

 

Ling me father,”

 

 

‘

CHAPTER XIf
JUSTICK ON THE TRACK,

The result of Tommy’s venturing into the cave was cer
tainly such as to surprise him greatly, for he was tur from
thinking that Captain Jordan, the fama@us freebooter, was.
his fathem and that his mother was livfag with him oz her
own choice, instead of being contined’% a prisoner, which
all supposed. ‘

Thompson, or Jordan, was very anxious to quit the life
he was Padiine and had promised to do so shortly, at the
solicitations of his wife, and he wished to ¢o farther west,
His mother added her entreaties tot of his father that
he would accompany them, and hay no tie to bind him
to Smithers, he consented.

Little Alice had quite lost all her haughtiness, and re-
moved from the intiuence of Smithers, she found much
to love in the character of her mother, and though ske felt
some repulsion toward Thompson, she grew te like him 4
little in time.

Phompson

  

Ost

   

cave tomMake one
He had reeeived

was only waiting in the

  

With this amount of property he thought he

peace and con-

It was
valley.

Tommy sprang to his teet, he having been
coversation with his mother.

“What is that?’ he cried.

“Oh,” replied his mother, with a heavy sigh, “it an at
tack on some poor traveler. “Il wish all this work was

any good. early one morning

engaged in

| over.”’

“So do I,’ said Tommy. “Why do you stay here, moth

¥ so easily 1’

“T don’t know what to do, my dear,” replied she, in her
usual weak-minded and undecided way. “Phompson is
your father and legally my husband. Lam _ afraid he
would kill meifI thwarted him. As for Smithers, I de-
spise him for his pride and his trickery. I wish I had
never married.”’

“Don’t say that, mamma,
Tommy.

She pressed her lipsto his face and kissed him ten-
derly.

“They call you the fool of the family,’’ she replied. “But

 

for my sake,” exclaimed

don’t talk | to me you were always bright and amiable.

was interrupted by the entrance of

some papers in his hand, which he
apparent interest. Suddenly he ut-
tered a loud ery of rage.

thousand curses!” he exclaimed. “T

luck !”

“What is?" inquired his wife. *

“If we had only known who this fellow was he wonld
not have got off 80 easily.”

“And who is he!” ;

“Whot The famous detective Berghausen, and here in
my hand is a warrant for the arrest of Smithers for robbing
his employers in New York.” .

Thompson bit his lips and frowned darkly, asi? his mind
was ill at ease. ’

“JT ough to kill Berghausen,” he said. as if talking to
himself. “Itis the only way to play asafe game, but ifI

This conversation
held

his is .bad

} ride after him I may miss the silver, and not have a chance

of such a stake again.

Setting his broad-brimmed hat jauntily on one side of
his head, he quitted the cavern.

Tommy looked anxiously at his mother.

“It is my opinion,” he exclaimed, “that you would be
better without either of such men as Thompson or Smith-
ers.”’

“Remember, Tommy, that he is your father.”

“1 know it, and cannot help feeling sorry for it. Heisa
pold, bad man, and although he says he will lead a good
life in future, Il am sure he’ll never be anything buts
thief, and a low one, at that.”

Theyanhappy woman sbook her head sadly.

“T féar,” she said, “that there is no rest for me this side
of the grave. I must fulifil my destiny.”

Covering her face wish her hands she wept bitterly.

Tommy went outside and walked up and down in deep
thought, fer he was in the midstcf plenty now, whic
He felt restless and exci-
ted. Coming events cast their shadows before, and he had
that remarkable silentadmonition that something of great
importance was about to happen. :

He was roused from his meditation by his mother’s
voice.

“Tommy !” she cried.

“Well, mamma?’ he replied.

“Have you seen Alice?’

“She is not in the cave, and I notice that her hat and H®
tle cloak are missing. here can she have gone?’

Tommy refiected a moment.

“J think I know, mamma.” he said.

at you can guess, you are smarter than I am,” she tj

| plied.

“I remarked,” continued Tommy, “that she listened
peculiar attention when she heard a man had gone to
Silver City to arrest Mr. Smithers. He is her father, and
she always had a great affection for him.”

“Tam aware of that.”

“Then it is my opinion that she has gone to Silver City

| in order to put Mr. Smithers on his guard, and enable him
| to flee from the officers of justice.”

“Tt is possible, but what danger may she not encount
onthe way! If she gets benighted the wolves will k
her. Poor child, she is unarmed, and I should break my
heart if anything happened to her.”’

“Mother!? exclaimed Tommy, ‘I know what you would
You wish me to go and find Alice.”

“Oh, yes, if itis not asking too much.”
“T will set off at once.”
Seeing that his pistol was loaded, he started at once after

| Alice, who actually had started for the distant city to
| warn Smithers of the danger in which he stood.

Skirting the huge masses of rock which lay about aes
sides of the valley, Tommy succeeded in quitting the D
Snake canyon without attracting the notice ae father.
he slipped out m
ceo

asaroad. Some distance ahead of him he fancied he saw
a slender form which might be that of Alice. He quick-
ened his movements. In ashort time he was able to satis-
fy himself that it actually was the little girl proceeding
her chivalrous Journey without exhibiting’ any apparen
symptoms of fatigue.

All at once he beheld a tall form spring from the hi
grass among which it had beén concealed. The long hair,
ornamented with feathers, the red skin, and the dirt
blanket in which the form was wrapped, assured him th
the apparition was that of an Indian. Though compara
tively rare in that part of the country, bands ee oe
crossed the prairie and did not hesitate to rob, burn, an!
murder where they had the opportunity. In the hand of
the Indian was an uplifted tomahawk. Horribly afraid of
some tragedy, Tommy increased his pace to arun, hoping
to come up in time to prevent the dastardly redskin from
doing any harm ito the little girl. But he was too late. The
Indian uttered a terrible whoop and, in pure wantonness,
made a slashing blow at Alice.

The child, frightened at the war-ery, turned, and behold.
ing the savage, sank upon her knees, holding up her hands
What she said Tommy could not hear,
buteven at the distance he was from her he fancied he
saw her lips move. Possibly she begged for merey, possi-
bly she prayed for help. The cruel tomahawk, however,
cut short her prayers, or her supplications, and sank —_
into her brain, causing her to die without another wo
A fiendish laugh came from the Indian. His knife was
instantly in requisition, and with a dexterity born of prac-
tice, he cut off her beautiful flowing hair with the skin at
tached to it. He had murdered the poor child for her
scalp.
beaink with rage and indignation, Tommy bounded over
the ground, and when he got near enough he sank on one
knee. Raising his pistol he fired. The ‘Indian was hit
but not mortally. He uttered a howl like that of a wild
beast, and looked for his enemy, who was not so much hid.
den in the sage-bark and chaparral as to be invisible. But
before he could load his rifle another shet from Tommy
brought him to his knee, and a third rolled him over like a
bullock on the shambles before the ax of the butcher.
Tommy ran up.

The Indian appeared to be dead, but to make sure that
the life had really left the wretch, Tommy struck him
again and again with his own tomahawk, which he picked
| up from the ground, and hacked at him as he would have
| cut a mad dog or a venomous reptile, .

“Poor child,’ he said, as he stooped down and kissed the
plood-stained features of little Alice. “This is very hard,

“T know him, I know him,” he muttered, “but to save | I would have gladly laid down my life to save hers, but it

is one comfort that her young life is avenged on the person
of this blood-thirsty savage.”

Alice was quite dead. Near the spot where she fell was
a cairn or heap of stones. Strangely enough it chanced
that this cairn was the one erected by Smithers over the
body of his son Harold, whom he had so cruelly killed on
this very spot. Perhaps the wae | ground which was drink-
ing up the life-bloed of Alice had absorbed that of her
brother,

Not being able to carry the body to the city for inter-
| ment, and not liking to leave it to the mercy of the wolves,
Tommy tore down some of the stones. Reverently lifting
| the body, he placed it in the center of the heap, and cov.
| ered it again with the biggest stones his strength would

ermit him to lift. Then the brother and sister were buried
} in one rude grave.
| “Poor Alice!” said Tommy. ‘God bless her!”
|
i
|
|

His first impulse was to return to the cave and carry to
his mother the melancholy news of Alice’s death. She
had already been informed of the decease of Harold, and
had grieved much in consequence; but come to think of
it, he felt a conviction that she would like him, if possible,
to save Smithers from the impending arrest.

Following out this train of thought Tommy turned round
again and walked toward Silver City. It was quite late in
the day when he arrived there, but he soon found Mr.
Smithers, and told him all the sad news.

“But this is not all,” said Tommy. “You are in danger

j
|
|
of——”
“Of what?’
{| “Arrest. The detective, Berghausen, is in this city
| ing for you, and you may expect him here at any n
| Your only safety is instant flight.”
{ Smithers looked the picture of despair.
} “TY must fly,’ he exclaimed, after a pause.
| been said that there is no rest for the wicke

 

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eror on the face of the earth. Why was I not content with
alittle. All this comes of pride and living beyond my
income. Take warning by my fate, boy, and whatever
rour circumstances in life may be, rest satisfied with it.
Pride must have a fall.”

“Had you not better take what money you can, hire a
horse, and start, sir?’ said Tommy.

“Yea, yes. Itis very good of you to do all this for me
Tommy. I had no right to expect it, for I always treated
you badly.

“Mother always taught me to forgive my enemies,” an-
gawered Tommy; “and, of course, I could not expect you to
like me so well as Harold and Alice.”

Going to the safe he took from it a large roll of bills.”

There was a voice on the stairs.

“Ha! he cried, “what is that?’

“For Heaven's sake!’ exclaimed Tommy, “get away
pe oat may be the deteotive. Can you not get out
: e roof?”

*“T know not.”

The noise increased.

The next moment the door was pushed open, and a tall,
thickset man appeared on the threshold.

“You're my prisoner!’ he shouted. “I know you from &
ee Up with your arms, or I'll give you some
ead.”

Smithers failed to comply with his request, and haftily
drew a pistol, which he fired at the detective.

His hand trembled so that the bullet went wide of its
mark, and Berghausen, seeing that he meant fight, and that
his life was in danger if he did not adopt violent means,
returned the fire. He was cool and collected, and did not
miss his mark. Smithers uttered a ery, and pressing
his hand to his heart, staggered against the wall, and fell
on the carpet, whichhe satarated with his blood.

Z ei: sorry,” remarked Berghausen, coolly; “but I had
o do it.”

Tommy had flown to Smithers’ side.

“Are you much hurt?” he asked.

-Done for, my lad,” exclaimed Smithers, speaking with
difficulty. “My race isrun. It will soon be all over, and
I can’t say I regret it.”

“Shall I fetch a doctor?’

“No use. Pray God have merey on my ainful soul!”

These were the last words he uttered, for though his
lips continued to move at intervals for some minutes, no
coherent sound came from them.

The sheriff, who was a man named Dunbarton, happened
to be passing at the time, and, hearing the shots, thought
it his business to enter the house. He saw the biood-
stained ¢orpse of Smithers.

“What's this?’ he exclaimed.

“J am a detective, with a warrant for this man’s arrest
for robbing his employers in New York,” replied Berg-
hausen, “and I killed him in self-defense.”’

“Well,” said the sheriff, “if yon’] take my advice,
leave town and get back mighty quick.”

“What for?’

“The boys liked Smithers, and knew his pard well; they
might take it into their heads to lay you out.”

“Thatis so answered the detective.

Accordingly he got out of the house, and made his way
out of the town, for he felt somewhat the hint given him
was equivalent to an order.

Tommy had not been noticed by any one.

Seeing that he could be of no further use to the sheriff
or to Smithers, who,was now beyond mortal aid, he too
left the house. At the

you'll

he saw Berghausen talking to them.

‘“You can go along with us,” said one of the men, “4f you
can fight, for we’ve got silver in the wagon, and are told to
look out for Captain Jordan.”

‘Good enough,” replied the detective.

“May I go with you also?’ asked Tommy.

“No; we dont want any boys hanging onto us,” was the
answer.

Tommy shrank behind at this ungracious reply, and the
wagon moved on.

Soon the shades of night began to fall, and, feeling very
tired, Tommy threw himself down on the sage-brush, and

fell fast asleep. When he awoke the sun was riding high

in the heavens.

“T must hurry be he remarked. “If the wagon trav-
elea all night, it reached the canyon ere this, and
either Thompson has captured it, or Berghausen and the
others have overcome him.” ;

He was naturally very anxious to know what had hap-
pened, and walked at his quickest pace, his heart beating
wildly with es

it was midday w he reached the calm and pleasant
valley, passing
whose quaintly-shaped
sentinels.

Going direct to the cave, he found it empty. In vain he
called to his mother. There was no answer. Alarmed and
oe more anxious than before, he proceeded to explore the
valley.

All at once he distinguished his mother's form seated on
a fragment of rock. At her feet was the body of a man.

One glance enabled Tommy to comprehend what bad

happened.
eo her, he took her hand, saying:
“Mother, it is al? over now.”

She raised her tear-stained face to his. Then she low-
ered it once more, and cast her gaze sorrowfully upon the
wee which was that of the bandit, Thompson.

“We are alone in the world now,” continued Tommy.
“Smithers is dead, shot by Berghausen; Alice was killed
by an Indian, but I will protect you.”

“He attacked the wagon,” explained she. “He was
killed at the first fire. His servdnt’s body is down there”
—pointing with her finger—‘twith the body of one of the
trav<l-rs, who was killed.”

“Come away, mother,” said Tommy.
bury the bodies.”
* *x © * oo 2 ©

“What are we to do now?’ demanded Tommy's mother.
“The : ema such @ blank to me, oh! thank Ged that
you are to me, Tommy.”

“Mother,” said Tommy, “while I was burying the bod-
ies. aman came along on horseback. He was looking for
me. His name is Major Alisten. He was Mr. Smithers’
partner, and he gave me a roll of bills, which he said was
Smithers’ share of the profits of the game they played. It
is over two thousand dollars. Let as go back to New York.
We will start in business, and we shall not want.”

Mrs. Smithers drew bim to her bosom, and embraced
him tenderly. :

“God bless you, Tommy. I will live
had very dark thoughtsiIn my mind just now—oh! so bad
and wicked, may I be forgiven for them.” ;

The next day they went to the depot, and the swift loco-
motive conveyed fwo travel-stained passengers back to
the East.

They started in alittle business, and Tommy, no longer
the Fool of the Ea showed such industry and sm
ness that he prospere¢

The mother and son were very happy together, and soon
the checkered and eventful past was forgotten.

{THE END.]

“I'll return and

for your sake, but I

a

 

 

 

TEP ETTES

TO ADVERTISERS.

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FOR BACH INSBE-TION CASH IW ADVANCE

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A WORD TO DOUBTERS.

There is a good old English maxim that teaches
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To Correspondents.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

j

Katie Kent.—We presume you refer to the sect called
| Shakers, the largest body of whom are located in New |
Lebanon,- Columbia county, in this State. The society |
originated in London about 1770, under the leadership of
Ann Lee, or Mother Ann, as she is called, whom they re- }
gard as a female Christ. In 1774, herself and nine others |

 

 

came to this country and settled at Watervliet ; and dur-

ing a religious excitement a few years after their number

was considerably increased. In 1787 the settlement at

New Lebanon was founded, from which several others }

sprang up in the Eastern States. The settlements are |
composed of “families,” each family consisting of from 30 |

to 150 persons, according to the size of the building. The

property is held in common by the “families,” and all who

are able to work are employed, idleness being regarded as

| sinful. They own large tracts of land, and are extensively

| engaged in raising garden and flower seeds, medicinal
| herbs, the manufacture ef brooms, and dairy products.

| The houses are built with wide halls, the male members }
occupying one end of the house and the females the other,

| their religion enjoining celibacy and virgin purity as ne-

| cessary to a perfect Christianity. In their worship they

| dance as well as sing, the sexes forming in rows facing
each other, and aiso in circles, performing their evolutions

They are in ameasure spiritual-

ists, believing that as they approach perfection the mys-

teries of revelation are unfolded to them, and they are thus

es for the pas e from eycle to cycle until they

finally reach the heaven of heavens, where Jesus, the per-

fect man, and Mother Ann, the perfect woman, now are.

Percy M. C., Barton.—lst. The lady resides on Long
Island. 2d. We find no record of any statute in Mary-
land making Protestants ineligible to any public office.
Ministers of the gospel are not eligible to the Legislature,
but no distinction is made between Protestant and Roman
Catholic. 83d. There has been no discrimination against
| Roman Catholies in Maine, they having the same right to

hold public office as Protestants. In New*Hampshire, an
amendment to the State Constitution, abolishiig te tre-
ligious test as a qualification for office, was adopted at the
annual election in March. 1876. 4th. Anything whicha
man cannot dispose of, and the possession of which en-
tails trouble and expense, is called a “white elephant.” It
was the custom inthe East, when a ruler wished tecon-
fer a very marked faver upon an individual, to present
him with a white elephant, and the presentation was made
with much pee: and at @ great outlay. Being a royal \
giit, the animal could not be parted with, and for the same |

| reason, and on account of its semi-sacred character, it was

‘housed in a palace, fed with costly viands, and attended
by a retinue of servitors, so that unless he happened te be

1 blessed with a goodly share of this world’s goods, the re

| cipient of royal favor was in danger of becoming impov-

erished through this recognition.

Constant Reader, Brooklyn.—lst. The Moffett Register
law is an act passed by the Legislature of Virginia in
1877, imposing a tax on the sale of spirits and malt liquors
| and prescribing the manner of collecting it. In addition
i to the license fee there is a tax imposed on the sales, the
receipts to be applied to paying the interest on the public
debt. To determine the amount due from dealers they are
required to use the Moffett register, an instrument about |

the size of an ordinary cigar-box, with a combination of |
dials, registering from 1 to 1,000,000. This is fastened on
the counter, with the dials facing the customer and a crank
within reach of the barkeeper. When both spirituous and
malt liquors are sold there is a registry foreach. When a
glass of beer is sold the erank is turned, a bell is sounded,
and the hand moved forward one point. The register for
spirituous liquors is operated in the same manner. The |
latter is taxed two and a half cents a drink, and the former |
half a cent. There is also a schedule furnished each dealer, |
by which quantities of one gallon or less are registered on
a basis of two and a half cents for each half pint of |
spirituous liquor, and half a cent for each half pint of |
malt liquors. The law also provides penalties for failure
or negleet to register sales. 2d. Per s¢ means by itself or
himself. 3d. A*British sovereign is worth in American
coin $4.86.6 1-2.

Old Reader, Pa.—ist. To make gold plating powder, wash
thoroughly a quarter of an ounce of chloride of gold; then
add to it a solution of two ounces of cyanide of potassium
in a pint of clear rain water ; shake well, and let it stand |
until the chloride is dissotved. Add one pound of prepared
Spanish whiting, expose it to the air until dry, and then
put it away in @ tight vessel for use. 2d. To apply gold
plating powder, make some of the powder into a paste |
with water, and rub it on the suface of the article with a |
piece of chamois skin or cotton flannel. The surface of |
the article should be thoroughly cleansed before applying

the powder. 3d. A very fine yeast is made as follows:
Boil a quarter of a peck of malt in four pints of water;
pour off two pints, and keep it in a warm place for thirty
hours; add four pints of the like decoction, stir it well in,
again ferment, and repeat this addition of four pints unti
a sufficient quantity of yeast is obtained.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warwick.—ist. Low cut patertt leather shoes may be
worn at balls, hops, etc. 2d See paragraph headed “To |
Purchasing Agency Correpondents.” 3d. Pall Mall, Lon-
don, is pronounced pell mell. The name of the street is
derived from a game formerly quite popular in England,
in which a wooden ball was driven with a mallet through
an iron arch placed at the end ofa walk. The name was
applied to the mallet and to the walk or street on which it
was played, as well as to the game. 4th. A very fine hair
restorative is made as tollows: Half a pound cf beef mar-
row, thoroughly soaked, melted, and strained; tincture of
cantharides, one ounce; oi) of bergamot, twelve drops;
olive oil, two pintsg otto of roses, one dram ; oil of rose-
mary, one dram. Mix. It may be colored by steeping a
little alkanet root in the oil before scenting it.

Phenia, Hightstown, N. J.—lst. As these questions are
of a purely legal character, we cannot undertake to an,
swer them: They should be submitted to a lawyer, with
all the circumstances of the case. As regards the young
man’s property in the colt, if it was covered by the chattel
mortgage on the stock at the time it was given to him by
his father in payment for services rendered, it can be tak-
en in satisfaction of the mortgage. 2d. eee oe already
covered by mortgages to its full value wou d not be ac-
cepted as security for other debts. 3a. In making an
assignment for the benefit of his creditors, the debtor must
surrender everything, real and personal. 4th. There is no
woe devoted exclusively to the tea and coffee trade.

7ou will find them noted in the American Grocer.

8. J. D., Now York.—The stammerer should be made to
-mark the time in his speech, just as it is ordinarily done in
singing. He is at first to beat on every syllable. It is
best at the firat lesson to read some simple composition,
like one of David’s psalms, striking the finger on the knee

at every word, then read in a newspaper, beating each
striking the finger on the
or by simply hitting the thumb against the fore-
the large toe in the poot. A writer on
We doubt if the worst case of stutter-
ing could continue long, provided the sufferer would read
an hour or two every day, with thorough practice of this
simple art, observing the same in his conversa tion.

Annie Excel.—We are rather surprised that you have al-
lowed a young man to “sponge” his board of you for two
years upon the pretense that he loves your daughter. We
should hardly consider that equivalent to several dollars a

week. He is evidently a first-class Joremy Diddler, and if
rou allow your daughter to receive further attentions

 

finger, or by moving
the mano says: *

would doubtless fare better if she married the first tramp
that came along, than at the hands of such an incarnation
of selfishness. You should show him the door at once, and

him to assist the young man in his exit.

Spile Driver.—lst. After shaving, bathe your face in a
weak solution of borax and water. 2d. To make a cement
for fastening leather, dissolve a quantity of gutta-percha
in chloroform, in quantity to make a fluid of honey-like

 

consistence. Heat the surfaces at a fire or gas-flame until
softened, and apply them together. 3d. A book on danving
will cost 60 cents.

 

| lawyer friend.

| been/unfaithful to her marri:

)Yoves you, and you can overlook

| in the Ohio penitentiary. We are under the impression

)} from him you will be doing her a positive injury; for she |

>1if you have any male friend who wears heavy boots, get |
rm ry .

. The world-wide popularity
Prescription, as a never-failing
Diseases, would have alone

H. A. L., New York.—lst. The piece is a Brazilian coin
of 500 reia, worth about twenty-seven cents. Petrus II.is
the Latin form of expressing the name of Dom Pedro

II. 2d. We would recommend a preparation of yellow
dock root and sarsaparilla, which most druggists keep, a8
the best medicine you can’ take to purify the blood and
help you get rid of the pimples, ete., with which you are
troubled. 3d. If the books are of any value, and in fair
condition, you may find a purchaser in one of the second-
hand book dealers in Nassau or Beekman street.

Moodi, Berkley.—We have read your little story care-
fully, and although it is quite creditable as a first attempt, |
still it needs that finish which only experience can give to

render it acceptable. We do not feel justified, however, in
advising you to continue writing, even admitting that you
will improve greatly in time, as writers of experience and
acknowledged ability find it difficult to sell their MSS.,
owing to the. market being overstocked, and the supply
increasing daily. If you will send us full address, we will
return the MS.

Constant Reader, New York.—l1st. We have no recollec-
tion of the item referred to, but see nothing improbable in |
it. 2d. Glass melts ata heat of 2377 degrees, tin at 421,
and bismuth at 476. The object in using pulverized glass
was probably because it took a greater degree of heat to
fuse with the metals, and in that sha) it could be mixed
with the melted metals without melting and without its
presence being readily detected. Whether the effect de-
sired would be produced we cannot say. This can be de-
termined only by experiment.

 

Louis West.—To make citrate of magnesia, take of mag- |
nesia, 120 grains; citric acid, 450 grains; bi-carbonate of }
potassa, 40 grains; dissolve the citric acid tn 4 fluid ounces
of water, and having added the magnesia, stir it until it is |
dissolved. Filter the solution into a strong twelve-ounce
bottle, into which has been poured two fluid ounces
of sirup of citric acid. Then add the bi-carbonate of
potassa, and enough water almost to fill the bottle, to be
closed With a cork, and this secured with twine. Shake
moderately till all is dissolved.

Michael G., Quincy, Ill.—To bleach beeswax, slice it in-
to thin flakes, and lay it on sacking or coarse cloth, |
stretched on frames resting on posts to raise them from |
the ground. The wax is turned over frequently, and oc-
occasionally sprinkled with water, if there be no dew
or rain to moisten it. The wax should be bleached |
in about four weeks. If, on breaking the fiakes, the wax |
still appears yellow inside, it is necessary to melt it again, |
and tlake and expose it a second time, or even oftener, be-
fore it becomes thoroughly bleached; the time required
being in part dependent on the state of the weather.

No. 1, Winnebago Co.—The general law in regard to the |
distribution of the estate of aman dying intestate, and
leaving a widow and no children, is that she has a one-
third interest in the real estate during her life and an ab-
solute right to one-half of the personal property. As the
laws differ very materially in some of the States, and we
do not know in which one you live, we suggest that you
drop into the nearest lawyer's . office and consult tite Re-
vised Statutes of your State, or ask the question of some

 

Hal Hudson, Cleveland, Ohio.—l1st. The best advice we
can give you on the subject of your malady is contained in |
our answer to “Frank,” in No. 16, Vol. XXXIV. 2d. We
know of no cure that the belts have effected. 3d. The cli-|
mate that is most equable is the best for invalids. 4th.
Southern California has been highly recommended ; also
Florida. 5th. We do not think that your removal from |
Ohio to Maine would result in any material benefit to your |
health.

Victim, Boston.—lst. For a very fine hair restorative,
see No. 18, of Vol. XXXIV. 2d It is said that the growth |
of gray hair in comparatively young persons may be pre- |
vented by brushing the hair vigorously several times a
day with a hard, penetrating brush, the theory being that }
the brushing in the way indicated will cause the nutritive |
matter of the hair to tiow from root to point, the hair
generally turning gray at the points in young persons.

Pruid of Nevada.—ist. English translations of Cesar,
Lucian, Pliny and Tacitus will be furnished for $1.25 each.
There is an English translation of Strabo’s Geography, in

three volumes, but we do not know where it can be pro-
cured. Wright’s “Celt, Roman and Saxon,” a history of
the early inhabitants of Britain, will cost $4. We cannot
find a history of the Druids. 2d. We cannot give you the
origin of the word stevedore.

Broken-hearted Man, New Yif—Unless your wife has
e, vows you cannot com-

 

mence suit for divorce.
one, but you cannot..use. it to. Dag lisadvantage.
, offenses o

}

The revelation is not afficasant |

the past,

your inarried lite may be a8 feppy™s the average. If you

It she

give her reason to think yow have no contidence fa her, it
is likely to be the other extreme
ne ya $ .

Arch, Gilchrist.—A child born of AMerican parents, whil
the latter are temporarily abroad, has been decided to be
a native-born citizen of the United States, and eligible to |
the office of President. If the parents become permanent |
residents of a foreign countryp orre oles their allGgiance
to the Government of the United States, the chiid is re-
garded as a citizen of the country im which be was born.

   

Corrine.—1st. In Ohio a promissory note becomes out_
lawed by the statute of limitations iffifteen yeats. 2d Ti
he assignee of an estate holds money due toa ¢ editor |
and the latter fails to collect within the time prescri |
by Jaw, and he is in doubt as to what disposition to m
of the funds, he should appeal to the court for an order as
to what action is necessary to relieve him of the trust.

 

  
 

  

|

Old Bones.—There are several advanced classes in art in |
this city, but they are accessible only to those whose |
|
|
|

 

drawings show evidence of true artistic skill. Unless you
think your work will stand the test, you had better take a
few lessons of a professor of drawing, and abide by his
decision as to the next step.

P. P. W.—We do not know what was your object in as-
suming a false name, but as it has placed youin an un-

pleasant predicament, the easiest way out of it is to admit |
your folly, prove your identity by your real name, and
then resolve never to make such a noodle of yourself in
the future.

 

J. B. S.—To make good ginger ale, take one spoonful of
ground ginger, one spoonful of cream of tartar. one pint of
yeast, one pint of molasses, and six quarts of eold water.
Mix, and let it stand a few hours, until it ferments; then
pottie it, and sent it in a cool place. In eight hours it will
be good.

D. H. D., Oleveland, 0.—We cannot tell you how many
Democrats and how many Republicans are in confinement

that they have all retired from active political life for
the present—in fact, they do not even go to the polls to
vote.

M. D. O., Sandusky.—1st. See articles headed “Wonders
of Magnetism,” in Nos. 19 and 20. 2d. Any common
school arithmetic will explain how and why the result is |
attained. 3d. In the sentence quoted “every” is parsed as |
an adjective and “thing” as @ noun. 4th. There area
number of editors.

Boarding School, Milwaukee, Wis.—We cannot print a
list of boarding schoolsin this department, but we have
no doubt by consulting the columns of your city papers

 

you will be able to select & boarding school possessing all | jemon and the water in the finger-bowl.

the educational advantages of any in this part of the
eountry.

A Patron.—The bill passed by the last Congress provid.
ing for the payment of arrearages of pensions does not in-
clude veterans of the Florida war. We can find no act
such as you describe, and suggest that you address the
Cemmissioners of Pensions, Washington, D. C.

P. H.—1st. We doubt if your husband can elaim a pen-
sion on the grounds stated. You might address a letter to
the Commissioners of Pensions, Washington, D. Cc. 2a.
There is no such instrument. 3d. The book cannot be
procured.

Reader, Philadelphia, Pa,—Write a petition stating that
for family reasons you assumed several years since the
name you now bear, and that you wish to have it legalized.
Any member of the legislature will take charge of the mat-
ter for you.

Distressed, New York.—You can enlist at Governor's
Island. The pay is $13 amonth, and the term of enilist-
ment five years. We cannot say how long you will re-
main at the island after enlistgnent—only a short time,
however.

A.—Iist. As there are a number of patent horse-collars,
we do not know to which you refer. The atvertisements
should state its particular merits. 2d. The pamphiets
were issued without the author’s name, and were attrib-
ted to several parties.

Ed. Lockwood, New York.—1ist. The papers containing
“A Bitter Atonement,” willecost $1.44. 2d. To remove
India-ink marks, blister the part, which will cause new
skin to grow. No scar will be left. 3d. The hairs will
grow again.

Reader, Greenburg, Ind.—To make starch polish, take
common dry potato or wheat starch sufficient to make a
pint of starch when boiled. Then add half a dram of sper-
macetiand half a dram of white wax, and then use it 26
common starch.

Julia P., New York.—1lat. We have never read the book,
but we can send it to youfor 25 cents, 2d As you can-
not ask the young man if he cares for you, you will
have to determine by his actions whether such is the
Case.

Jersey City.—We are unable to suggest an employment
for your leisure hours, not knowing in which direction
your tastes tend, whether to mechanical, literary, or ar-
tisttc pursuits.

 

 

J. P. C., Buffalo, N. Y.—1st. See paragraph headed “To
| Purchasing Agency Correspondents.” 2a. We do not find
the name in tho list of heirs advertised for in the Herald
since 1836.

Constant Reader, St. Paul—ist. To get rMof flesh worms,
abstain from very rich, salt, or greasy food. 2d. Food con-
taining starch and sugar will heip to put fiesh on your
| bones. 83d. Meat is not fattening.
| Gotham.—lst. For the malady with which yor are afilict-

ed, see No. 16, Vol. XXXIV. 2d Yellow dock root is re-
garded as a good blood puriiier.

| fect that the climate of England is warmer than it was

| ing papers in Oswego, N.

| “The Young

| suage,’”’ 65 cents; Ahn’s “Practical and Easy Method of
| 26 cents; ‘Manual of Etiquette,” 75 cents.

| emony, afterithas been once folded

|} are no longer necessary.

Mrs. M. F. P., Boston, Mass.—In many of the stores fo | fine,

which the statements would apply the abuses referred to
heve been corrected. There are many in which they have |
had no existence. +"

Old Reader, New Castle.—lat and 2d. No. 3&. For

frost-bites, wash the bite night and morning with the fol-
lowing preparation: Hydrochloric acid, one ounce, rain
water, seven ounces.

Miss C. D. F., Worcester, Mass.—We can furnish a hair-
bheaching liquid at the cost of $5 per bottle. If you wish
* write direct tothe NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency.

Mabdel C. Tonn, Camden.—We can send you the “Golden
Fluid” for bleaching the hair for $2.50 and $3 per bottle.
It is perfectly harmless.

W. W. Essich, Reading, Pa.—An abridged edition of Ap-
pee? Cyclopedia is issued in fifty parts, at 50 cents
eacn.

Chelsea.—We have never seen any statementto the ef-
600 years ago.

W. H., Buffalo.—Exoepting one or two slight defects,

the verses are up to the average. We are 80 crowded with
MSS., however, that only the Soke are accepted.

 

Constant Reader, New Haven.—There is no depilatory
which will permanently remove superfiuous hair. The
preparation referred to will not injure the skin.

E. B. Willis, Reader, Clark Co., BR. 8., Flora B. M.—See |

paragraph at the end of this department, headed “To Pur-
ehasing Agency Oorrespondents.”

 

J. J. D., Wilkesbarre, Pa.—The address of the priest of
the Greek Catholic Chapel, in this city, is Nicholas |
3jerring, 951 Second avenue.
Mabel Hale.—lst. For a hair restorative, seo No. 18,

Vol. XXXIV.

24. We are not purchasing sketches at
present.

|

Utica Reader.—The story is issued in book form, which \
we will send you for $1.75. }
|

|

|

Jay D. B., Quincy, Mich.—The English pronunciation of |
dnechess is duteh-ess; French, doo-shess.
|

1. B. C. Y.—The character is said to be founded in part
the life of the late Hon. Heary Wilson.

H. M., London, Canada.—A letter addressed to the lady,
at this office, will reach her

on

P. M. D., Oswego, N. Y.—The drawings are said to be
fairly conducted.

John Kinney, Cleveland, O.—There are two daily even-
’.—the Palladium and Times.

BM. €& @—An achromatic object-glasa, two inches in di-
ameter, eighteen to thirty inches focus, will cost $4.50.

Tiny, New York.—Rusty-nail water will sometimes re-
move freckles,

E. Roberts.—We are overcrowded with MSS., and do not
wish to purchase more at present.

“They Say,’ St. Louis—Bathe your wrist as often as
you can in cold water. We know of no better remedy.

J.C. R., Cincinnati.—We know of nothing that will im-
prove your voice save daily practice.

A Constant Reader, Brockville.—We know of no remedy
for “drooping of the under lip.”

Forlorn Wanderer.—We cannot aid you. i

The following MSS. are accepted: “My Love,” “The
Hunchbaek’s Revenge.” The following are respectfully
declined: “Love,” “A Lost Curl” “I Wl Not Reproadh
Thee,” “How It. Ended,” ‘ Too Ould,” “Idle Words,” “The
Wine-Cup,” “The Life of Locomotive Engineers,” *Child-
hood’s Days,” “Autumn Leaves,” ““Waves. Wild Waves,”
Student,” ‘Only a Baby,” “Beautiful Snow,”
“My Story,’ “Bessie Lee,” “My Adventure with Indians,”
“Love—What Is It,” “To y Sister,” “To a Young
Friend,” “A Summer’s Vacation,” “Aunt Metty,” “My
Manuscript,” “In Memory of George Washington,” ““My
Violet,” “Little Sunbeams,” “Longing,” “In Vain,” “Cabin
on the Hill,” “To Sister Evangeline.’

 

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS.

In response to the queries of our correspondents who
send no address, we give the prices at which the following
articles may be procured through the NEW YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency: “Wandering Jew,” in paper, $1 50,
cloth, $2; achromatic object glass for telescope, 2-inch
diameter, 36-inch focus, $7 and $10; Burnham’s “New
Roultry Book,” $2; Wright's “Practical Poultry-Keeper,”
$2; Saunders’ “Domestic Poultry,” 75 cents; Dick's
“Quadrille Call-Book,” 50 cents; “Sparring and Wreat-
ling,’ 75 cents; Ahn’s “Rudiments of the German Lan-

Learming the French Language,” 40 cents; key to ditto,

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

AZ. CO. Elis, Columbus, Ohio.—lst. The bride may drop
her middle name tf she desires to do 80, taking her family ,
name. 2d. The invitations should be engraved in script. |
Neither visiting-cards nor invitations are admissible in |
old English or German text. 34 The invitation requires i
no answer. Friends living in other towns and cities re-
ceiving it inclose their cards and send by mail. 4th. Res- |

|
|
}

 

idents call on the family of the bride within the prescribed
time, or as soon after aS itis possible. 5th. The invitation
to the wedding breakfast is inclosed in the same envelope, |
generally conveyed on a square card the same size as the
sheet of note paper which bears the invitation for

  

the cer-
across the middie.
6th. The separate cards of the bride and the bridegroom |
7th. Card of admission to the |

church is narrower, and plainly engraved in large script.
Generally only half an hour intervenes between the cere-
mony and the reception. j

Walter.—Evening dress is the same, whatever the nature
of theevening’s entertainment, lst. Gentlemen weara
black dress suit, the coat being “swallow-tailed,” the
waistcoat cut low, the cravat white, thin patent-leather
boots, and kid gloves of the palest hue, if not white, as
prescribed. 2d. The shirt-front should be plain, the studs
and aleeve-links simple. It need not be added that espe-
cial attention should be given to the hair, which, accord-
ing to the present mode, is neither too short nor too long.
3d. Sunday evenings, morning dress is -worn. No one
goes to church in evening dress, and no one is ex pected to
appear in it at home or away from home on that day. Ath. |
In some circles evening dress is considered an affectation, |
and it is well in provincial towns to do as others do.

}

N. C., Selma, Ala.—lst. The gentleman precedes the lady |
|

in going into a church or theater, in order to find the seats,
and direct her to them, but having found them, he steps
aside and waits for her to precede him in taking posses |
sion. 24. A gentleman should present his leit arm toa
lady, that he may have his right to protect her, if necessa-
ry, bué this rule is subordinated to the necessity for his
taking the outside of the curbetone, and always giving the
lady the inner side of the sidewalk. Sd. It is no breach of
etiquette not to have finger-bowls; itis simpiy the ab-
sence of one of the refinements of modern civilized so
ciety.

Opera.—lst. Finger-bowls sre brought to the table at the
same time with the dessert, that is, with the first part of it. |
2d. Doylies, or small colored napkins, are laid one upon
each dessert plate, and the finger-bow!, containing a small
. quantity of water, and a slice of lemon, put nponit. 3d

The bowls placed on one side, and the colored napkin is

face, the dilicate stems crossing each other.

| color, rather than gray.

| fact that it narrower, anc

| ok

smooth, and soft as silk. Tiny tea-roses, with shaded
leaves, and small forget-me-nots, are thrown upon the sur-
i There are
also the “mummy” cloths, which look and feel like raw
silk, and are also in chintz colors upon light grounds. 3d.
Any of these make indoor or outdoor dresses, especially for
country wear, and the sateens are particularly pretty for
croquet and garden party dresses for young girls. 4th.
The finisk of the tine cotton fabrics isnow so exquisite that
summer silks are ar needed, and of course they can be
had in all white as well as figured, for those who prefer
white, or who live where the exigencies of the dlimate
make it desirable. 5th. The colors of these cottons, how-
ever, are re, fast, only ruinous washing, or perhaps
long-continued exposure to the sun, could impair them.

“Mrs. C. W. L.”—1st. The Rosalind train is an elegant
design for rich black silk trimmed with beaded fringe.
The design may also be applied to rich grenadine, ar-
ranged over foulard silk, and will then be not only grace-
ful, but light and charming in effect. 2d. The Desiree
basque is a very jaunty design, and quite appropriate style
for your black silk, or it can be applied to any of the spring
materiais, which are 3 combination of plain with striped
zoods. The soft puff of muslin in front is particularly be-
coming, and the strap which holds the re over the
vest confines it neatly without the least affecting the free-
dom and somewhat careless grace of the design. 3d. Very
little mixture in colors is observable for ordin&ry street
wear. Black costumes of silk or camel’s hair are worn by
the very best class of women, both young and old, and
when they are not black for the street, they are in soft
neutral shades of brown, ashes of roses, fawn and wood
n gre All the wood tints are stylishly
worn, and the trimmings for bonnets are composed largel
of lichens, leaves, fibrous stems, and weeds,/with pa
natural tlowers and blossoms, rather than the large and
more elaborately cultivated.

 

“Young Mother.’’—1st. The “Honora” paletot is a good
design for your bourette cloth. It should be cut close and
fitted neatly to the figure. The trimming may be rows of
flat galoon stitched on, or numerous narrow folds of thick
silk or satin, or if may be trimmed to match the dress pro-
vided there is no intermixture in the dress trimming of
the high color. 24. The fringed silk will trim your grena-
dine very nicely, and as fashionably as last year. 3d. The
christening dress for your year-old boy may be made from
the “Lilla” pattern, either in white cashmere trimmed
with embroidery or white nainsook trimmed with bands
and frills of needle-work. 4th. Blouse aprons or brown
Holland, trimmed with bands of colored cambric are as
pretty as pe for every-day summer wear, requirin
only a skirt with cotton waist beneath for very hot
weather. The “Sacque” dress is a capital design for sere-
sucker, cambrics, or linen, and may be used for pique or
chevoit. The simpler the dress the better for a child of
this age, and these designs have the merit of being entirely
practical, and easily made by the most inexperienced
seamtress.

“Sara,’’—Ist. The Normandy bow ought to be black vel-
vet, and that alone. Itis either black velvet, or black un-
figured ribbon, a8 worn in Normandy, but the caprice o¢
fashion fancying the shape has it now in ribbon, ef every
hue and kind. 2d. It is lower, and of narrower ribbon
than the Alsatian, and spreads out on the sides instead of
rising so high above fhe brow. 3d. Some Normandy bows
have long ends, which, carried forward from the sides un-
der the double loop, cross at the back, and hang half ayard
below the braid hair. 4th. The newest bow for the
coiffure is the “Lorraine.’”’ It is a still higher bow than the
“Alsatian” and Normandy. It is more effective from the
; nd there is more of the butterfly
form which the “Alsatian’’ suggests. The Lorrsine is of
lain ribbon, two of its loops are black, and two are yellow

he cross piece being of both colors. It may be made of
pink and black, or red and black. The lower “wing’’ of
he left side is black, and the upper wing of the right, thus
giving the parti-colored effect.

“Johanna.”’—1st. Short walking-dresses hold their own,
but are no longer so slim and straight as they were last
year. 21. The new spring and summer materials enhance
the effect of the elaborate designs with which the dresses
are made, by possessing figures, and variations of color,
broken dashes in light tints upon dark grounds, chintz
colors are arranged in floral patterns upon grounds both
light and dark, wovuy designs and fibrous patterns, in which
the irregularities of nature can be traced, rather than its
setforms. 3d. A mantelet suitable for cashmere, camel's
hair, or black silk, will be found in the “Aretta,” Itis
particularly adapted to handsome black materials, and
black costumes, but can be used for suit materials and
light cloths with equal propriety. 4th. Less than three
yards of material are required, and the trimming which
Should be of lace, fringe, and passementerie, on a rich
fabric, may be arranged to match suits, or adapted in coler
and style to any less expensive material.

E. V.—1st. The linen sets, comprising collar ani.cufts, are
always fashionable, and some are plain but elegant. These
sets range in price from 75 cents to $1.50 per set. 2d. A
yery handsome collar bow may be made of loops of satin
and gros-gTain ribbon... 3d, White needle-work and white
lace have long been applied. more or less, to the decoration
of children's clothing. But it is quite a new idea to trim
the (ieee nghams and the delicate chintz satieen
with embroidered rutiles, in which the tine lines of color
contained in the goods, are reproduced and blended so
tastefully as to produce # Towerlike effect suited to the
age and appearance of the wearers.

“Bella.’—There are two or three ways in whion-; a.
could have your brown dress made with perfect propriety. ?
* 4

One way is that of a trimmed skirt, and cuirass basque or. ,

jacket basque with vest.
D

Another skirt and princess polo-
buttoned on the side. A third, round waist and
skirt draped at the back, and trimmed with kilt
plaitings and folds across the front. A scarf mantelet
should accompany the dress, cut somewhat straight across
the back, and knotted in front. Or, you could have ajacket
to match.

  

“Lucia, E. W.’—lat. You could combine with your dark
biue brocaded satin, either cashmere or grenadine of the
same shade. 2d The most serviceable and leastexpensive

material would be cashmere, as the grenadine would re-
quire silk underit. 3d. A dress of brocaded satin and cash-
mere, made with an overdress or princess polonaise of the
brocade, sleeves and skirt of the cashmere, with flat trim-
ming of brocade put as cuffs upon the sleeves, and as
pointed bands in the spaces between the plaiting of the
floumce, would make avery handsome costume, and the
cost, having the satin, would be comparatively slight.

“Blanche,” Wheeling, W. Va.—A pretty and stylish bon-
net is of fine black chip beaded with smali ecru beads.

The crown is high and conical, and the front is slight)
fiaring. The tront is tilled in with crepe lisse plaiting, an
the crown is trimmed on the front with an ecru tip, and

| an ecru ribbon, woven with gold tbreads, encircles the

crown and forms a large bow at the back. A handsome
buckle set with Rhine crystals ornament thejright side.
eae lace strings eoming from the back of the bonnet are
fied in front.

“EK, H.’’—There are several kinds of hair dye that are said
to be perfectly harmless; smong them is the “Redemption
for the Hair,” price $1, also the Khennaline, $1.50. As
you ask our advice about using dye for the hair, we gers A
say we would not use it. There is no dye that can be
without being detected, and when once used its use must
be continued. If you wish to try the ex riment we can
send you either of the above-mentioned dyes on any other
that you may suggest.

 

 

used for wiping the fingers during the process of eating
the fruit, and after removing all traces by the aid of the

Dolly Varden.—lst. A lady need not rise to acknowledge
an introduction, unless the person introduced is another
lady, or a gentleman older and more distinguished in rank
and position than herself. 2d. The fork is always taken in
the right hand in eating fish, and a piece of bread in the
‘left. 1¢ is also held in the same way with periect propriety
in eating peas, or whenever the character of the food
makes it more convenient. 3d. Certainly you place your
knife and fork down side by side.

Leone.—1st. When introductions are given, it is the gen-
tleman who should be presented to the lady; when two
ladies are introduced, it is the younger who is presented
to the elder. 2d. A lady receiving gives her hand toa
stranger as to afriend when she wishes to bestow some
mark of cordiality in welcoming a guest to her home, but
a gentleman ought not to take he initiatory in hand-
shaking. It is the lady’s privilege to give or withhold as
she chooses.

Anziety.—Where there is any doubt as toa person's ac-
cepting an invitation of any description, a note of accept,

ance should be promptly sent, and if circumstances make
it necessary to remain away, an explanatory note of re-
gret must be dispatched before the party comes off, tf pos-
sible. If not, the following day.

—_———_- —_—_ => <4 ————

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram.

The attempt made last year by a few ultra fashionables
to introduce embroidered and hand-painted parasols, has
led to the manufacture of some delicate hued ones, with
a border of flowerets beyond.the lace which decorates the
edge. This deeply falling lace is the only style that will
obtain, for the simple edge, without border, that will not
afford shade to the face, has quite gone out. Even beyond
what appeared last year is the depth of the new “fall,” and
a laay may fairly bury her head and face in its protecting
shades.

Nothing can exceed the elegance of the handles of these
parasols. Not content with gold tips, silver tips, superb
mother-of-pearl, and mosaic tips, some have amethysts set
in the top, others topasez. and others carbuncles or carne-
lians. There is an appearance of extravagance in this at
first sight, but so exquisitely are these handles made, and
so perfect the frames, that a parasol of this kind is an
affair of several seasons, for it can be recovered and re-
trimmed, if necessary.

“Mrs, C. A. H.’—I1st. Brilliantine is always worn, and
when required for service is best trimmed with itself, but
looks well trimmed with black satin, if the latter be of
good quality. A thin, ‘“glazy” satin is the poorest material
in the world for trimming. 2d There are some beaatit ul
cotton goods this season, which are suitable for almost
ary season. The figured sateens, upon white ground, are

 

 

 

 

 

“Mrs. Nelson.”—We are giad that yon received the cos
metics, and that you speak so highly of the “Kugenie’s
Secret of Beauty,’ and we thank you kindly for recom-
mending it to your friends. The “Magic Hair Restorer,”
we are told, is an excellent tonic, and that it will prevent
the hair from falling out, and also remove dandrufi Price,
$1 per bottle. Itis sold by L. Shaw, 54 West Fourteenth
street, New York.

“Lavina Frost."—lst. Your hair is a very pretty shade
ofauburn. 2d. The golden fluid will not ure your hair,
but we sheuld recommend that you do not use a
to change the color; brush it well each time you dress it,
and it will do more toward making it look giodsy than any-
thing you can use.

‘ + > -@ -~<—__-___-___-—

The [mportant Man.

He is a large, portly man, with Burnside whiskers.
He holds his head very erect, like an empty head of
wheat. He only gives you time to say yes or no to
his remarks, contradicts everything you say, and
presumes he has convinced you, by not giving you a
chance toreply. He smokesin the presence of elderly
or homely women, but is more deferential to young
ladies. He buys what he wants, and pays for all he
can, but never betrays the fact that he is not as rich
as he seems. He doesn’t believe in educating his
children, as he thinks that educated people are all

roud and snobby. He attends lectures and concerts

ecause they are popular, and usually takes a lady—
his wife, or some pretty girl. His expenditures,
when he can @btain credit, exceeds his income by two
or three thousand yearly. The earliest truits and
finest vegetables are found on bis table; his wife and
daughters dress extravagantly, He rents a fine
house, drives fast horses, rides in a carriage net paid
for, and has considerable property covered with
mortgages. He eats and sleeps serenely through a
financial crisia, for he has nothing to lose, and his
ereditors cannot touch him. Failure in one place
means more borrowed money, and efforts to dupe
somebody else, SALLY A. HUMES.

—_———_ >+- ©<+ ____—_-
THE tenement-houses of Boston, of which there are
2,700, are kept in much better condition than those
in New York. In this city most of the owners of ten-
ement property have not the least regard for the
health of their tenants, and pay no attention
ever to the sanatory condition of their housegg
exact exorbitant rents for poor accommods
do little to deserve them,

 

a oe

SUSPECTED persons, when present
Bank of France, Paris, are phg
their knowledge, to insure fy
concealed camera is statione,
cashiers, and at a signal ig
ed individual, while the
converzation.

 

 

 

 

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NEW YORK, APRIL 21, 1879.

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
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All letters should be addressed to
FRANCIS 8. et STREET & SMITH,
FRANCIS 8. SMITH. Proprietors,
P. O. Box 2734. 25, 27,29 & 31 Rose St., N.Y.
J. T. Preston, Printer, 27 Rose St.
J. P. Felt, Electrotyper and Stereotyper, 26 Rose St.
Elisworth, VanBeuren & Street, Bill Posters, 25 Rose S

 

A NEW STORY

BY
TWO POPULAR AUTHORS.

‘

 

 

An extremely interesting story will be begun next
week, under the title of

THE WHITE TERROR;

THE SCOURGE OF THE SETTLEMENT.
A Take of Wee Dork and Texas.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH and
LEANDER P. RICHARDSON.

Although the writing of this story was undertaken
by its two authors chiefly as an experiment, we are
confident that it will be pronounced a most success-
fulone. Each has so closely imitated the style of
the other throughout the work, that there is likely to
be considerable guessing as to which chapters are
Mr. SMITH’s and which are Mr. RICHARDSON’s. The
situations are exceedingly dramatic, and the keen
reader will observe. that some of them are 80 unex-
pected and startling as to arouse the suspicion that it
was the aim of each author, when preparing to pass
over his characters to his associate, to leave them in
a very perplexing dilemma.

We hope no one will fail to peruse the opening in-
stallment of this captivating story, which is so full
of interest that the reader will be eager to follow it
to the end.

 

_————_—_ > &<+—- -- ---—-—-

Savings Bank Plunderers.

Rascality among savings bank officers is so com.
mon that such institutions seem to offer irresistible
temptation to men to plunder the depositors, and
thus disgrace themselves and their families. Scarcely
a@ week passes without being marked by the discovery
of the dishonesty of some trusted bank officer. The
last defaleation of note is that of Natham P. Pratt,
treasurer of the Reading (Mass.) Savings Bank. This
man held an honored position inthe community, and
his character seemed above suspicion. So highly es-
teemed was he, that, alezoagh handling and control-
ling hundre@e or thousands of dollars, his bond of
socurity was little more than nominal, being only for
the sum of $10,000. He took advantage of the in-
significant security by adroitly practicing systematic
robbery, his nefarious schemes extending over a pe-
riod of three years. The bank trustees, whose duty
is supposed to be the frequent examination of the
accounts, to prevent systematic rascality, or discover
it ere it has become ruinous, have been so indifferent
to their duty, or so stupid, as to permit Mr. Pratt to
continue his plunderings until they have reached the
startling sum of ninety thousand dollars. This loss
falls almost entirely upon the trustful depositors,
who are chiefly of the poorer class.

Some special legislation is needed to apply to such
cases of dishonesty. Very severe punishment for
savings bank plunderers is necessary to intimidate
at least some of those who are inclined to appropriate
trust funds, and secure the prolonged incarceration
of all others who cannot resist the temptation to’
steal. The statute should be so carefully framed
that the shrewdest lawyer would be unable to find a
loop-hole for the escape of the guilty.

a Ot

A Serious Joke.

A practical joke, which was intended to punisha
husband, was unintentionally made to recoil upon
the wife, who was the author of the’ little scheme.
Mrs. Phillerton, a Utica lady, had a trifling quarrel
with her liege lord, and, to make him regret his con-
dust, resorted to a little bit of mischief. In half an
hour after the quarrel she entered his presence again,
apparently very sick, declared that she had taken
laudanum, and had not an hourtolive. She threw
her arms about his neck, affectionately expressed her
forgiveness, bade him a pathetic farewell, and then,
in theatric style, fainted, having first contrived to
stand over the sofaatthe exciting moment, upon
which she dropped with the artistic grace of Clara
Morris. Did this husband rave, and cry, and tear out
liis hair? Was the resolution to follow her to the
other shore his dominant thought? Such cenduct
was contrary to the character of this extremely
practical man. After stretching her tenderly on the
sofa, so that she would not roll off, he hurriedly pro-
cured the assistance of a medical friend and the loan
of a powerful stomach-pump. In fifteen minutes
the stomach of the supposed suicide was pumped as
dry as a base-drum. When this violent proceeding
was about to begin, the lady suddenly recovered con-
sciousness, and declared that it was all a joke—that
she had not taken poison. But her stupid husband
would not believe her, and pumped so vigorously that
the lady imagined she was being turned inside out.
She is resolved never to die by poison.

 

 

—————_>6<+____— .

Laura ©. Holloway’s New Lecture.

A new lecture on “Charlotte Bronte’ will be de-
liveréd by LAURA C. HOLLOWAY, under the auspices
of the American Literary Bureau, at Chickering Hall,
New York, on Thursday evening, April 10. Mrs.
HOLLOWAY has achieved great popularity as a lec-
turer; her voice is clear and musical, and well adapt-
ed for public speaking; while her literary attain-
ments, for she is one of the editors of the Brooklyn
Eagle, are discernible in her vigorous and terse sen-
tences, and in the wide range of subjects which are
frequently introduced to illustrate a happy thought
quaintidea Mrs. HOLLOWAY unites modest merit
yomanly delicay, and we hope that a large au-
rill greet her.

__—______—_ -»>- @ -~<q4—________

ite man is always admired by a shrewd

   

ING IT COMFORTABLE.

We think the farmer, if he be a right-minded
man, must take a great degree of comfort in
making it comfortable for his cattle, and sheep,
and horses, these cold, blustering days, when
the sun shines in astingy way, and the north
wind is generous to a fault.

How nice it must be when he gets into his
cozy, warm bed nights, beside his buxom wife,
and listening to her inspiriting account of how
the gray hen has begun to lay, and_ butter has
come up two cents on a pound, How nice it
must be, we repeat, for him to reflect that his
faithful old horse has a good bed, and a warm
stall, and hay @aough to keep him busy till he is
sleepy; that hisoxen had an extra bundle of
“topped stalks;” that his cows are chewing the
cud of contentment with plenty of sweet corn
meal in their satisfied’stomachs; that the white
sheep have no cause of complaint, for their pen
is warm, and their feéd generous; that even the
hens and the pigs are cozy and well fed, and
the watch-dog in his kennel need to take no
thought for the morrow—where his bones are .to
come from. or a

Some people seem to think that animals only
need food enouglto keep them in decent con-
dition; that their shelter may be indifferent,
and the care taken of them be no care at all;
5 they can bear anything, because they are ani-
mals !

“So much care and’ pampering,” they tell us,
“make creatures sickly and tender; it isr ough
treatment that makes them tough and hardy!
Yes, sir. Their fathers and grandfathers always
said 80, and if anybody knew, they did! Yes,
sir, again?!”

With all deference to the opinion of anybody’s
father and grandfather, we think they were
mistaken in this regard. s.

Because they said so, does not.make it.so. .. No
doubt they were very nice, intelligent old men,
but still they were liable to make mistakes,

A well-kept animal pays its owner'ten per cent
more than an ill-kept one. What isa horse good
for unless he eats enough oats and corn to have
the strength and vim for work? Why, a man
wold save the price of the extra-oats in whips
in the course of a year, especially if he bought
three-dollar ones, and used them in the liberal
way a meanly-kept horse seems to expect. :

A warm stable is as good for every creature in
it as a blanket, and a great deal more economical.
Andaman must be a great deal happier whose
animals are comfortable than one who knows
that his cows are lowing for food, and his hens
are afraid to cackle, lest their empty crops
should go back on them, and shoot off the supply
of wind necessary to a good square cackle.

When the cold winds blow, and creep into
every crevice, and the frozen snow sifts through
the cracks, how comfortable must be the feeling
of the farmer who, as he toasts his feet before
his kitchen fire, knows thatin his barn there
are no crevices and cracks, and that his animals
are as warm and cozy as himself. How satistied
he must feel in knowing that in his simple brute
way his horse loves him; that his oxen listen
eagerly for his footsteps, that his cows and sheep
come at his bidding from their far off pastares—
knowing that so good a master can call them
only for their own welfare.

God bless the man, wherever he may be, who
makes it comfortable for his animals! God bless
him with long life here, and a rest hereafter
which shall be all his noble soul needs!

Ot

ROSE ASHLEIGH, of South Carolina, has just com-
pleted another story of rare excellence, which will
soon be placed before the readers of the NEw YORK
WEEELY. S :

ao OR

The Great W ndérs Around Us...
NUMBER TEN. J

my Peter ,
BY PROPESSOR RUDOLPH.

 

 

Wonders of the Micrescepe.

We come now to consiigt a natural object exhibiting
more of the wonderful in Ms construction n the razor’s
edge deseribed in our last article—

THE STING OF THE BEE.

Here we see in striking contrast the beautiful perfection
of the works of nature—in other words, the works of God—
and the goarse and imperfect works of man. Take the
tinest “ile ever made, ard placing it under the micro-
scope, weare surprised te find it so rough throughout its
whole length, Pe ee its seeming perfect polish,
while the point, which we supposed was as sharp as any-
thing Could possibly be either in nature or art, we find
more like around ball than a fine point, and the whole
needle bearing a striking resemblance to a large crowbar.
So y nd other similar objects—rude, imperfect. Indeed
this istrue of everything made by man. Even the dia-
mond, with its exquisite polish, seems rough and coarse
under, this keen-searching instrument.

But when we turn to natural objects, we see at once the
exquisite finish and perfection in most striking contrast
with the roughness and coarseness of man’s productions.

Let us take this minute instrument, with which some of
us, perhaps, are personally, and not pleasantly, acquainted.
When we examine the sting of a honey-bee, we find
a smoothness and finish in allits parts which we see no-
where among the works of man. The extremity is a genu-
ine point, and not a ball, or hemisphere, as in the needle,
but almost invisible from its extreme fineness. But there
are more wonderful features still.

This sting is actually a sheath, witha slit along its whole

length on the under side. Itis composed throughout of a
hard, horny substance of a brown color. Inside of this
sheath, and so neatly folded as to be invisible to the un-
atet eye, are two other instruments of wondreus char-
acter.
One is a long, tubular, or hollow spear, having toward
its end a knife-like edge for cutting the flesh where it en-
ters, while on the opposite edge are several fine saw-teeth
setting back from the point, so as to tear the flesh when
withdrawn. The tube is filled with a fluid, which is prob-
ably ejected into the wound made. The third lancet has
also toward its end a sharp-edge omone side and reversed
Saw-teeth on the other. s

Here, then, are three delicate but hard, horny lancets,
adapted to fold together, presenting to the eye alone the
appearance of a single spear of extreme fineness, but open-
ing in the wound made, and both cutting and sawing the
flesh while buried in it, as they then untold and, work vig-
orously by powerful muscles which are at the base of the
sting or near the body of the bee. .

But all three of these apparently formidable weapons
combined could not of themselves produce the severe pain
experienced from the sting of this insect. Indeed, itis
probable that we should. hardly be much incom ed by
its introduction into our flesh, as it is so very smiall. What,
then, is the cause of the intense suffering experienced?

On further examination of the bee, we find a small yes-
sel or sac at the base ef the sheath, or sting, and filled with
a most powerful poison. The same muscles that are used
to thrust the sting into the flesh also compress this peison-
bag, and foree a stream of fluid along the groove of the
sheath, so that it is directly emptied into the fresh wound,
the flesh of which has been made raw and ragged by the
cutting and sawingof the two lancets infolded in the
sheath. This poison in contact with the fresh wound is
the cause of the intense suffering from this otherwise in-
significant puncture of the bee.

This also explains the deadly effect of the sting of other
insects, as the wasp and bumblebee, which kill almost in-
stantly the smaller creatures they attack. It also ex-
plains why, when they attack in large numbers,
even birds and horses have been killed by them. Why
should this small creature have this weapon-of such great
power? The Creator knew what was required. As the
bee is a very useful servant of man, and liabie in various
ways to interference with its work, and to be robbed of its
rich treasures, it was thus furnished with these effective
arms of warfare; and it is a most striking proof of design
on the part of the Creator, that it is so fully equipped with
such powerful weapons, both for offense and defense.
Surely, all this canndt be from mere chance.

 

de

BULWER’S great play of “RICHELIEU; or, THE
CONSPIRACY,” has been converted into a story, for
publication in the NEW YORK WEEKLY. When it is
known that ROSE ASHLEIGH, author of ‘The Widow’s
Wager,” has performed the work, it will at onee be
inferred that her chaste, elegant, and brilliant style
is exactly adapted to the illustration and amplifica-
| tion of Bulwer’s masterpiece, and that an excellent
story is assured.

— > @ <4 —_- —__-__——

As proof that the health of children depends great-
ly upon the quality of milk given to them, it is stated
that since the Board of Health. of Darmstadt, has
made a practice of regularly testing the milk sold by
dealers, and compelling them to sell only the pure
article, the deaths of children from diarrhea have
dimisnihed one half, as compared with the mortality
of previous years.

wa OK

 

ed he is the lawyer’s client. The obsti-
rich, never acknowledges defeat
eans have been exhausted to
ter court is appealed to, when
e, until the one of last re-

  

stinate as his client, and
while there is a chance

   

A lawyer who is a good |

PLACE your finger in your ear, and you will hear a
. J 2

| roaring noise, caused by the circulation of the bloo

{ : >

j}in your finger.

stance, and no noise will be heard.

 

} ee

| A HUGE dairy is about to be started i

Clatsop county, Oregon, by a Mr. Butterfiel

| name probably suggested this particular field of en-
terprise.

 

 

id, whose

,

KaTE THORN. ,

Stop your ear with any other sub-j

Skipanon, |

~ Old Personals.

; NUMBER ONE.
:

Dr. Johngon, the great lexicographer, coined a
large number of new words, but as they did not
suit the people, none of them came into use; so
they live only in his dictionary. Noah Webster
‘coined only one word, and that one will live as
long as the English language is spoken. We
read in Prof. Lyell’s Travels in the United States:
“When Dr. Webster was asked how many words
he coined for his dictionary, he replied, only one,
‘to demoralize ;’ and that not for his dictionary,
but in a small pamphlet published in the last
century.”

Thomas Dempster, a distinguished Scottish
scholar, who died in 1625, began life as the 24th
child in a family of 29 by the same mother. He
learned the alphabet in one hour, when he was
three years old, learned the alphabet of love in
a week atthe age of 16, but before he got to Z
in the alphabet of life, his wife ran away from
him with one of hisstudents at Bologna. In at-
tempting to overtake her, death overtook him.
He’ took poison. i

Major A. G. Constable, now of Harper Bro-
thers, was an officer in the British army, in India,
more than 40 years ago.
|. St. Denis, whose festival is kept on the 9th of
October, was the first Bishop of Paris. He lost
-his life by losing his head; and in the ancient
paintings the good man is represented as trotting
about ¢arrying that useful member of his body
in his hands.

The accordion, the most abominable of all
musical instruments, if we except the jew’s-
harp, the kettle-drum, and the fog-horn, was in-
vented by Herr Johannes Schimpelpfennighau-
sen, at Hamburg, in the year of grace 1435. It
is pleasant to record that this unconscionable
plague of the human race was assassinated by
one of his earliest.victims.

There was oncé@ Roman consul named Mar-
cus Curius Dentatus? Whether he had three
names because hé was three times consul will
never be known; but one thing is certain, his
surname, Dentatus, was given him because he
had the honor of being born with a full set of
teeth. He was called Curius, perhaps, because
he was a curiosity; and Marcus, because he was
destined to make his mark in the world—which
he did, but not with his teeth. Dentatus was a
very modest man, and lost no opportunity to
make himself useful. When he was approached
by the Samnites with costly presents—which he
refused—he was cooking turnips for dinner.

It is said that Tycho Brahe, the great mathe-
matieian of the olden time, always shuddered
“when he saw a fox. A practical man would an-
nihilate the animalywith the hypothenuse of a
right-angled chan gietpe stun it with the asymp-
totes gf an hyperbole, before he would tremble
at the mére sight x chieken-thiet.

Ariogto, the Italia Peet, eduld not look at a
-bath, ad yet he would Wathe in the mythical
Heliéo#t without shudder. ‘ He must have gone
aWindming with his eyes shut. .

“There is nothing new under the sun,” says
not put in an appéatance until 1866?

Cardan, the celebrated astrologist, taught that
the fat@ of the greatest European powers was
determined by the tail of Ursa Major, the Great
Bear. Nowadays the destinies of European na-
tions seem to be determined by the heads of
two great men—Bismarck and Beaconsfield.
While he believes that

“ great Statesdepend —

Upon the tip of the Bear’s tail’s end,”
he seems to have thought that his own state was
under the control of some other power. He fore-
told the time of his own death; but when the
day drew near, he found himself, at the age of
75, in perfect health. He was a man determined
not to be mistaken; and in order not to bring
disgrace upon his favorite science, he refused to
take his rations, and died gloriously of starva-
tion on the very day he had named.

Mark Antony, who caused Cicero to be mur-
dered, was one of those many men of minds who
practice the decalogue with all the nots left out.

—— —__—»>-9<

UNCLE RICHARD’S ADVICE.

BY MARY GRACE HALFINE,

 

 

 

“Never propose to a woman by gas-light, my deur
boy,” was the dying injunction of Mr. Culver, to his
nephew and heir, Richard. rf

“T suppose you will marry groaned the old man,
after a pause, looking so y at the frank young
face that was bending over him. “It’s a family fail-
ing, thatis. All the Culvers married—I married’

Here he groaned again.

Richard had a very vivid recollection of the selfish,
exacting Woman whose death was the only real kind-
ness she 6ver did her husband as well as the greatest
possible relief.

“Don’t you worry, uncle,” he said, clasping bis
warm. fingers around the wrinkled bloodless hand
that was lying upon the counterpane. “I don’t
mean to be fooled by any woman. In fact I don’t
think I shall ever marry.”

“That’s what all young men say; that’s what I
said. But you'll doit; and I’m not going to waste
my breath in asking you not to do it.
propose by gas-light. If you do ten to one but you’ll
be sorry tor it all the rest of your life. If you fallin
love with a pretty woman got up for the occusion,
and feel tempted to tell her so by gas-light, just sleep
onit. If you must make a fool of yourself, let it be

There was not much that Richard would not have
promised the eccentric old man, who, in spite of all
his oddities, had been to him so kind and generous a
friend, especially at a time like this.

So he gave the required promise to his uncle’s
visible relief, who said no more, except to enjoin his
nephew to have him buried in a remote corner of the
cemetery as far as possible from the late Mrs. Cul-
ver.

“IT think I shall rest better,’ he said; these brief
words being a whole commentary on the unquiet life
he had led with her who was in popular parlance,
“the gentle soother of his cares and sorrows.”

Whether it was a family trait or not, Richard cer-
tainly had a very kindly feeling toward everything in
the guise of womanhood, from the fair and dainty
creatures who smiled upom him from out their mar-
velous adornments, to thé more material and matter-
of-fact specimens who got up his limen and scrubbed
out his office.

Fine-looking, and with the double advantage of
wealth and social standing, our hero was the recipi-
ent of many attentions from anxious Mammas and
marriageable daughters, but whether it was the ef-
| fect of his uncle’s ill luck, and consequent warnings,
| or because he liked them all too well to have any in-
| dividual p rence, he remained heart-whole until

he met Miss Ida Selwyn.

It was a genuine case of love at first sight, so far as
he was concerned at least. Her complexion was 80
brilliant, she had such lovely dark eyes, and such a
pretty way of raising them to his and then letting
them droop until long, jetty lashes rested quiver-
ingly upon the rosy cheek, that he was quite captiva-
ted and carried away by their m spell. Nor did he
seem to eare about ever being |} ght back again to
the dull, prosaic land he had quitted. Day by day

 

   
  
 

 

   

   

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ling captive, until he finally felt that to win her for

and triumph of

 
     
   
  

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rembling upon his

 

Solorion. HoWisitthat the carpet-bagger did +

EW YORK WEEKLY. #365

=——

In trying to clothe in words the tumultuous
thoughts that were struggling for utterance, Richard
lifted his eyes to the jets of flame that cast such a soft,
subdued radiance around. As he did so, there flashed
upon his mind his uncle’s dying injunction, his own
promise. Instead of the blooming countenance, on
which he was gazing with all a lover’s rapture, he
saw a wrinkled face, surmounted by thin, gray locks,
whitened more by sorrows than years, he heard again
those feeble, tremulously-spoken words: ‘‘Never
propose te a woman by gas-light, my dear boy !”

True, it was a foolish promise to give, but he had
given it. He felt this to be the most favorable time
and opportunity, but he would not break his word,
even to win the woman who seemed to him to be the
embodiment of all womanly grace and goodness.

Our hero had arranged to leave town the next day
on a trip to the monntains, to be gone several weeks,
and he determined that he would not go without tell-
ing the story that had so nearly escaped his lips
the evening before.

It was nearly ten when he started out upon his er-
rand, A good night’s sleep, and the fresh breeze and
caln, clear light of that beautiful morning in spring,
had cooled somewhat the fever that was more of the
en than the heawt, and more of the senses than
either.

And as he tried to recall the words which rose so
readily to his ips a few hours ago, and which then
appeared so easy to speak and appropriate to the oc
casion, but which now sounded so flat, strained, and
unnatural that he rejected them in disgust, he began
to think that if his uncle’s advice was universally
followed many of the proposals made would never be
made at all.

“T never called on her in the morning before,” he
said to himself, the thought of finding his adored in
new attire and surroundings,giving a quicker motion
to heart and step,as he turned the corner which
brought her father’s house into view.

A bright-eyed daughter of Erin, who had often let
him in, was polishing the door-knob just outside.

“Good-morning, Norah. Is Miss Ida in?’

“Sure, an’ yell find her in the settin’-room, sir,”
said the girl, a broad smile upon her honest face as
she stepped aside to let him pass. “I heard her
spakin’ in there a minute ago. The door to the lift,
sir.

On familiar terms as Richard was with the Sel-
wyns, he had never been admitted to the family sit-
ting-room, and ke besitated a moment. Then he
turned the knob of the door to which he was direct-
ed, which moved noiselessly on its hinges.

Though the room was not dark, it seemed so to eyes
just coming out of the sunshine, and from the thresh-
old where he stood Richard could see only the dim
outline of a woman curled up in a large chair, the
back of which was toward him. Thinking to give
her some intimation of his presence, he tapped at the
half-open door.

“What do you stand knocking at the door for?”
cried a Voice, which in spite of its high key, he did
uot fail to recognize. ‘You spoiled my dress yester-
day, and now you want to give me my death of cold,
I suppose! Because you’re a relation you think Pll
put up with everything! Pa only took you out of
charity, and a pretty return you make for it!”

To say that Richard was thunder-struck, is to say
little. Thinking that it must be some delusion of the
senses, he advanced toward the speaker, who now
turned her head.

Uttering a little shriek, she half arose, and then
able back, made an abortive attempt to hide her-
self.

“T beg pardon, Miss Selwyn !” stammered our hero.
“It is Miss Selwyn, I believe?”

He might well ask the question. That dingy, soiled
wrapper, innocent of cuff or collar, and those untidy
shoes; the sallow face with its dismayed and angry
expression, the hair, part of it strained away from
the face in a little pug at the back of the head, the
rest bristling across the forehead in innumerable curl
paper presenting an appearance so unlike the love-
y, daintily-attired woman he had known, that for
some moments he could only stare at it in astonish-
ment and disgust.

Our hero could never clearly recall what he said on
that memorable occasion; he only knows that he
carried out the idea that was uppermost in his mind
to beat as sudden a retreat as he decently could do.

In his haste and confusion, instead of, taking the one
which led into the hall, he opened the doer Into the
dining-room, whose only oecupant was a blooming,
piueeyed maiden, who was busily engaged in “put-
ting it to rights.”

Comprehending the situation at a glance, she smil-
ingly offered to conduct our hero to the outer door,
whe expressed his thanks,and regrets for the trouble
he had caused her, in eourtly terms as his confused
ideas enabled him to render.

“Tt is no trouble,” she said, with a blush and smile
that dwelt long in his memory.

“What an escape!” thought Richard, as he went
down the steps.
could appear and look so different ?”’

Then his thoughts reverted to the fair vision, of

 

 

 

pretty she looked in the neat shilling print that fitted

 

so perfectly the beautifully-rounded form, and how
prettily she smiled and blushed. There was nosham,
no false color there surely.

Not many days after, Richard stood upon the piaz-
za of the Mountain House, where he had spent a few
iter of every year during quite a succession of

nem.

As he glanced around, he saw a young lady lean-
ing against one of the pillars, the outline of whose
form and partly averted face looked strangely fa-
tniliar. <A silver-haired man was standing beside
ae he recognized as soon as he turned his

ead.

‘How do you do, Mr. Selwyn?’ he said, advancing
toward him with extended hand.

The old gentleman shook hands with him warmly,
and then turning to the young lady, said:

“My niece Jennie, Mr. Culver.”

“T think we have met before,” said Richard, with a
smile, as he bowed low in response to this.

Her heightened color and the mirthful gleam in the
eyes that met his were the young lady’s only reply
to this intimation, but they mdde Richard’s heart
beat warmly at the recollection they imphed.

“My niece goes out into society so little that I had
no idea that you were acquainted,” said Mr. Selwyn,
on whom this little by-play was lost. ‘My wife and
daughter have gone to Saratoga, but we—Jennie and
I—thought we should enjoy better a trip to the moun-
tains.”

Richard was greatly relieved to find that he should

cee under circumstances 80 embarrassing to
oth.

This being Jennie’s first visit to the mountains,
everything to her was new und wondrously beauti-
iul. Richard had been there so frequently that he
knew just how and where to go to obtain the finest
views, and he lest no time in offering his services as
guide to Jennie and her uncle.

 

 

 

Only don’t!

in the morning when you know what you are about.” |

the charm grew stronger to wifich he was such a wil- |
2

 

s hold on the}

Mr. Selwyn gladly accepted his offer in behalf of
his niece. :

“My climbing days are over,” he said, with a smile,
“but I am anxious to have Jennie see everything
that is worth seeing.” ;

And so, to Richard’s great delight, it was arranged
that he was to be her escort and companion on all
and every occasion. As for Jennie, she threw her-
| self into his plans and suggestions with all the zest
and abandon of a child.

Clad in thick boots, a brown linen dress, which
cleared the ground allof two inches, and @ broad-
brimmed hat, she clambered up hills and over rocks
|} in a way that would have shocked her fine lady-aunt
| and cousin, but which surprised and delighted Rich-
ard, who had never seen anything like it before.

The happy weeks that followed passed all too
quickly. So when Mr. Selwyn announced one morn-
ing, as they were all seated out upon the piazza, his
|intention of returning the next day, the shock
|} brought a sudden revelation to the heart of each as
to how much of the happiness they had enjoyed
was due to the presence and companionship of the
other.

Perhaps Mr. Selwyn suspected how it was between
the two, for in a few minutes he went into the house,
leaving them alone together.

; Jennie’s head as she listened to the story, old yet
| ever new, which Richard poured into her wilKng ear.
| In his eyes the blushes of the dawn were not bright-
er than those which dyed her cheek, or the song of
the birds in the branches aboye their heads halt so
sweet to him as the sweet assurance that made him
so supremely blest.

cried; “but you—oh, my beloved! it is meet that I
should woo and win you thus, who are to be from
henceforth the joy and sunshine of my heart and
home!’

a > oe 4___—__—_- —-

A HARD-HEARTED landlord has aroused the indigna-
tion and contempt of the good people in Montreal by
removing the windows from a tenement because the
occupants failed to pay the rent. Five small children

of them were prostrated with severe colds.

mane citizen espoused the quarrel in the interest of

the indigent sufferers, and brought suit against the

eruel landlord, who has been fined $25 and costs.
——___—___—_-_—_ > @ =< —_______ ———

THAT royal young widower, King Alphonso, will
soon marry again. For his second wife he has chosen
avery youthful one, the Princess Marie Amelie, the
eldest daughter of the Comte de Paris. She is only
fourteen, and is second cousin of the late Queen

Maeareades
MeEPCOGES.

   

 

asc sat Se SS eR rial Se Se
A NEW ORLEANS tailor, who could not sleep be-
CE ns t , female invalid,
cured the cough by siiooting the poor suflerer.

  

  
  

, o£ Bloomington, Iowa
3 CO} led by a wig, has just
ite girl of twenty.

   

| whose

| wedded a pret

 

 

‘Who would believe that a woman

be under no necessity of meeting the woman he had |

The rays of the rising sun fell like a halo around |

“JT wooed my other love under the gas-light,’ he |

were thus exposed to the inclement weather, and two |
A hu-|}

 

 

‘A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY E, T. TAGGARD,

 

 

 

“A Hfe on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave,
And the wind its revels keep.”

I thought it a glorious old song, and from kitehen
to garret I made the rooms of the old homestead
echo to thé words of the song from morning until
night, as I wandered in my boyhood days through its
richly-turnished apartments.

I was born in the village of ——,a cold farming
county in the State of New ‘York, years before the
iron rails which bore the flying locomotive into the
heart of the land had made their appearance.

The country was well watered with small lakes and
brooks, in which bass, pickerei, and trout gamboled
during the warm months of the year, and tickled the
palates of the members of our household whenever I
felt: inclined to take my fishing-rod and whip the
neighboring streams.

The only stream of any maguitude which I had
ever seen was the Delaware River, when it was
swollen by the spring freshets a#d rushed in its made
dened career to kiss the old ocean, as some way-
ward but repentant son flies to a mother’s heart.

Often asI stood upon its banks and watched it
speed onward, I longed to embark upon its bosom
and to be carried onward to that great world of which
I had read so much and seen so little.

Feeling thus, the monotonous life of our little vil
lage became irksome to me, and I longed for the hour
when I could mingle with the busy throng of the
great world that seemed to be beyond my reach—to
fight there the great battles of life in such a manner
as to develop the latent fire of my soul.

As this feeling developed itself, our village seemed
to me to resemble a grave-yard and each house there-
in a mausoleum, whose inhbitants were corpses, but
whose sluggish intellects had not yet developed to
them the fact of their decease.

During the long winter nights I lay in my bed, but
not to sleep, and I seemed to be enveloped in a leth-
argy, of which I could not disincumber myself. The
world seemed to be moving on, and I alone was net
moving with it—on the contrary I appeared to be re-
trogressing in a great era of progress.

This determined me. I should leave the home of
my childhood, and go forth to fight the battles of life
inamanly way. -

When should I gof

Immediately.

Where should I go?

To sea.

When I had reached the conclusion, a new era
seemed to open before me, and as I wandered through
the spacious halls and chambers of the old homestead
I sang in stentorian tones the words of my favorite
song ‘‘A Life on the Ocean Wave,” and what it was
lacking in quality was more than compensated for by
the liberal doses with which I inflicted the inmates of
my home, soon to be my home no longer.

Winter passed away, the birds began to chirp in
the fields and gardens of the village, and the stern
frown of winter began to soften before the genial
smnile of spring. The usual spring freshets had swol-
len the Delaware River, and had somewhat receded
when I found myself, one beautiful moonlight night,
strolling along its winding banks.

I heard a noise in the distance, and as I intently
listened the sound of voices fell upon my ear. Walk-
ing briskly toa bend in the Piver, I discovered ap-
proaching a huge raft of lumbér, upon which were
assembled a number of men armed with huge poles,
which they were using to prevent the rait from get-
ting aground.

Springing behind a tree I hid myself until the rear

ortion of the raft had reached me, when I adrvitly
hat aboard and extended myself full length upon
the logs to prevent the fact of my presence being dis-
covered by the lumbermen, whom I soon learned had
been imbibing too freely of the poisonous liquor sold
in the taverns that lined the banks of the stream.

Having perpetrated this act under a sudden im-
pulse, I found myself illy clad to undergo the cold
and wet to which I was exposed. In &@ few minutes
the water from the river, as it threshed against the
bottom of the logs, found a ready entrance through
{ eee numerous interstices, and drenched me to the
skin. ;

I dared not move, for the horrid imprecations of
the lumbermen, maddened by liqner and soured by
many consecutive nights of broken rest, horrified
me. Every new obstacle they met seemed to anger
them the more, and I feared to make my presence
known, lest they might murder me, and so I lay pros-
trate, with the icy waters of the Delaware beating
over me and chilling my very heart’s blodd.

What a transformation from a happy fk
luxurious heme! Whata situation for
never experienced a hardship, and whose €¥
had been anticipated!

I felt as though I should die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  

ide anda
‘who had
ery want

On the forward part

which he had obtained so brief a glimpse. How | of the raft Icould hear the crackling of the wood-fire

and see the curling smoke as it rose upward and

passed above me. It came from the interior of 2 rude

cabin which the luambermen had entered for shelter.

I would have given all my earthly possessions for the
| privilege of sitting but a few minutes near its warm
| blaze, but I feared the consequences of making such

@ request, and so I lay still, and the cold wuters of
the Delaware washed over and around me.

On we sped, with the bright moon shining froma
cloudless sky, and thewaters of the river seemin
like molten silver. The wind, chilled by the breath o
night, bit me like an enraged panther, and as I wateh-
ed the trees upon the banks of the river, I suddenly
discovered that our speed had been considerably ac-
celerated, and then I knew that we had reached one
of a series of rapids which abound in the river.

Down we went with the speed of a race-horse, the
water bubbling and boiling around me, leaving the
end of the raft upon which I lay one moment high in
the air and in the next dropping me a foot deep in its
seething current, I held on for life, for I knew that
it was death to be washed from the raft in such a
place.

I fairly held my breath in suspense, when a sudden
erash started my chilled blood into a rapid cirezla-
tion, and the hurried exclamations and imprecations
of the angered and alarmed lumbermen warned me
of the occurrence of some terrible catastrophe. In
our descent of the rapids we had struck a rock, and
our frail raft was torn apart and utterly dismem-
bered.

I was thrown violently upward, but, fortunately, in
my descent I struck upon the raft, falling between two
| logs, which now that the rocky obstruction had been
overcome, closed together again and pinned me fast.
From my position I saw the lumbermen vainly strug-
gling in the boiling waters; I heard their cries for
help echoed from the mountain sides, and then I
closed my eyes, not wishing to be the witness of their
death struggles, until the last faint cry was stilled,
and I knew that the wild waters of the Delaware had
closed above them forever.

For a time I did not realize the danger of my own
position, for my mind was filled with the scenes of
which I had been an unexpected witness. I thought
of those poor fellows who had been swept from life
without a moment’s warning, of lives perhaps illy
spent, of homes made desolate, for I could not but be-
leve that although they possessed rough exteriors,
and their manners were uncouth, yet in their own
homes they might have been kind husbands and af-
tectionate fathers.

I was recalled to a sense of my own danger by an
indescribable sense of suffocation, when I discovered
that the logs kad pinned me across my chest, leaving
the lower portion of my body swinging, as it were,
in the river below, and making it impossible for me
to breathe except with the utinost difficulty and with ©
the most excruciating pain.

Still the slight remnant of the raft upon which I
was imprisoned drifted on rapidly toward the sea,
and as I thought of the probability of my meeting
that ‘‘ocean wave” of which I had so often fervently
sung, I began to experience a feeling of hopelessness
akin to despair.

I tried to extricate myself, but as every effortin that
direction only occasioned additional pain, and was
| fruitless, I soon ceased all such attempts, and recon-
ciled myself to my fate, whatever it might be.

Then it was that I discovered that the tree
peared to be immovable, and further invest
developed the fact that the raft had run aground
low acurve in the river, into which an eddy
borne it.

From my position I saw the moon set behind the
western hills, and a darkness spread over the face of
the earth. It was yet many hours before dawn, and
| imprisoned and helpless I was compelled to await
| the break of day.
| It came at last, and with it came help. I was res-

cued from my perilous position, and carefully carried,
| for I was unable to walk, to a farmer’s housé, where
}on exaiination I was found to be suffering from two
| fractured ribs.
|. My mother was written to, and hastened to my
| bedside, and under her kind treatment I soon recoy-
| ered sufticiently to be taken home. When I entered
| the homestead I involuntarily began to sing that

good old song *‘Home Again,” and you can rest as
sured that thereafter my views in regard to the
village of and its good people were entirely
changed.”

“But how about your favorite song,
Ocan Wave’; do you still sing it?”

“Oh, yes. Thatis, I still patronize the air
use words somewhat different. [ll jusé
four lines of it:

 

   

 

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‘A Life on the

but I

   

 
 

** «4 life on the ocean wave,’
The man who wrote it was g4

He never had been to .
And a storm he never had

 

  
 

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“My-Awful Dad! My Aw
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| to the bewitching 4¥

  

  

 

    

   

 

 

 

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THE NEW

 

 

  

 

 

 

ORK WEEKLY.

 

  

BES :
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“ A or
Fy DELO’

  

 

  

a - a ereneer ery ————— : a Se enero ————— ooo SEE
See eet ees ; 3 a Pes ; : ; : A Tis :
PBATTY KATE MC CRSA. since her tirst love had been beckoned out of it by struggle, but he corrected himself quickly—“I mean, | laughed and clapped his hands again, as he lett the | likely to render any sound of a stealthy or cautious
iz Per as the hand of Death. how is Lady Edith ?” . young debutant to feast upon his letter. ; hature inaudible, and the watcher strained his ears
(Designed for Muste.) His dreams were different—how (different! “Bad, bad!” said the boy, ssdly. “She isin great | He opened it with trembling hands, and scanned its { all the more on that account, but heard nothing but

BY FRANGI5 S. SMITH.

The cowslip and the butter-cup
Dew-laden, gem the lea,

The night is gone, the sun is up,
And so is Kate McCrea.

‘With lightsome step she bounds alung,
And spends her morning hours

In warbling to the robin’s song,
And sporting ’mid the flowers.

Golconda’s mines—a golden flood—
The riches of the sea—

I would not own unless they could
Be shared with Kate KeCrea.

A thousand odoreus blossoms meet
Where hums the honey-bes,
The piled-up new-mown hay is sweet,
And so.is Kate MoCrea.
Her bosom white, her eyes so bright
Can equaled be by none,
She is the type of pure delight,
Dear nature’s paragon.
She is the day-star of my life!
She’s all the world to me!
No prince I'd envy if my wife
Were pretty Kate McCrea.
a

oe Pads

AGTOR'S SEGRET;

OR,
|

HARRY MONTAGUE’S LOVE.

A STORY FROM REAL LIFE.|

By One of His Compeers.

 

{“The Actor’s Secret’ was commenced last week. Ask |

your News Agent tor No. 22, and you will get the open
tng chapters. }
CHAPTER IV.
IN THE THEATER.

With an exclamation caused by anger and affronted
dignity, the Earl of Erling rushed forward and
caught his haif-conscious daighter from the young
man’s arms, bearing her rapidly to his carriage, which |
stood near by.

He crossed the space between the house and the
vehicle with nervous haste, for his pride revolted at
the thought of his being seen in so undignified a di-
lemma, and be ground his teeth to think what gos-
sipping inquiries might be made as te the cause of
his singular action.

“Home!” he cried, shortly, even savagely, to the
wonder-gaping coachman, as he placed Edith on
oue seat and flung himself angrily onto the other.

As the carriage was whirled away, Edith turned
her tearful eyes through the window to where Harry
stood upon the threshold, with a face whose sadness
of expression was the most eloquent of farewells.

She was aboutto wave an adieu to him, but her
father caught her hand and prevented her.

“Have you not demeaned yourself and disgraced me
enough already ?’ he said, harshly.

“Ob, papa,” she said, chokingly, “it beseems one to
be grateful to the savior of one’s life.”

“Silence, girl!”’ he said, angrily. “TI have paid the |
beggar for his wetting, and is not that enough ?”

She sighed, but said nothing, only glancing back to
where the young man still stood gazing after them.

Harry had seen her attempted action and its hind-
rance by the earl, and he pressed his hand upon his |
heart and bowed low. |

As she could not use her hands, Edith bowed her
head, evoking an angry but wordless grow] from her
father, whose mind was running over all the means
for conquering disobedient daughters that had been
put in use by stern parents from the dark ages down.
Dark rooms and meager diet, loft, tower, and dun-
geon-Gell were some of the gentle corrections that
suggested themselves to his mind.

And Harry, too, came in for his share of vengeful
meditation en the part of the angered earl, who puz-
zied his brain to find some way to reach him, for,
after what he had seen, simple banishmerrt from his
domains was not enough to appease his wounded
dignity.

He thought of the county jail and his own power
as a magistrate over other magistrates, but he could
think of no charge against the young man.

“Yes, one!’ he thought, joyfully, that is, as joy-
fully as his angry mood would admit of—“tresspaass—
trespass on the private grounds of the castle.”

Ah, but then the examination would bring out that
hadit not been for that trespass, Lady Edith, the
flower of the house of Erling would be cold ina
watery grave, and that would never do in the world.

Sothey whirled away silently but thdughtfully,
Edith filled with melancholy musing, and the earl
bolding within him a little inquisition court of his
own.

Meantime Harry stood watching the coach until it
and its accompanying cloud of dust passed out of |
Sight, and then he turned to rejoin his afflicted
mother, whose low moanings he could plainly hear
within.

His eyes were full of tears, but his heart was full
of joy and hope.

He was now assured of what he had been in doubt
about—-the reciprocity of feeling between him and
the Lady Edith.

The words of Manager Ruggles had come true—his
young love was not a thing to canker uncared for in
his breast, it was returned, and, even though parted,
that was a light of memory to live for.

That short, involuntary, emotional embrace had
been a hallowed revelation to both of the young peo-
pie never more to be forgotten this side the grave, if
even beyond if.

“Mother! Mother! Look up!
on so?”

“Oh, my poor boy!” faltered the good woman,
“why have you let this fatal fancy grow upon you!
My unfortunate child, nothing but misery can 6ome
ot it.’’

toes tlamamcctsinagnsn intima

 

Why do you take}

“Unfortunate, mother,” said Harry, with tender |
cheeriness as he stooped to kiss her and resumed the
seat from which he had arisen at the earl’s appear-
ance, ‘say, rather, mother, the most fortunate of
fortunates. Congratulate me!”

“Ah my son, would you have me. congratulate you
on a future embittered by disappointment and blight-
ed by a hopeless passion.”

“Hopeless, mother,” he said, reproachfully. “T
told how hopeless it was—buti now—mother——why
you saw for yourself. Before the future was, indeed,
dark—now all is light—all the buffets of fortune—all
the frowns of the world cannot crush or overeloud
the happiness in my heart. I will go on my new ca-
reer—I will strain every particle of power in my
possession in order to achieve success—the thoughts
of you and her willstrengthen and nerve me to outdo
myself. With such incentives I cannot, will not fail.
Ishall return rich and famous, to bring joy to both
your hearts. Ili foree you, mother, to be proud of
iIne,)’

“Y am_ proud of you, my boy!’ said the mother,
smiling through her tears, as she embraced the en-
thusiast. “I always was proud of you.”

“Tt know it! I know it!” he cried,returning her
caress. ‘You spoiled me by letting me know it. But
now I must get ready. There! there, mother. do not
cry, for my sake do not! Do not send me forth with
a weak heart when [have so much need of a strong
one. Rather let your blessing and your prayers
strengthen me and give me courage.”

The tender tone of his appealing touched the ma-|
ternal heart, and though her tears still coursed her |
cheeks as he kissed her, she made a brave endeavor |
to control her emotions and comply with his wishes. |

They then sat about gathering together his things, |
she with a heavy heart from which frequent sichs
escaped in spite of her endeavors to suppress them,
and he with an elation that he had never. dreamed of
being able to fecl when parting from the home of
his childhood and the mother of his loye—that part
ing which had heretofore been so dreaded,

One thing that made the mother more resi¢ned to
the separation was the dread of the earl’s enmity if
her son disregarded his mandate to d¢ part.

There was no knowing what form that enmity
might take, for she knew, as did all who knew him at |

 

 

 

   

 

 

npesieipcitinet ?

a cepetcageagmasenibliiahiains ation

Instead of murky gloom, his future was but faintly
vailed by golden mists, through which he caught
glimpses of the paradise beyond in waiting for him.
His seas were unruffied by storms and fanned by
zephyrs. Hisskies were gemmed with roseate cloud-
iets, or bright with stars which all seemed loving
eyes, and all resembled hers to whom his heart had
bgone forth.

The waking life aswell aa the realm of dreams is
filled with just such contrasts.

“The morn was up again—the dewy morn—
With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom,”

when Harry and his mother arose, the one blithe and
hopeful from pleasant dreams—the other worn and
haggard from a troubled night.

After breakfast the preparations fer Harry’s de-
parture were recommenced and continued to com-
pletion; and that done, Harry went to town to re-
port to Manager Ruggles.

His respect for this man of the world (both real and
mimic) had greatly increased, and his faith in his
wisdom and judgment had deepened wonderfully.

He sawin him the mentor and guide who was to
lead him by the hand and sustain him in the un-
known realm the border of which he was about to
cross.

 

 

The light of a dark lantern flashed blindingly upon the lovers,

Mr. Ruggles and his company were rehearsing a
new piece when Harry applied for an interview. but
he was immediately shown into the theater in com-
pliance with a previous order.

The manager received him very warmly, and to his
confusion, almost dismay, introduced him off-hand to
the theatrical people.

He had often heard that actors and actresses were
terribly given to “‘guying” people, and he trembled
lest they should begin their searifying operations on |
him at once. and consequently he was agreeably sur- |
prised to find himself treated with kindness and
respect.

Some of them had heard the evidence of his talent
as well as Mr. Ruggles, and the rest had heard his i
praises spoken by the manager, while all were ac- |
quainted with his daring exploit of the day before,
and bravery is sure to gain respect the wide world
over.

After a hand-shaking all round, and a kindly word
from each that set him at his, ease, the rehearsal
went on, and Harry took a seat in the auditorium, to
take his first study of the inner mysteries of his fu- |
ture profession, and await the leisure of Mr. Ruggles.

What strang feelings were aroused by thisentrance
into the land cf the unreal—this first peep behind the
scenes. ;

As he gazed around, everything was a puzzling
mystery to him. All was weird, unreal, repulsive. —

When he was last in this theater it was a place of |
enchantment, all ablaze with light, resonant of

sweet music, brilliant with beauty.

Now the place was like a barn; chilly as an ice-
house and dark as a dungeou.

What a wonderful change!

Then the stage, there the greatest wonder was.

Could that dingy region of cold draughts, toppling
wings, and tawdry furniture and properties be the
same fairy-land on which his admiring eyes had
dwelt so fondly!

Could those mufiled-up people, who were walking
about like discontented bears to keep themselves
warm, and mumbling over their parts like Hindoo
devotees saying their prayers, have anything in com-
mon with the bravely-dressed heroes and heroines
who dazzled the eyes of the audiences? Surely im-
possible!

Conimon coats and hats, shawls and gowns for vel-
vet and fine linen, gauze and satin; heavy gaiters
in lieu of dainty slippers; vulgar leather (sometimes
muddy) in place of lordly silk or russet boots.

The contrast not only surprised but annoyed the |
young aspirant. It chilled his ardor; it was the first
damper on his bright dreams.

Without hearing any footsteps approach him down
the aisle néar which he sat, he felt a touch on his
shoulder and started from his reverie with a thrill,
to see dimly in the half darkness a figure beckoning
him to follow.

With difficulty he recognized the man who had
admitted him, and wondering whut was to come
next, he arose and followed him noiselessly along
the matted aisle back toward the entrance.

CHAPTER V.
A WELCOME SURPRISE—THE APPOINTMENT.

 

 

 

 

“Young swell wants to see you,” said the man,
when they had reached a distance where his voice
could not disturb the rehearsers.

“To see me?” said Harry, wondering who it could
be, and how anybody knew to seek him there.

“Yos, yowre the card he’s after, said the man,
crufily, as they stepped into the lobby. “There’s the
kid.”’

Simultaneously with the words a light form sprang
forward and embraced Harry. It was Wilfred Erl- |
ing.

“Why, Harry, dear Harry!” cried the boy.
glad Tam to have found you.”

“wilt ” said Harry, in surprise.
der did you find me ?”

“T have been to your mother’s——”

“And did she-——” exclaimed Harry, with the
slightest shadow of a frown, for he and } mother

“How

  

“How in won- |

his
had agreed to leeep his whereabouts, plans, and des-
ination strietly seeret for the time.

 

 

 
  
 
 
 

   

 

 

all did, to be # vindictive man, merciless im the exer- ‘Yes, she told me,” said, Wilfred. “At. first she |
cise of his power, and unscrupulous as to the means | wouldn’t, but I coaxed and coaxed. and gave her}
or instruments he employed for the gratification of | reasons 4 hy I must see you, and at last she told mé@}
his spite. | I would find you here.” ~ }
She shuddered to think to what extremes his re- |} “And why did ish to see me so bad, Wilfred?” '
vengeful nature might lead him, and she trembled | asked Harry, with strat nervousness. |
for her darling boy. | “Well, first, Harry, I I 1 were going |;
yor the scene that she had witnessed she knew } y,” said the warm-heai 1 boyish feel-

i home was no safe place for lim for the pre: - | ‘and I—almost—just barely—thought you might

t, and with an aching heart she resig: | +t mo, and leave without bidding

  

mic unavoidable.

tht of dreams that was to the poor wid-
8 second bereave-

} yy + . pas
her tortured

80 soon to suffer 4]
1orrifying fancies filled

 

to see the son of
me to death:
wmMs

 
   
  
 
 
 

+ R
to &

      

arted stran
1d laborious occur

hiv yy 7 feqyr
tip on a t

JALIL CS 0

   

Ok Ler Lie

IV C-U

  

it bidding me good-by, or
ing me a chance to:say ‘God blegs you.’ ” 1
farry pressed the littie man’s Be silently, but |
the te ng to his eyes and a Ghoki sensation |
rose 1} nr¢ 1
“Tt isn’t our
ful voice. “Not
mine—that fath« $

harsh, and eruel; if we—
iled him, and he sobbed childishly, the

 

        

  
   
  
  
 

said the hoy, in a tear- |
ut, you know-sister’s and !
7, and ungrateful, and

 

 

 

9

 

  

  

‘f this mere stripling, a
of hand.

egan Harry, after a

 

 

oo . ; ”
is your sis~—’b

 

; Gan.”’

i answer.

' secret and tender as to tts revealment, but he remem-
‘

 

grief and trouble on account of father’s treatment of
you. ButI was forgetting. Wait one second.”

The warm-hearted boy unbuttoned the breast of
his many-buttoned velvet tunic very clumsily in-
deed, for the agitation of his feelings made him
nervous, and began to dive after something hidden
therein.

Harry was on the tenter-hook of expectation as he
watched him. He feared to ask what it was the boy
was searching for.

“Here it is,” said Wilfred, at last producing a very
small, scented note, and putting it into Harry’s tremb-
ling hands. “There, she toid me to give you that.
Let her speak for herself.”

Harry pressed the first little missive of love fer-
vently to his trembling lips, and Wilfred, with in-
stinctive courtesy, turned away toward the vestibule,
that the young man might read it in private, but as
he did s0, he gavea start and an exclamation that
caused Harry to turn quickly.

He saw 2 young man pass away from the wicket of
the box-oflice close by, and he thought he recognized
his figure between him and the light of the street as
he passed out. ;

“Who was it?” asked Harry of Wilfred.

“Herbert Perry,” auswered the boy, in a troubled
tone.

 

$ et - a ~ ——-—

“Herbert Perry?’ said frarry. “Why, be was in
the boat with Lady Edith and her friends when the
dog upset it.’

“Yes,” said the boy, scornfully, and your friend,
the actor man, pulled him out like a shi vering dog,
while you were saving Edith. I wish I had seen him
sooner—I hope he did not see or hear us.”

“Whyt What matter?’ said Harry, annoyed by
the boy’s perturbed manner.

“Every matter. He’s a sneak, evenif he is of aris-
tocratic blood,” cried the boy, with an intensity of
scorn that was startling in such a youngster. “If he
has seen or overheard us, ie will do all the harm he

“Against whom?”

“Both of us—at least, against you.”

“Against me?’ exclaimed Harry, in surprise.
“Why should he wish to injure me, who helped to
save his life?”

“Much he thanks you for it,” said the boy, bitterly.
“He hates you for it. He knows that your bravery
showed off his own cowardice. He saw and heard
how Sis spoke to you even bexore father, and héhates
you for that, too.”

“Why ?’ said Harry. with a hot twinge of jealousy.

“Because he knows that she must despise him as
muchas she admires you,” said the eloquent lad.
‘Besides he’s after Sis, and father favors him and
pets him because he belongs to a great and rich
tamily.”’

“Hal” said Harry, with a pained start at hearing
so soon after the brightening of his hopes that he
was to have a powerful and dangerous rival in the
lists of love. “But your sister does not look on him
kindly ?””

“Does she?” said Wilfred, with scornful smile.
‘You should have seen and heard her when the mean
coward tried to make littie of what you did in the
river.”

“He did?” asked Harry, hotly, the blood mounting
to his.temples.

“Indeed he did,” said the boy, with amusing posi-
tiveness. “Hesaid it was nothing to praise up so
much—that anybody could have done it and all that,
and Sis flared up like a sky-rocket, and told him that
he was a shabby wretch—and a coward to talk so of
the absent—especially of the person who had risked
his precious life to save his worthless one.”

“Lady Edith said that?’ asked Harry, huskily, for
a strange fullness of the heart and throat threatened
to suffocate him.

“Indeed she did, and more, if I could recollect it.
My father heard her preach his pet a sermon he
won't forget till Christinas.”

Harry’s head swam dizzily, and the tears welled
up relievingly to his hot eyes. He held the unopened
note from Edith in his hand, and he pressed it to his
heart, as it that would allay the tumultuous throb-
bing there.

“Ah! here you are!’ he heard the voice of Ruggles
say, though his swimming eyes could not at first dis-
cern the speaker.

‘Yes, sir,”’ he said, with a struggle to cast off the
odd fit of emotion under which he was laboring. “TI}
was called out to receive a message from a friend.”

Mr. Ruggles looked at Wilfred, and recognizing him
as the boy who played a part in the dog and boat ad-
venture, he smiled significantly and turned away,
saying:

“On, yes, I see how it is. Well, when you are
through with your business I will see you.”

“Tam through now, sir,’ said Harry, recovering
himself. “Good-day, Wilfred, be sure that I will see
youagain beforel go tothank yon for your kindness.”

As he warmly shook his young friend’s hand the
latter hurriedly whispered:

“Edith said she expected me to bring heran answer

rr

 

contents eagerly, his cheek flushing and his eyes
sparkling with pleasure the while.

It was brief, and read as follows:

“MY FRIEND AND SAVIOR :—I am so filled with sorrow at
the injustice and wrong you are snifering from the ingrati-
tude of mine and on my account, that [ cannot forbear
writing these few lines, no matter how immodest or un-
maidenly itmigi% be deemed by some. To me it isa d
that I owe, and I were recreant indeed were I to shri
from its fullfilment. You were bold to risk your life for
mine, and I will be bold to ask the precious privilege of
thanking you for your noble act on the eve of your depar-
ture. Can you find in your generous ,heart to grant that
srivilege to the daughter of your wronger and oppressor?

f you willadd this to the’ other great debt I owe you,
meet me at the wayside chapel as soon as itis dark enough
to escape observation. Iam watched closely, but I shall
Wilfred will be with me; he is

  

find means to elude them.
the only one I can trust, and he dearly loves you. Answer
by him, and believe me that, though others may be thank-
less and forgetful, I never shall, because I never can.
EDITH.”

It would be vain toattempt a description of Harry’s
feelings as Ire read these unexpected lines. He could
scarcely believe his eyes, and conned them over and
over again until the delicately traced lines were
blurred and hidden by his mistinéss of vision.

cough at the further end of the auditorium
awoke him from his eestasy, and he saw the figure of
Wilfred standing impatiently in the open door-way.

He had totally forgotten the bearer of this rapture-
raising mission, and he hastened to amend his neglect
by taking paper and an en velope from the table
drawer, and writing with nervous hand:

“LADY EDITH:—The great honor you have conferred
upon me by your gracious message, has so overwhelmed
me with happiness that my hand is as nervous as my heart
is agitated, and I am unable to write sensibly or even legi-
bly. Accept my humble, heartfelt thanks for your conde-
scension in conferring so great a mark of consideration on
one 50 unworthyas I. I will be at the place, if I should
reach it with my last gasp. Believe, until death, your de-
| voted, humble gervant, HARRY MANN.”

The above was the outcrop of half a dozen desper-
ate trials, and he inclosed it with shaky hands, and
hastened to give it to Wilfred unaddressed, for he
had exhausted his caligraphic powers in the compo-
sition, and could not undertake the superscription.

“Here, Wilfred, my dear friend,” hé said, trembling
with excitement, “‘Hasten to give that to Lady
Edith, and forgive me for trying your patience so
severely.”

“Oh, it’s her patience we have to think of,” said
the boy, as he shook Harry’s hand and hurried off.

Passing out he met Herbert Perry face to face, the
latter having returned under pretense of seeing
about some mistake in regard to the tickets he had
purchased.

“Hal friend Wilfred,’ he said, ‘you here! Are
you coming to see the play to-night?”

“Perhaps yes—perhaps no. Just as my mind
changes,” said the haughty boy, pushing past him and
| away.
i

 

 

Perry frowned, looked after him a moment, forgot
all about the mistake in the tickets, and followed on
| the boy’s track.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TRYSTING-PLACE—THE COURSE
ETC., ETC.

When the happy Harry turned back toward the
stage he saw that Mr. Ruggles was there awaiting
him. The hidden door had been lett open for him, an
he ascended to the stage.

“Well?” said the kind-hearted manager, pointing to
a chair, and smiling as he noticed the state of joyous
excitement in which the young man was. “Your
goddess has condescended to smile upon the timid
doubter.”

“Sir, Lady Edith is nobly condescending,” said
Harry, blushing, and then with a burst of manly
frankness: Mr. Ruggles, you and I are going to pass
at least a portion of our lives together. I shall have
to look to you for guidance and advice, and although
we have not known each other long, but already I be-
lieve you to be too honorabie a man, and too true a
Jriend, for me to keep anything trom. Please read
that.

He held out Edith’s letter, and the manager looked
at him adiniringly as he took it.

“My dear boy,” he said, feelingly, as he caught his
hand, ‘I am pleased and honored by your confidence,
| and shall ever endeavor to prove myself worthy of
| it. Wetwo have been baptized together, you know,
| and must, or at least should, stick te one another.”

They both laughed at this, and then holding the
letter close to one of the lights, that he might better
see the fine-lined writing, he read it attentively.

“By Jove! she’s a trump!” he cried, clapping his
fist upon the table, like a demonstrative card-player.
“Your a lucky dog, Harry boy! That girl’s a prize
well worth a good man’s winning—and you have won
her.”’

“Not yet,” said Harry, with a sad smile.

“Let time take its course, you impatient young jack-
anapes,” laughed the manager. ‘The girl is yours—
let that precious father goto Hong Kong. He sent
me a very fairly filled purse here this morning with-
out a werd, just as if he was pitching a bone to a dog.
Have you heard from him yet ?”’

“Yes,” said Harry, smiling. “If he sent you a
purse without a word, he brought one to me with
many words that I wish I could huve been spared the
hearing of. Why, sir, I must needs go with you now
whether [ will or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“T am banished.”

“Banished!” exclaimed Ruggles, in astonishment.
“Banished by whom ?”

“The earl—her father. He has ordered me to quit
this part of the country under penalty of I don’t
know what terrible unknown consequences.”

“You amaze me!” exclaimed the manager.
plain this high-handed piece of business.”

Thereupon Harry related circumstantially all that
had occurred at his mother’s residence, from the en-
trance of the earl to the exit of him and Edith.

The manager listenedin wonder.

“This is one of the most outrageous affairs I ever
heard of,” he said, when Harry bad concluded, ‘and
this is to be tolerated in a land of vaunted liberty!
Stillhe is powerful, and can harm you with impu-
nity, and it is safer for you to keep out of his way.
At alleventsit is better that you should be away
from these quarters for a time. You are sure of the
young lady’s affections, and, when the right time
comes, rest assured that ‘love will laugh at lock-
smiths.’ I didn’t take much stock inthat old bad-
ger’s dial-plate from the first. It’s certainly not ‘a
thing of beauty,’ and, for the soul of me, I can’t see
where the girl—well, her mother must have been
very, very beautiful to counteract his ugly influence
—that’s all.”

Harry was somewhat piqued to hear this man of
the world talk in this free and easy style about the
object. of his adoration; but he said nothing, tor he
knew his friend meant no slight to her.

“Now about your prepurations—we soen close
here,’ said the manager, getting down to business.

“Allis packed, sir, and I am at your command at a
moment’s notice.”

“Bravo! that’s the style! You'll soon drop into
harness. As soon as the supes come in the evening,
I'll send three or four of them up to your mother’s to
bring down your things.”

The remainder of the day, until toward evening,
was spent in regulating the terms of agreement be-
tween the manager and@ his recruit, the signing of ar-
ticles, and so forth; and these things finished, Harry
hastened impatiently homeward to share his joyous
secret With his mother.

The old lady was as pleased and proud of this mark
of preference for her beloved from one of such rank
and beauty. as the Lady Edith as the son himself, but
while her heart swelled warmly toward the titled
beauty who thus honored her, she shook her head
forebodingly, and said:

“I fear, my darling son, that there’s unhappiness
ahead.”

Harry was too happy in anticipation of the ap-
proaching interview to even take the trouble to chide |
away her gloomy fears; but had he seen the two ill- }
looking fellows who had dogged him from the thea-
ter to his home in the afternoon and were now loiter-
ing in the neighborhood, he might bave paid more at-
tention to his thoughtful mother’s presaging.

The required dusk of evening approached too slow-
ly for his impatience, and he passed the time in élab-
orate changes of his§ toilet, setting off his handsome
face and form tothe best advantage, regardless or
forgetful of the fact that all the effect would be lost
in the murky night-shadows.

OF TRUE LOVE,

 

“Ex-

   

 

 

  

 

tossomething imthat/’” :
Here was « dilemma, for Harry had not yet opened |
the precious note, and therefore did not know what to

He was like all young lovers jealous of his soft

   

bered that Mir. Rugs as already in hiscontidence,
and asking Wilfred to wait amoment he followed the
manager down the aisle toward the stage.

“My kind friend,” he said,/when he reacked the
other's side, “I’ve received a note——”

“T thought as much,” said Mr. Ruggles, pleasantly.
“What did [tell you? Nil desperandum, was it not? |
You see theypare not all foes in the enemy’s camp.”

t will requir answer,” said Harry, blushing, |
though the gloom of the building hid the fact from |
“Could you oblige me with the conveni-

  

 

  

 

   

 

friend.
ence ?”’
‘Certainly,’ said R
tablé there on the stag The people are all gone, |
and no one will molest you. You wifl find corre-
sponding matenial in the drawer.”
“Tam very thankful to you.”
“Don’t mention it, my boy,”
he led the way through 1

Dis

uggles.
ec.

“At the prompter’s

a door which was rendered

invisible when closed by the ornamentation of the

proscenium.
They ascended a few steep narrow steps, and Harry
Mann che wi

 

hbetWeen the wv
his ‘first

passing

center

gs toward the table
appearance on

 

Ues8

|
|
|
said the manager, as |
|
{
|
|
1

mad any |
’ exCipimied Ruggles,
in reception.

Harry bowed towazd the empty house as he had
seen actors do to fullOnes, and the pleased manager }

clapping his hands |
}

|

| shades were falling fast before he

The trysting-place was but a short distance from
the suburban residence of his mather, and the night. |
started for the
spot.

“Mother,” he said, turning on the threshold, ‘if
some men call and ask for my luegage, let them have
it; they are supernumeraries from the theater.”

“{ will,” she said, faintly, for her tears began to |
flow afresh at this sign of how near their parting was
at hand.

The young man walked away, and, as he turned
was hailed by a couple of acquaintances

 

,
ing in the
same direction, and they walked and talked together,

   

|. the topic being Harry’s feat of the day before in sav-

The night was thick and murky the sky was of the |

color of dark mud, and the wind crept heavily along

 

a

|
|
|
ing the lives of the earl’s daughter and her friends.

| the surface of the earth grumbling at everything |

which opstructed its course in the slightest; every-
thing bore evidence of an approaching storm. |
Harry could not help thinking, as he noted these |
indications, that it was a sor night fora gentle |
creature like Edith to venture abroad in. |
His acquaintance and he parted company at the |
cross-road close by the wayside chapel at which the
appointment was. |
av t |

|

}

 

 

  

  

He made his way to the porch of the little edifice
which stood a short distance from the roadside, and |
offered a convenient place for a stolen interview like

E

 

ss to the dark, weird wall, and lis-
hed, striving to pierce the gloom in

  

+}

tLe

directi

 

proach. p
The melancholy moaning of the night wind was

 

 

| possible that after all the poets

| into a

which he expected, them to ap- | 8U

the lugubrious and monotonous cadence.

Time passed, and the night becoming more threat-
ening; he began to think that the signs of a storm
had deterred her from coming, and notwithstanding
the disappointment it would be to him, he almost
wished that she would not ventnre out, when in a
luliof the wind his sharp ear caught the sound of
short, light footsteps upon the graveled approach to
the entrance of the chapel, then a somewhat longer
and softer footfall, a pause.

He strove to make out the persons, but could not
see an arm’s length before him.

His ear, however, did him better service, for he
caught avery low growl of a dog, and a hushing
sound, and a tremulous whisper of affright, which
surely was awoman’s. He decided that it must be
them, and he took a soft step forward, with the whis-
pered challenge:

‘“‘Who’s there? Wilfred?”

“Harry?” .was the whispered answer, and the dog
seemed to have recognized the young man, for from
the pattering of the gravel he was evidently endeay-
oring to bound forward in spite of his master’s re-
straint.

The boy and dog came quite near before the young
man could make them out, but his searching Zlance
tailed to make out any other. se

“Oh, Harry,” said the boy, ‘we thought we would
never find our way, it was so dark. That’s why I
brought Sylla. From the time that we passed your
house he seemed to know every inch, and led us
straight here. He must have caught your——”

“Is the Lady Edith with you?” asked H arry, inter-
rupting the voluble young whisperer.

“Tam here,” said a soft, low breath, close beside
him, and turning, he dimly made out a white face,
and felt a cold hand laid on his.

Edith had wisely dressed herself in very dark
clothes, and had come closely vailed, and with her light
footstep, she might have passed close before him
without his seeing her.

Her hand shook so in his; in fact, she was shiver-
ing so from head to foot, that he said:

“You are perishing with cold. I would rather have
foregone the honor that you haye done me than that
you should have ventured out in such a wild night.
Your kindness to me is cruelty to yourself.”

“It is nothing,” she whispered ; “it will pass. I am
faint with agitation rather than from fatigue and
cold. It is so strange——” :

“Lean on me. Pardon the freedom,” said the young
man, drawing her toward him so that her cold cheek
rested on hfs shoulder and her faint, warm breath
fanned his face. “I thought—I hoped you would not
come on such a night. I almost regret that you have,
great as my disappointment must have been.”

“Tt was detained by the strict watch set upon me,”
she said, in low, soit tones, that were borne away by
the envious wind as soon as uttered. “But my father
was away, and the opportunity might not occur again
before—before—you left us.”

A choking little sob rounded off this broken sen-
tence, and Harry made bold to draw the trembling
girl still more closely to him.

“And thinking that,” she said, falteringly, “I could
not. bear to have you deem me such an ingrate as see
you go to exile for my sake without one prayer for
your forgiveness that I should be the unfortun-te
cause of all—one parting word of gratitude—on. sad
good-by.”

Harry’s heart was bounding with a wild tumuit of
emotion, and his brain seemed on fire as he drew her
close to his breast until his lips touched her cold
white forehead.

“Oh, Lady Edith——”

“Edith,” she murmured; “you did not call me Jady’
when we met and played as children, before those
cruel, stern restraints were forced upon us, and hol-
low eustom placed a gulf between us.”

“Edith, then!” he whispered, passionately pressing
her to his heart; “you drive me crazy with ecstasy
to let me know you hold such interest in me. This
exile that you dread so much will be the lighter for
that thought; and when I am far away that you
would sometimes give the wanderer one fond thought,
Siberia would be Paradise, and exile but a sweet pro-
bation. Could I but hope that——”

“Do not hope,” she said, softly, “but be the surety
yours!”

He embraced and kissed her with wild fervor—this
was the very ecstasy of “Love’s Young Dream.”

But that dream was doomed to be rudely broken,,
for suddenly the dog Sylla, which Wilfred had taken
to the roadside te keep guard, in spite of all his mas-
ter’s quietings, gave voice so loudly that the echoes
rang.

At the same time the light of a dark lantern flashed
blindingly upon the lovers, and two powerful, heavy-
footed men rushed toward them and fell upon Harry.

Edith’s piercing shriek rent the air wildly, and was
answered by Wiltred’s wild cry to the dog as he un-
leashed him:

“On them, Sylla! Sic them, Sylla!”

As the fierce brute bounded toward the scene like a
panther, one of the ruftians released his bold on
Harry, and drawing « pistol fired at the animal, but
missed, and the next moment he went down, with a
yell; the dog’s fangs were buried in his throat.

Incumbered by the clinging girl,, Harry had little
chance to defend himself against the other ruffian;
but at last, by a lueky kick he sent the fellow sprawi-
ing, and was trying to free himself from Edith’s
clasp that he might follow up his advantage, when,
like a lightning flash, the blaze of several lanterns
lighted up the darkness, and the bearers of them,
bursting from the shrubbery, went rushing toward
the spot where the lovers stood.

{TO BB CONTINUED. |

MAD LOVE.

By Bertha M. Clay,

AUTHOR OF

“THROWN ON THE WORLD,”
ATONEMENT,” ete.

 

 

 

 

“A BITTER

{“A Mad Love” was commenced in No. 20. Back num-

bers can be obtained of all News Agents.’’]

CHAPTER X.
A SHOCKED FATHER.

“Tam quite sure of one thing,” Lord @handos
had said, as they drew near London, *‘and that
is, Leone—if my father sees you before my mo-
ther has time to interfere, it will be all right.
He can resist anything but a pretty face—that
always conquers him.”

“T wish,” said Leone, withasigh, “that I were
less proud. Do you know, Lance, that I cannot
endure to hear you speak as though I were to be:
received as a great favor. I wonder why I am
so proud? Iam a farmer’s niece, and you are
the son of a powerful earl, yet I—please do not
be offended; I cannot help it—I feel quite as
good as you.”

- He laughed aloud. There was nothing he en-
joyed better than this proud frankness of hers,
which would never yield to worship of rank or

 

| title.

“T am glad to hearit, Leone,” he replied. ‘For
my own part, I think you very much better than
myself, have no fear, if my father sees you:
first, and that is why I have telegraphed to him.
to meet us at Dunmore House.”

“But,” she insisted, ‘suppose that he does not
like me—what shall we do then ?”

“Why,” he replied, “the right and proper thing
for me to do then will be; to try to love you, #
possible, even-better than I do now. Leone, the
first thing we must do is to drive to one of the
Court milliners; no matter what follows, your
dress must be attended to at once—first impres:
sions are everything. You look royally beautit
fulin all that you wear, but I would much ra-
ther my father saw you in a proper costume.
Suppose we drive to a milliner’s first, and choose
a handsome dress, and. all things suitable, then
we can go on to the Queen’s Hotel; the trunks
can be sent after us. We can dine there: and
when you have dressed a la Lady Chandos, we
will go to Dunmore House, and carry everything
before us.”

He did as he had said. They drove first to‘'Ma-
dame Carolins’s. Lord Chandos was aceustomed
to the princely style of déing things. He sent
for madame, who looked up in wonder at his
fair young face.

“This is my wife,” he said—‘‘Lady Chai
We have’ been in the country 1 she w
everything new, in your best s

It seemed to him that hours
madame reappeared. Certain]
the superbly beautrful

 

   

   

 

 
 
 

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most exquisite taste ; a lace bonnet that seemed
to crown the rippling hair; pearl-gray gloves
that might have grown on the white hands.
Her dress was simply yorfect; it was at once
elegant and lady-like, rich and costly.

“T shall not be afraid to face my father now,”
he said; ‘I have a talisman.”

Yet his fair young face grew paler as they
reached Dunmore House. It was a terrible risk
and he knew it—a terrible ordeal. He realizec
what he had done when the housekeeper told
him the earl awaited him in the dining-room.
A decided sensation of nervousness came over
him, and he looked at the fresh, proud, glow-
ing beauty of his young wife to re-assure him-
seit. She was perfect—he felt that—and it con-
soled him.

“Give me your hand, Leone,” he said, and
the touch ef that little hand gave him new
courage.

He went in leading her, and the earl sprang
from his seat in startled amaze. Lord Chandos
went boldly up to him.

“Father,” he said, ‘allow me to irtroduce to
you my wife—Leone, Lady Chandos.”

The earl gave a terrified glance at the beauti-
ful Southern face, but made no answer.

“Thave toask your forgiveness,” continued
the young lordling, “for having married with-
out your consent; but I knew, under the cir-
cumstances, it was useless to ask it, s0 I married
without.”

Still the same terrified look and utter silence.

“Father !” cried Lord Chandos, ‘‘why do you
not welcome iny young wife home ?”

Then Lord Lanswell tried to smi'>+ -a dreadful,
ghastly smile.

“My dear boy,” he said, “you are jesting; I
am quite sure you are only jesting. It cannot be
real; you would not be so cruel.”

“Father,” repeated the young lord, in an im-

rative voice, “will you bid my wife welcome

ome ?”

“No,” said the earl, stoutly, “I will not. The

young lady will excuse me if I decline to bid
er welcoine to a home that can neyer be hers.”

“Father,” cried the young man, reproachfully,
“T did not expect this from you.’

“I do not understand what else you could ex-
pect,” said the earl, angrily. “Do you mean to
tell ae it is true that this person is really your
wife 3

“My dear and honored wife,” replied the young
man.

“Do you mean to tell me that you have ac-
tually married this lady, Lance—really mar-
ried her ?”

“T have indeed, father; and it is about the
best action of my life,” said Lord Chandos.

“How do you intend to face my lady ?” asked
the earl, with the voice and manner of one who
proposes a difficulty not to be solved.

“{ thought you would help us, father; at least
speak to my wife.”

The earl looked at the beautiful, distressed
face.

“T am very sorry,” he said, “sorry for you,
Lance, and the lady, but I cannot receive her as
your wiie.”

“She is my wife, whether you receive her or
not,” said Lord Chandos. “Leone, how can I
apologize to you? I[ never expected that my
father would receive you in this fashion. Father,
look at her, think how young, how beautiful she
is—you cannot be unkind to her.”

“T have no wish to be unkind,” said the earl,
“but I cannot receive her as your wife.”

Then, seeing the color fade from her face, he
hastened to find her a chair, and poured out a

lass of wine for her; he turned with a stern
ace to his son.

“What have you been doing?” he cried.
“While your mother and I thought you working
hard to make up for lost time; what have you
been doing ?”

“T have been working very hard,” he replied,
“and my work will bring forth good fruit; but,
father, [ have found leisure for love as well.”

“So it seems,” said the earl, dryly; perha
you will tell me ‘who this lady is, and why she
comes home with you ?”

“My wife; her name was Leone Noel—she is
now Lady Chandos.”

For the first time Leone spoke.

“Tam a farmers niece, my lord,” she said,
simply.

Her voice had a ring of music so sweet that it
struck the earl with wonder.

“A farmer’s niece,” he replied. ‘You will for-
give me for saying that a farmer’s niece can be
no fitting wife for my son.”

‘I love him, my lord, very dearly, and I will
try hard to be all that he can wish me to be.”

‘‘Bravely spoken, but it is quite in vain; my
lady would néver hear of such a thing. I dare
not—I cannotsanction iteven by a word, my
lady would never forgive me. Can you tell me
when this rash action was accomplished ?”

“This is our wedding-day, father !” cried Lord
Chandos. ‘Only think of it, our wedding-day
and yor receive us like this. How cruel anc
cold!”

“Nay, I am neither,” said the earl; “it is
rather you, Lance, who do not seem to realize
what you have done. You seem to think you
belong to yourself; you are mistaken—a man in
your position belongs to his country, to his race,
to his family, not to himself; that view of the
question, probably, did not strike you.”

“No,” replied Lord Chandos, “it certainly did
not ; but, father, if I have done wrong, forgive
me,

“I do forgive you, my dear boy, freely ; young
men will be foolish—I forgive you; but do not
ask me to sanction your marriage or receive
your wife. I cannot do it.”

“Then, of what use is your forgiveness? Oh!
father, I did not expect this from you; you have
always been so kind to me. I had fancied diffi-
culties with my mother, but none with you.”

“My dear Lance, we had better send for my
lady ; she is really, as you know, the dominant
spirit in our family She will decide on what is

’

9

 

My lady lost no time; she was far more quick
and keen of judgment than the earl. She never
thought of gambling or betting, her thoughts all
went to law. .It was something about a girl, she
said to herself; but she should stand no non-
sense, Lanse must remember what was due to
his family. If he had made any such mistake as
that of falling in love withone beneath him, then
he must rectify the mistake as quickly as pos-
sible; there could be no mesalliance in a family
like theirs, As for any promise of marriage, if
he had been so foolish as to make one, he must
break it. A sum of money would doubtless have
to be expended over the matter, then it would
be all right.

So thought my lady, and as the express drew
near London she promised herself that all would
be well. Her spirits rose, her fears abated—no
son of hers would ever make a mistake so utterly
absurd. There was something of scorn in my
lady’s face as she entered Dunmore House. The
ear! met her in the entrance hall.

“T have lost no time, as you see,” she said.
‘‘What is all this nonsense, Ross ?”

He did not answer until they stood together in
the library, with the door closed, and then she
repeated the words. Something in her husband’s
face dismayed her.

“Speak, Ross; I dislike suspense.
once—what has the boy done ?”

‘He is married,” said the earl, solemnly.

“Great Heaven!” cried my lady. ‘Married!
You cannot mean it? Married Cad catbees
when ?”

“You will be dreadfully distressed,” he began,
slowly. My lady stamped her foot.

“T can bear distress better than suspense.
ate me quickly, Ross—has he disgraced him-
86

“T am afraid so,” was the brief reply.

‘And Iloved him so, I trusted him so—it is im-
possible. Tell me, Ross!”

“He has married a farmer’s niece. The girl is
beautiful—I have seen no one so beautiful—she
seems to be well-educated and refined. Her uncle
has a farm at Rashleigh.”

“A farmer’s niece!” eried my lady; ‘you can-
not possibly mean it. There must be some mis-
take—the boy has been playing a practical joke
on you.”

“It is no joke; I only wish it were. Lance

ave me all the details. He was married yester-
day morning, by the Rey. Mr. Barnes, at the
church of St. Barnabas, at Oheton, a vilage
somewhere near Rashleigh.”

*‘Married !—really and actually married!” cried
my lady. ‘I will not believe it.”

“Unhappily, itis true. He expected, I think,
to make his home here—he had no idea of leav-
ing Dunmore House; but i told him that I could
not receive him or her.”

“Her! You do not mean to say that he had the
audacity to bring her here, Ross ?”

“Yes, they came together last night; but I
would not receive her. I told them plainly that
you must setéle the matter, as I could not.”

“T should think not,” said my lady, with em-
phasis.

“J must own, thongb,” continued the earl,
“that I was rather sorry for Lance; he had
trusted entirely to my good offices, and seemed to
think it very cruel of me to refuse to plead for

im

Tell me at

“And the girl,” said my lady—‘‘what of her ?”
“You will think I am weak and foolish, with-
out doubt,” he said, ‘but the girl distressed me
even more than Lanes, She is beautiful enough
to arouse the adoration of the world; and she
spoke so well for him.”

“A farmer’s niece!—an underbred, designing
vulgar, forward country girl—to be Countess of
Lanswell!” cried my lady, in horror.

“Nay,” said the earl; “she is a farmer’s niece,
it is true, but she is not vulgar.”

“It is not possible that she can be presentable,”
said my lady. ‘‘We must move heaven and earth
to set the marriage aside.”

“T had not thought of that,” said the earl,
simply.

Then my lady took the lace mantilla from her
shoulders, and sat down at the writing-table.
“IT will send for Mr. Sewell,” shesaid. “If any
one.can give us good advice, he can.”

Mr. Sewell was known as one of the finest,
keenest, and cleverest. lawyers in England; he
had been for more than twenty years agent for
the Lanswells of Cawdor. He knew every detail
of their history, every event that happened; and
the proud countess liked him, because he was
thoroughly conservative in all hig oponions. She
sent for him now as a last resource; the carriage
was sent to his office, so that he might lose no
time. In less than an_ hour the brisk, energetic
lawyer stood before the distressed parents, list-
ening gravely to the story of the young heir’s
marriage.

““Have you seen the girl ?” he asked.

“Yes, I have seen her,” said the earl.

“Is she presentable?” he inquired. ‘Would
any degree of training enable her to take her
rank

Lady Lanswell interrupted him.

“The question need never be asked,” she said,
proudly. “Lrefuse evér to see her, or to acknowl-
edge her. [ insist upon the marriage being set
aside.

“One has to be careful, my lady,” said Mr. Se-
well.

“I see no need for any great care,” she retort-
ed. ‘My son has not studied us; we shall not
study him. I would rather the entail were de-
stroyed, and the property go to one of Charles
Seyton’s sons, than my son share it with a low-
born wife!” :

My lady’s face was inflexible; her voice was
inflexible. The earl and the lawyer saw that
she was resolyed—that she would never give in,
ae yield, no matter what appeal was made to
1er.

They both knew that more words were useless.

 

es =

“T think it would be more fair to tell Lord
Chandos what you intend doing,” said Mr. Sew-
ell. ‘Not that he could make either resistance
or defense—the law is absolute.”

“What will the end be?” asked my lady.

“The marriage will be declared null and void;
they will be compelled to separate now; but
again he has the remedy in his own hand. If he
chodeus to remain true and constant to her, the
very next day after he becomes of age he can re-
marry her, and then she becomes his lawful
wife; if he forgets her, the only remedy for her
would be money compensation.”

“Tt shall be the business of my life to see that
he does forget her,” said my lady.

*“You can commence preceedings at once, ”
said Mr. Sewell “Yon can file your petition to-
morrow,”

“Tt will make the whole matter public ?” hesi-
tated my lady.

“Yes, thatis the one drawback. After all it
does not matter,” said Mr. Sewell, ‘many young
men make simpletons of themselves in the same
way. People do not pay munch attention.”

Lord Lanswell looked at his wife’s handsome,
inflexible face.

“Tt is a desperate thing to do, Lucia,” he said,
“for Lance loves her very dearly,”

“It was a desperate acfion on his part to marry
without consulting us,” said my a

“He will be of age next June,” said the earl;
“do you think that he will be true to her ?”

“No,” said the countess, proudly. “I can safe-
ly pledge you my word that he will not.”

 

CHAPTER XII.
“THEY WILL NOT FORGIVE ME.”

“Thank Heaven,” said the countess, “that the
matter can be set straight. If there had been
no remedy, I should have lost my reason over it.
This boy must have been mad or blinded, or very

orobably drawn into it in some disgraceful
ashion or other.”

My lady wis triumphant, her handsome face
brightened with satisfaction, but the earl looked
grave. The lawyer had taken his leave, and
they still remained to discuss matters. Lord
Lanswell did not seem so well pleased; he went
up to my lady where she was standing.

‘‘Lacia,” he began, ‘‘do you think that if we
succeed in parting these two, we shall do quite
right ?”

“Right!” cried my lady; “I shall think it one
of the most virtuous actions of my life.”

“Well,” said the earl, “I am sorry that I can-
not quite agree with you. No doubt this mar-
riage is vexatious endugh, but whether.it is well
to obliterate all traces of it, orrather todo away
with it altogether, isquite another thing.”

“T am the best ie of what is right in this
case,” said my lady, haughtily; ‘‘I will have no
interference. 16 business part of it must be
attended to at onge.”’ F

““At least you will write to Lance, and tell him
what youdmtend doing ?”

“Yes, I have no objection to that.” she replied;
“it can make no possible difference to him.”

“He may try to make some compromise,” said
Lord Lanswell, whose heart smote him as he
thought of the passionate, beautiful face.

“There can be no bompromise—he must give
her up at once, and minarry some one in his own
rank,” said the countess. “‘I will write the letter
at once; and I must ask you, Ross, not to be
weak. A weak man is the most contemptible
object in creation.”

‘1 will try not to he weak, my dear,” said the
earl, submissively; “but I am concerned for
Lance.”

“Lance must take his chance,” said my lady,
too angry to be conscious of the rhyme; ‘he
has done wrong, ard he must suffer for it. . He
will thank Heaven in year’s time from now
that I have saved him...

Still Lord Lanswell béoked at his wife with's

ve expression of douht.

“You think, then, Lucia, that in a years
time - will have forgotten that poor young

“T am Suite gure of 4° Long before I had
heard of this foolish affair,I had decided in my

own mind, whom hé should marry, and I see no
reason for changing my plans.”
Lord Lanswell thought with regret and sym-
athy of the young wite. Could it be possible,
fs thought, that his sen would be disloyal, so
unfaithful, as to forget, in twelve short months,
the wife he had righ auch to ‘win. He
looked at the counteds.
“The whole matter then lies in a nutshell, and
depends entirely on whether Lance continues
true to his love or not. If he remains true, your
scheme for parting them will have but [ittle
effect; if he prove false, why then all will be
well, according to your way of thinking.”
“We will finish. with the subject,” she said.
“You may makeyour mind quite easy about it.
I guarantee all ny knowledge of the world that
he will have not only forgotten her in twelve
months’ time, but that he will be ashamed of

 

wife to the world; that of itself would be a
passport for her. So that he was careful not to
ask any one into his box, or even to exchange a
word with any of the people he knew.

From the time the curtain was drawn up until
the opera ended Leone was entranced. Quite
suddenly she had entered this new and beauti-
ful world of music and art—a world so bright
and dazzling that it bewildered her.

Lord Chandos watched her with keen delight
—the lustrous eyes, the intent face, the parted

ips.

The opera was one of the most beautiful—
‘“‘Norma”—and the part of Norma was taken by
the greatest prima-donna of her time. Leone's
eyes filled with tears as those passionate re-

roaches were sung; she knew nothing of the
anguage, but the music was full of eloquence
to her. She turned suddenly to her husband :
her whole soul seemed awake and thrilling with
dramatic instinct.

“Lance,” she said, in a low voice, “I could do
that; Ido not mean that I could sing so well,
but I could feel the jealousy sbe feels, I could
utter those reproaches. Something seems to
have woke within my soul that never lived be-
fore ; it is all new to me, yet I understand it all;
my heart is on fire as I listen.”

‘And you have enjoyed it?” he said, when the
curtain fell on the last grand seene.

She answered him with a low sigh of perfect
content. So it was that, to her, her wedding-
day became the most marked day of her life, for
on it she awoke to the choviedins of the world
of art and music.

There was nothing for it but to remain at the
hotel. Lord Chandos merely laughed at the no-
tion of his parents holding out against him. He
was wonderfully sanguine. '

“We shall hear the carriage stop some fine
morning,” he said, ‘“‘and they will be here to seek
& reconciliation.”

He laughed when the waiter

 

ave him my

wite.
“This is from my mother,” he said. “I knew

Cawdor.”

But as he read it his face changed; the smile
and the triumph died from it. © said no word
to Leone, but tore the letter into shreds. She
looked on with a wistful face.

“Is it from your mother, Lance?” she asked.

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

“My darling, do not trouble about them; you
are all the world tome. They will not forgive
me, but it does not matter; [am proud of what
I have done. I am quite independent. I shall
take a pretty little villa at Richmond, and we
will live eve until they come to their senses.”

“That will be giving up all the world for
me,” she said.

“The world will be well lost, Leone.
go to-morrow and find a pretty little home,
where we shall be quite happy. emember one
thing always—that my mother will love you
when she sees you.”

“Then let her see me now, Lance, at once,”
she cried, eagerly, “if you think so. Why wait?
I should be more happy than any one else in the
world if you would do that.”

“It is too soon yet,” he replied; ‘‘all will be
right in time.”

She wished that he had offered to show her his
mother’s letter; but she did not like to ask
what the contents were. Lord Chandos dare
not tell her, besides which he laughed in scorn
at theidea. They might threaten as they would,
but he felt quite certain there was no power on
earth which could set aside his marriage, there-
fore he should not tronble himself about it. He
would go to Richmond, and look out for a house
there,

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

CARRIED BY STORM.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING.
AUTHOR OF

“GUY EARLSCOURT’S WIFE,” “A WONDERFUL
WOMAN,” “A MAD MARRIAGE.”

 

 

 

 

(“Carried by Storm” was commenced in No.4 sack
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

PART THIRD.
CHAPTER VIL.

lady’s letter; he turned triumphantly to his |

she would relent; it is probably to ask us to |

We will |

smile; “the dark and dashing brigand of ro
mance, There! the professor has accosted him,
and now—see the profound astonishment de.
picted on his face!” she laughs, softly, as she
watches the puzzled amaze of the young man,
and that laugh clears away the last of the Van
pors. After all, Frank Livingston has not hurt
her very badly, judging by that clear laugh.

‘He will come,” says the professor, returning,
and wiping his warm face, “but heis a greatly
bewildered young man. He denies knowing
any Miss Jenny Wild—thinks she must be mis-
taken in supposing she knows him, but will be
at her service, if she likes, in an hour. I told
him that would do—will it ?”

“Admirably,” Joanna says, still laughing. “J
saw his incredulity in his face; he is watching
us distrustfully at this moment. An bour is
short notice; but short or long, I shall be most
exceedingly glad to see him.”

Promptly at the hour’s end, the young brake-
man, in much the same costume as on the car,
with the addition of a linen coat, presents him-
self at the cottage and inquires for Miss J enny
Wild. He is ushered into a pretty parlor, and in
the subdued light, sees advancing a tall and ele-
gant-looking young lady in navy-blue silk, with
a creamy white rose in her hair, a smile of wel-
come on her lips, and one hand extended. She
stands without a word before him; The young
man stands in turn, and gazes, more puzzled per-
haps than he has ever been before in his life.
She is the first to speak.

“Well,” she says, laughing outright, ‘‘will you
not shake hands ~”

“J don’t mind,” the young fellow answers, and
takes in his great brown paw the slim, cool
|; member she extends, “but I'll be blessed if I
| know you! And yetit does seem to me I’ve seen
| you before, too.”

| “I should think so—seen me, felt me, boxed
| my ears many a time and oft!”
| ‘What !”

“Ah! you woukd not do it now, I dare Bay.

| You are much too gallant, no doubt, but such is
| the fact. Look very hard, Judson. Surel y five
| years cannot have changed me so very much.”
“By Jupiter!” Judson Sleaford shoute, “‘it is—
lit is—our Joanna!”
“Your Joanna—Sleaford’s Joanna—Wild Jo-
; anna! Yes—Miss Jenny Wild now, though, to
j all the rest of the world. Dear old Jud! how
glad I am to see you at last!”

He holds her hands and stands gazing at her,
eyes and mouth wide with wonder,

“Joanna! Our, Joanna! got up like this—a
swell—a high-toned young lady—dressed in silk
and roses! Well, by George! And here I’ve been
looking for you high and low for the’ past five
years! Upon my soul, Jo, I can hardly believe
my eyes? Jsit you? Why, you used to be ugly,
and now I swear you are——”

“Ugly still, Jud—fine feathers make fine birds,
that isall. But sit down, I am dying fora long,
long chat with you. Dear old fellow, how nice,
and brown, and well you are looking !”

She draws forward a puffy chair of satin and
springs, and Judson Sleaford sinks down on it.
But his black eyes are still riveted on Joanna’s
face; he cannot believe them. He is trying to
recall the barefooted, red-haired, fiercely-scow-
ling child he remembers so well, and place her
side by side with this smiling, charming, “high-
toned” lady, so good to look at, and make one of
the two. And he cannot. No man could. Every
trace of that Joanna is gone!

“I can’t believe it,” he cries out. “It is alla
fraud! It isn’t Joanna at all. You can’t be,
Whi she had red hair, and you ”

 

 

|

 

 

 

‘‘JOAN BENNETT.??

Joanna sits in almost total silence during the
short drive to the depot. The look in Living-
ston’s eyes haunts her, the forced gayety of his
tone has struck on her heart like a blow. She
has known it will be there sometime, but not se

 

having ever tancied himself in love with: her.”
Lord Lanswell went. in obedience to his wife’s
command, to assist in the commencement of the
proceedings, and as soon as my lady was left
alone, she sai down to write to her son. She
told him, in the plainest possible words, that his
marriage was not only unlawful, but invalid, as
he, being a minor, could not contract a legal
marriage without the consent of his parents.
My lady had faith enough left in herself to add
openly :

“You can, of course, please yourself as soon as
you are of age; you can then re-marry the
young person without our consent, if you will;
ut my opinion is you will not.”

The time which had passed so unpleasantly
for the earl and countess was bright and light
for the young bride and bridegroom. Leone had
shed some bitter tears when they left Dunmore
House, but Lord Chandos laughed; he was an-

 

 

My lady’s mind was made up, and ne might as
well fight the winds and the waves. Lord Lans-

well was more inclined to pity and to temporize.

 

 

 

 

 

 

to be done.”

“I insist on. my wife being treated with due |
respect!” raged the young lord.

“My dear Lance, you must do as you will; I)
refuse to recognize this lady in any way. Will
you tell me when and where you were married ?”

“Certainly; this morning, by the Rev. Mr.
Barnes, at the church of St. Barnabas, in Ohe-
ton, a little village twenty miles from Rashleigh.
The marriage was all en regle; we had banns |
published, and witnesses present.”

“You took great pains to be exact; and the
lady, you tell me, is a farmer’s niece.”

“My uncle is farmer Robert Noel; he has a)
farm at Rashleigh,” said Leone, “and, in his
way, is an honest, loyal, honorable man.”

The earl could not help feeling the sweet, soft
music of that voice; it touched his heart.

“I believe you,” he said; but it is a sad thing |
that Farmor Noel did not take more care of his
niece. Iam sorry it has happened; I can do
aon to help you; my lady ;must manage it
2 r

“But, father,” pleaded the young man, “it was
x 14 e > = e
on you I relied; it was to your eftorts I trusted.
Be my friend ; if you will receive my wife here
and acknowledge her, no one else can say a
word.’

‘““My dear boy, only yesterday your mother and
I were speaking of something on which the
whole desire of her heart was fixed; remember-
ing that conversation, I tell you quite frankly
that I dare not do what you ask me; your moth-
er would never speak to me again.”

“Then Leone, my darling, we will go; Heaven
forbid that we should remain where we are not
welcome.”

“Father,” he cried, in sudden emotion, “have
you not one kind word, not one blessing for ine,
on my wedding-day ?”

“I refuse to believe that it is your wedding-
day, Lance. When that day does come, you
shall have both kind words and blessings from
me.

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE LAWYER’S STATEMENT,
Lady Lanswell stood in the library at Dun-
pro Vain, her handsome face flushed with
ton and annoyance, her fine eyes flashing
ooked like one born to command; her
Y iigure bore no signs of age; her
ss of rich silk swept the ground in
She had not removed her mantle
hung from her shoulders still; she
honnet and gloves. With one
on the table, she stood, the
and anger.
nt a telegram at once,
rsing her to come at
ang important to tell

 

| peated.

| doubt but that the marriage can easily be dis-

| perhaps the most simple and honorable plan

He was sorry for his son, and the beautiful face
had made some little impression on him; but my
lady was inflexible.

“The marriage must be set aside,” she re-

The earl looked at her gravely.

“Who can set aside a thoroughly legal mar-
riage ?” he asked.

“You will find out the way,” said my lady,
turning to Mr. Sewell

“I can easily do that, Lady Lanswell, of
course, ifis for you to decide; but there is no

puted—you must decide. If you think the girl
could be trained and taught to behave herself—

wouki be to let the matter stand as it is, and do
your best for her.”

“Never!” cried my lady, proudly. “I would
rather that Cawdor were burned to the ground
than such a person ruled over it. It is useless to
roses and words, the marriage must be set
aside.’

The lawyer looked from one to the other.

“There can be no (lifficulty whatever in set-
ting the marriage aside,” said Mr. Sewell. “In
os? of fact I must tell you what I should

1ave imagined you would have known perfectly
well.
My lady looked at him with redoubled inter-

est.

‘What is that ?” she asked, quickly.

The earl listened with the greatest attention.

“It is simply this, Lady Lanswell, that the
marriage is no marriage; Lord Chandos is un-
der age—he cannot marry without your consent;
any marriage that he contracts without your
consent is illegal and invalid—no marriage at
all, the law does not recognize it.”

‘Is that the English law ?? asked Lady Lans-
well. ; es

Yes, the marriage of a minor, like your son,
without the consent of his parents, is no mar-
riage, the law utterly ignores it. The remedy
lies, therefore, in your own hands.”

Husband and'wife looked at each other ; it was
a desperate chance, a desperate remedy. For
one moment each thought of the sanctity of the
marriage tie, and all that was involved in the
breaking of it. Each thought how. terribly
their only son must sufferif this law was en-
forced.

Then my lady’s face hardened, and the earl
knew what was to follow.

“It remains for us, then, Mr. Sewell,” she said,
“to take the needful steps.”

“Yes, you must make an appeal to the High
Court, and the marriage will be at once set
aside,” said Mr. Sewell. “Tt isaterrible thing
for the young wife, though.”

“She should have had more sense than to marry
my son!” cried my lady. “Ihave pity for my

once in the winter when they were entertained

grossed in that brilliant cirele.

gry and irritated, but it seemed to him that such
a state of things could notlast. His father and
mother had indulged him in everything—surely
they would let him have his way in marriage.
He kissed the tears from his young wife’s face,
and laughed away her fears.

“Té will all be right in the end,” he said. “My
father may hold out for a few days. but he will
give way; in the meantime we must be happy,
Leone. We will stay at the Queen’s Hotel unfil
they invite us to Cawdor. It will not be long;
my mother and father cannot get on along with-
out me. We will go to the opera to-night; that |
will distract your thoughts,’
The opera had hitherto been but an empty
word to Leone; she had a yagne idea that it
consisted of singing. Afterall there was some
compensation to be found; her young husband
was devoted to her, she was magnilicently
dressed. and was going in a beautiful closed car-
riage to the opera.

She uttered no word of surprise, but her whole
soul was filled with wonder. The highest fes-
tivity and the greatest gayety she had ever wit-
nessed was a choir tea-party. She had a most
beautiful voice; in fact, neither herself nor any
of ‘those around her knew the value of her
voice or appreciated it.

On great occasions the choir were entertained
by the rector—once during the summer when
they made merry out in the green woods, and

in the school-room. Leone had thought these
parties the acme of grandeur and perfection;
now she sat in that brilliant circle. and won-
dered into what world she had fallen.

Before the curtain was drawn she was en-

She had neyer
seen such dresses, such diamonds, such jewels,
faces so beautiful, toilets so exquisite; it was
all quitenew to her. The beautiful and poetical
side of it appealed to her. Her beautiful face
flushed with delight, her dark eyes were lus-
trous and radiant.

Lord Chandos, looking round the opera house,
where some of the handsomest women in Eng-
land were, said to himself that among all those
fair and noble faces there was not one so beauti-
ful as Leone’s,

She herself was quite unconscious of the ad-
miration she excited; she did not see how the
opera-glasses were turned to her face; she could
not hear people asking: “Whois that with Lord
Chandos 4 What a beautiful face! what a love-
ly girl! Who is she?” Lord Chandos saw it, and>
was not only proud, but flattered by it.

“My mother will yield at once when she sees
her,” he thought; ‘‘she will be pleased that the
most beautiful woman in England is my wife.”
He made no introductions, although many of
his friends bowed to him, with aseeret hope that
he would ask them into hig box. But he had ar-
ranged his own pl His thother—the proud,

ans:
exclusive, haughty of Lanswell—

 

 

son—none for her!

 

conte be
should be the one to intre og fis beautiful

  

ne

| look again.

soon, notthe very morning after his impulsive
declaration.

“Carried by storm.” Ah, but not held long.
More than he has yet folt himself sho has read
in his face—pain, regret, the resolution to make
the best at all cost of the most fatal words of his
life,

Professor Ericson chatters like a German mag-
pie, luckily like the magpie he waits for no an-
swer. They reach the station barely in time to
get tickets, checks, and seats, and then are off
through the jubilant sunshine of the brilliant
summer morning. Madame Ericson composes |
herself by a shady window with a German nov- |
el; the professor goes off to the smoking car,
and Joanna is left undisturbed to gaze at the
flying landscape, and muse over lovers who pro-
pose in haste and repent just as hastily. As it
chances—if things ever chance—ier seat is near
and facing the car door. As it opens to admit
the conductor on his rounds, her glance alights
for a second on tho figure of a brakenzan stand-
ing on the platform.

She leans forward, with a sudden eager inter-
est that drives even her .over from her mind, to
Surely that strong tall figure, and
all that blue-black curly hair, are familiar. He
turns for a moment, sending a careless glance
backward to where she sits, and Joanna sinks
back in her seat with a gasp.

For years she has been seeking him vainly,
and he stands before her now, when no one
could be farther from her thoughts.

They are near New York before Herr Ericson
returns, Joanna seizes upon him at once.

‘There is a brakeman on board this train that
I know,” she says, eagerly. “I want to see him
—I must see him, and you will please hunt him
up for me and tell him so. Perhaps you have
seen him—a tall, dark, good-looking young man.
He was out there not half an hour ago.”

The professor stares a moment, then laughs.

“Mein Gott! She wants to see the handsome
young brakeman! Shall I tell him to call on
Miss Jenny Wild, the celebrated vocalist, or
»”

“Look! look! There he is,” Miss Wild ex-
claims, unheeding, ‘‘standing on the platform.
No, do not speak to him until Madame and I are
in the carriage; then give him my card and teil
him to appoint an hour, and I will be at home to
receive him. Say no more than thgt; he will
not refuse, I am sure; he will be too curious. It
is the most fortunate thing in the world; he isa
person I have been wishing to see for years and
years.”

They rise and leave the train, find a hack, and
take their seats, always with an eye on the tall
dark young b man. He is @ handsome fel-
low, as he leans in an attitude of careless
strength against the car, his straw hat pushed
back off his sunburned gipsy face,a red handker-
chief knotted loosely about his throat.

‘“‘He might stand as a model for a Roman ban-
dit, at this moment,” Joanna thinks, with a

 

 

 

“Have red hair still—not so rosy though as in
those days. Don’t stare so, Jud. Your eyes will
drop on the carpet! It is I, myself—J, Joanna—
no other. I wish it were.”

“Why?” bluntly—“‘why should you wish it?
[think you are one of the luckiest girls that
ever was born.”

“Do you?” she says, a tinge of bitterness in
her tone. ‘‘Because I wear silk dresses and live
in a Newport cottage? Well, it is better cetainly
than life at the Red Farm, but as for being the
luckiest girl ever born——”

“What do you call it then?’ he demands—
“having the fortune of a princess left you in
this way? By Jove! I call it the greatest stroke
of luck that ever was heard of, out of the
Arabian Nights.”

Joanna stares in turn.

“The fortune of a princess? What do you
mean? Ihave had no foriune left me. I sing
for my living, and make a very good one, but as
for fortune—— Well, I pay for my dresses, and
s0 on, and have some pocket-money left, if you
call that the fortune of a princess.”

It has seemed that by no possibility can Jud-
son Sleaford stare harder than he has been do-
ing, but at these words he absolutely gasps.

“Do—do you mean to say,” he demands, as
soon as he can speak, “that you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what ?”

“Good Lord above! Do you mean to tell me,
Geoffry Lamar never hunted you up after all?”

“Geofiry Lamar? I have not seen nor heard
of Geoffry Lamar since I left Brightbrook near-
ly six years ago.”

Jadson Sleaford falls back in his chair, and
looks helplessly at her.

“And all this—this cottage and furniture, and
that dress, and—and everything—ao you mean
to say you work for and earn all that ?” :

“I work for and earn all that. I have never
had a penny I did not work for and earn. I do
not know what you are talking about. I wish
you would cease staring and explain,” cries Jo-
anna, almost losing patience.

Jud takes out his red handkerchief and wipes
his heated face. His amazement at finding
Wild Joanna in this stately, young lady, walk-
ing in silk attire, is not for a moment to be
equaled by the amazement he feels at finding
her ignorant of who sheis. Mingled with the
amaze is delight that it has been reserved for
him to tell her.

“Then by thunder, this is the luckiest day’s
work, Joanna, you have done in a long time!
Just let me catch my breath, will you, and don’t
hurry me. I'll tell you everything directly,
everything you’ve been wanting ts know all
your life. First of all let me ask you some
questions. You know rich John Abbott shot
himself ?”

“Yes, I know that. Poor Mrs. Abbott,”

“Ah! poor Mr. Abbott, I should say
don’t happen to know why he did it ?”

“Certainly not. I only saw it in
and the reason assigned was tem
tion of intellect.”

“Yes, jest so. Tempor
knew what he was abo
found out, and was ag
high and mighty mis

   
   

 
 

 
 

 

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through his
Then—do you know what
young Lamar did then ?”

“Shut up Abbott Wood and left the place.
¥es, but even that I only discovered a few weeks
ago One can hardly wonder—so sensittve .as
Mrs. Abbott was, and after so shocking sa
tragedy. I am notsurprised she has never re-
turned!’ But where are they, Judson ?”

“You would like to see them?” he asks, look-
ing at her curiously’ “You are as fond of them
as ever ?”

“Can you ask ?° They were my friends when I
had hot a friend in the world. They did ali they
could to lift me out of the misery and,degrada-
tion they found me in. As fond of them as ever!

 

Mrs. Abbott and

I tell you, Judson Sleaford, I would lay down |

iy life for Mrs. Abbott.”

“Ah!” Jud says, in a pecatiar tone, “‘and for
Geoffry Lamar ?”

“And for Geoffry Lamar. What I am to-day)
I owe to them. All I have, or ever may have, I
owe to them. Why do you look like that, and
speak like that? What do you know of them?
Tell me where they dre, if you know that.”

“T don’t know that. And you need not be in a
rush to find them, as far as they are concerned.
I dare say if the truth was known, you're about
the last person in this world they want to see.
Why, I heard Geofitry Lamar as good as swear to
find you, if you were above ground, and restore
you to your riglats, and this is the way he keeps
his word !”

“Heard him swear! Swear to whom ?”

“To dad—poor old chap—the night he died.”

“And restore me to my rights? Whatare you
talking of, Jud?” she asks, in a maze of wonder.

“Tm talking of what I heard with my own
ears, though nobody knows to this day I heard
it. I’m talking of what I heard dad tell young
Lamar on his death-bed, and young Lamar
swore to tell you.. He hasn’t done it, it seems.
Dad sent for him to do justice to you at last, and
tell him what hold he had over his step-father,
who you were, and let him right you, seeing he
was your friend.”

“Who you were!” She hears those words and
starts to her feet. She stands before him, her
hands clasped, her eyes wild and wide, her lips
breathless and apart.

“Whe Lam! Judson—at tast ?”’

“Ah! don’t be in a hurry, Joanna. I don’t
know whether you will like it or not when you
know—so fond as you are of Mrs. Abbett, too.
Ttell you it knocked Lamar over like a bullet.
It ever you saw a corpse take a walk—lI don’t
suppose you did—he looked like that when he
loft the house. But he believed what he was
told, and dad gave him the paper that proved
your father and mother’s marriage, and your
out in San Francisco. He needn’t deny
if, for I saw it all, if you ever have to go to law
nd I would, by Jupiter!
like that don’t go begging every day, and you're
the rightful héivess of every stick, and stone, an
penny. Fight ut, Joanna, and Ili stand to
and thin.”

“But who—who—who am I?” Joanna cries out.
“Tell me that—never mind the rest. [Fhe
ax I?”

“Oh, [ forgot,” Jud says, coolly and slowly.
“Your name is Joan Bennett, and you’re the
eldest daughter, and sole heiress, of the late
John Abbott, Esg., millionaire!”

 

baptism,

about it—an Fortunes

  
 

?
ou throuel
you through

CHAPTER VIII.

THE

‘You see it was the night dad died,” says Jud
“You know about that; don’t you?
It all began about you. Yon had run away with
Blake while dad was away attending a prize-
fight. When he came home, and heard of it—it
was the very dickens of aday, I remember, in
the way of wind and rain—he just nfounted, and
rode straight as a die for Abbott Wood. I reck-
on he thought Mr. Abbott had made off with
you, or had some hand in it. He was stone
What would have happened
there and then, if Abbott had been at home, the
Lord only knows. He was not, and dad came
back, in one of his black rages. But it seems he

STORY.

had left word for Abbott to follow; and Abbott
did follow that very same night.”
Jud is rapidly telling his stery, and a vers

vivid narrator he is. The first overwhelming
shock of surprise is over, and Joanna sits listen-
ing, pale, breathless, absorbed.

“We were all off to a dance, [ remember,” goes
on Judson, “only the girl was, at home. Early
in the morning, as we were driving back, we
were met by old Hunt. You know, next place to
ours, with the word that there had been.a row at
our house, and that dad iw as done for. We hnur-
ried on, and there we foumd him, poor old fellow,
‘weltering in his gore,’ as the stories put it, and
almost at the last gasp. Almost, but not quite.
Dad was so uncommon strong, that he gave
death a tough tussle for it before he would go.
We got him to bed, sent for the docter, and from
first to last I was his nurse. The girls were afraid
of him, he wasas savage sick as well, poor old
dad, and Dan—but you know what Dan was—he
wouldn’t be paid to enter the room.

“Well—I took. care of dad. I gave him his
medicines’ and his drinks, and that, and did the
best I knew for him. By and by he got hack his
voice, ard the first thing he says was: ‘Send for
the young swell—young Lamar,’

“ ‘Abbott's step-son ? I says, for, of course, we
ali knew from the girl that Abbott had been
there, and that it was in a fracas with him he
had got his death-blow. And dad’s eyes shot
out sparks of fire after their old fashien.

“‘Can’t you hear, you fool?’ he says, ina fierce
whisper. ‘Abbott’s step-son, young Lamar. Go
for him, bring him here at once. I have some-
thing he ought to know to tell him. He must
come.’

“Of course, l went. It was another pelting
storm, and when I got to the house I saw the
I gave her the message. Young Lamar
was in New York, but she telegraphed for him
at once, and that same. afternoon, just before
dark, he came, and I teok him up stairs to dad’s
room, ;

“Now dad, although he was dying as fast as
be could, kept ap a wonderful deal of strength
to the very last. His voice sounded muchas
ever, a little weaker, but to hear him you would
mover know he was so near his end. And he had
worked himself up into a fever, waiting for La
mar. He could net die, he said, until he had
seen him. I brought the young fellow in, and
oifered to fetgh a light, but dad wouldn’t have
none, He ¢ s outof the room, and I
went, but the closet where we
hang cleth r how thin the par-
titions wer the lath and plas.
tering? { what he had to

missis.

 
 
  
 
  
  
  

   

| venge he was going to take on John Abbott. I
;sat there and listened, Joanna, and I heard the

whole story, and found out all about it and you
| at last.” a5 :

There is a brief, breathless pause. Jud draws
along breath. Joanna hardly seems to breathe
or stir.

“Oh, go on!” she says, in a whisper, and young
Sleaford res imes,

(To BE CONTINUED.)

 

— ‘Deadman’s Key;
j OR, THE

SECRET OF THE WHITE CAVERN.
| By C PORTER SUMNER.

{“Deadman’s Key” was commenced No. 17. Back Nos.
| can be obtained from any News Dealer in the United
| States or Canada. }

BOOK

 

SECOND.
(tm CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE FIRE-FLY SWALLOWS THE FISHHAWKE.
| "The speed of the brig was instantly checked, and
| She fell off sufficiently to take the wind out of her
| sails, which flapped against the masts with great
| noise and violence. The steersinan met her with the
| helm at once, and brought her up to her course as
| quickly as possible, but the check, brief as it was,
had allowed the Fire-Fly to come up within half a
| mile, and the great cable and anchor, hanging down
| into the sea under her bow, acted, like a huge drag,
| to diminish her velocity more than half. Unless that
| drag could be got rid of without delay, it was only a
| question of minutes as to her being overtaken, and,
| Moreover, she was shoaling her water rapidly, as she
| drew in toward the land, so that the anchor would
| Soon touch the bottom and bring her up all standing.
| Heriot realized what had happened before any ex-
planation could be given, and rushed forward frantic
with rage and dismay.

“Cut the cable, men; out axes and at it!” he roared,
|}as be dashed along the deck. “Down into the tier
with you, and cut it loose—”

He stopped short, forat that moment the mischief
Was consummated. The anchor touched the ground,
dragged, held fast, swung the brig dizzily around,
and brought her up with a shock that made her reel
and shiver from keel totruck. The sails were caught
aback, as she came head to wind, with such tremen-
dous torce that some of the standing rigging parted
and the fore royal-mast was carried away just below
the yard. The broken spars and ropes came tumbling
down on deck amidships—the vessel lurched so vio-
lently that the men were thrown from their feet, and
everything movable upon the deck was hurled from
side to side. Cries of fear and pain arose from every
quarter, and such confusion reigned that, for a short
space, all discipline and command were lost. And in
the very height of this turmoil, the Fire-Fly swooped
down upon her helpless prey, as the eagle swoops
upon the wounded quarry.

Not a gun had been fired by either vessel, and now
it was too late for the crew of the Fishhawk to man
her batteries. Lufitte seeing that he could not cap-
ture her by boarding, refrained from injuring with
shot the prize which must soon be his. On board the
Fire-Fly everything worked with the precision of a
maciine. At the proper moment the fore and main-
sails were brailed up, the gibs and forestay sail
hauled down, and the topsail sheets let fly. Simul-
taneously the helmsman gave her a gentle sheer, as
| She ranged up alongside the brig, and in the next in-

stant she came broadside on to the port-bow of the
| Fishhawk, whose jib-boom thus projected over the
| privateer’s deck between her masts..
| Searceiy had they touched when full four score of
| the Firc-Fly’s crew, headed by Lafitte and Darkwea-
; ther, poured upon the doomed brig’s forecastle,
| Swarming over her bow with fierce shouts and curses,
| like a hive of angry bees buzzing death and destruc-
| tion to all who should withstand their furious stings.

At first there was no opposition, for Harden and his

confederates had possession of the forecastlo, and

recognized by signals previousiy arranged, they min-
| gled with the ranks of the assailants unresisting and
j/unharmed. Ther the privateersman, thus reinforced
\ by the traitors, hurled themselves down upon the

mnaindeck of the brig and the battle was joined, hand

to hand.
{ Although surprised the Englishman resisted the at-
| tack with ali the noted courage of their race. As for
| Heriot he fought asif theissue of the strife depended
} Upon his single arim, nor did he or his gallant crew
| falter, until he came face to face with Lafitte, and his
men perceived that many of their former comrades
were tighting in the ranks of the pirates. This proof
of treachery in their midst cansed a sudden panic,
and the iarger part of the ¢rew at once retreated to
|}the quarter-deck,
j alone, half stunned by the unexpected
his Geadly foe, but. still, frenzied with rage and de-
spair, he never thought of giving ground. With a
| hoarse, bellowing cry, that sounded like the roar of a
| baited bull, he threw himself bodily upon Lafitte, and
with the sudden fiereeness of the assault, bore him
|
1

 

 

 

 

 

backward to the deck. Butit was his last moment

 

of triumiph. The next instant Damar’s huge fist |

sinote him a fearful blow under the right ear, hurling
| him. senscless against the bulwark with the blood
| pouring in a torrent from his nose and mouth.
| All this passed in a very brief apace of time, and
| there Was scarcely any pause in the din of yells and
| Oaths; and pistol-shots, and the deadly clash of cutlass
; against cutlass. The retreating crew of the brig were
followed closely by their assailants, and Lafitte,

v

 

upon the quartersieck.
| Darkweather, raging in the van, had sought every-
where for his special foe, but hitherto without suc
coss; for Vane, at theinstant he saw that the brig
would be boarded, had caught up his ehild and car-
ried him down into the cabin, in order to put him in-
| to a place of at least temporary satetg, It was not
funtil the Fire-Fiy’s crew were rushing aft in their
iinal charge upon the quarterxicek, that he emerged
Vfro.: the companion-way and took his place in the
ranks of that forlorn hope.
| Forlorn, indeed, it was. More than half the brig’s
| crew were dead or disabled, and their captain was
; Senseless and a prisoner. Vane’s presence for a mo-
| nent reanimated them, but they were now too few to
resist long.

 

 

 

; The rush came, and, though they inflicted some logs *

jupon the foe. one by ene they were borne down and
| overpowered or stain. Vane himself was slowly

forced back te the entrance of the companion-way,
| figuting desperately With two brawny ruffians, whose
) Want of skill alone prevented them irom overcoming
| him at once, when Darkweatber darted stealthily be-
| hind liis victim and stabbeal him in the back.

 

jing, but it was that wreteh who pursued her with a

—— > = wee

his care,” replied Vane, “when they are exchanged
and returned to England—~”

“No one on board here—and, least of all, Walter
Heriot—will ever sec England again,” said the out-
law. ‘You must make other arrangements, Sir Har~
old Woodleigh.”

This utterance of his own name, by one to whom
he deemed he was quite unknown, bewildered the
wounded man so much that for a moment he was
speechless.

“You know me?” he asked, at last,- breathless with
surprise. “How can that be ?”’

“Let ine answer by another question,” said Lafitte,
less sternly. “Did you recognize the person who
wounded You ?”

“T did not see him,” replied Sir Harold, as we may
now callhim. “He struck me from behind.”

“Among us he is known as Stephen Darkweather,”
said Lafitte, “but by you, Sir Harold, he would be
called Stephen Cloudsley.”

The baronet’s hands went up oyer his face, his form
was conyulsed by uw strong shudder, and while one
night count a hundrei slowly there was silence be-
tween them, which was, at list, broken by Lafitte.

“You will now understand how I know yeu, and
who it was that betrayed the Fishhawk into my
hand,” said he, gently. “This Cloudsley bas told me
a strange tale, Sir Harold, his version of which I be-
lieve to be more than half a lie. Listen quietly while
[repeat itto you, for it is necessary to me to know
the exact truth.”

Then, as briefly as possible, but omitting nothing
that was essential, the captain of the Fire-Fly related
all that he had himself gathered, and all that the
dwarf had told him of the tragedy at Vale House.
The wounded knight listened without interruptine—
save foran occasional word or movement of angry
impatience—but when Lafitte had ended, he burst
forth witha fierce invective against his traitor cousin.
It was some time before he became calm enough to
talk rationally, but when hedid he entered into an
oxen which put a very different aspect upon
the case.

“There is Just enough of truth in that foul villain’s
tale to make it plausible,” he said, vehemently, “but
the actual facts are these. It is true that hemet with
the accident which deformed him while we were
hunting together, but I was at least a hundred yards
from him when he fell from the cliff, and it was at
the extreme peril of my own life that I recovered his
body from the ravine, where hé othérwise must have
perished. It is true that we both loved Helen War-

dishonorable passion, while I sought to make her my
wife. The proof is here,” he added, taking a paper |
from a small box at his side. ‘“Thisis the certificate |
of our marriage at the parish church of Burton, an |
attested copy of the entry in the register of the vestry
there. It was not even a secret marriage, though
concealed for a time from my own relatives, for her
parents were present at the ceremony, and signed the
register.”

He handed the paper to Lafitte, and in a somewhat
weaker tone, continued:

“That he loved Alice Burton may be true, but that
she loved him I know to bealie I have never un-
derstood the murder of my brother’ Archer, but now
itis quite plain to me. Failing direct issue of my

 

}
j

j
|

}

j
}

}
|
|
i
;
}

1

Their captain rémained almost |
apparition of |

|

}
|

|

}
|

| struggling to bis feet, headed kis mon for a final rush |
k | grandfather,” pursued the

}

i
|
j

| titte’s.

The hapless colonel fell forward with a ery of ag- |

ony directly in the front of the entrance to the com-

| panion-way, und Darkweather, turious to complete |

| his. dreadtul work, threw himself bodily upon the
es form, raising his knife to deal a second
; Dlow.
But. before it could descend the door of the com-
;panion-way fiew open with a crash, striking tho
; dwarf violently on the side, and hurii him.over
against the rail; and, when he regaine< "ite foet, th«
colonel’s little son stood in front of bis father’s body,
holding in eacn hand a heavy pistel, which he boldly
presented at the assassin, Seatac) o,

It would have fared ill with the brave child if La-
fitte had not reached, tlic spot at tlis critical mo-
meut, and interposed between him and the enraged
dwart. Commanding the latter to keep quiet, and,
not being instantly obeyed, he scized the furious vil-
lain by the wrist, twisted the knife out of his hand,
and throwing it overboard, forced him down upon
his knees.

“My orders must be obeyed, sir,” he said, quictly.
“Restrain yourself at once, or IU throw you after
your knife.” . .

“That man is mine!” shrieked Darkweather, strug-
gling vainly to free himself fromthe outlaw’s iron

grip, and fairly foaming at the mouth with rage. “T-
will kill him.”

*tTore, Damar,” said Lafitte, without raising his
voive. “Get a rope’s-ond, and strap this crazy fool to
avingbolt. Ah! you're coming toyour senses, are
yout” he added, as Darkweather ceased to struggle.
“Never mind, Damar, he'll be quiet now.”

{n fact, the dwarf seemed suddenly to realize the
utter folly of resistance, and, on. being released, he
got upon his feet without any attempt to renew his
violence.

“I thought you were a man of your wor,” he said.
sullenly. “Was it not agreed between us that I
ae do what I would with my precious cousin
there ?”

“I told you that if we captured him alive, I would
examine him myself,” replied Lafitte, veldly, “to sec
it he had any defense to make. Go forwaii and at-
tend te your duties, Mr. Darkweather; and remem-
ber, hereafter, that Iam not always 80 éasy in én-
forcing my commands.” ‘

Without another word the dwarf turned away, but
he muttered to himself, as he went, that Lafitte
should have cause to rue the day he thus thwarted
his evil purpose.

* ° 2 * * 7

At sunset on the day succeeding the action Ralph
Vane stood near his father’s dying bed in the cabin
of the Fire-Fly. Summoned by his prisoner Lafitte
entered the cabin and approkshed them.

“T have sent for you,’ said Vane, feebly, when he
saw him, “to ask that you will allow me a private in-
terview with the commander of the Fishhawk.”

“I regret that I cannot grant that request,” replie
Lafitte, coldly.

“is he not among yorr prisoners?’ asked Vane,
eagerly.

*He ia, bat [I cannot let you see him,” answered the
outlaw. “Why do vou wish to do go?”

 

  

aa BOULC PG-

“Because fam dying, and wish to leave my son to

ws

 

|
i
|

 

 

“T) wring from bim thig secret which had purchased his

|} butT dare not examine too closely into his own

| Where is this wealth you speak of?”

i “He is a noble

‘truth ¢"

body, Stephen Cloudsley was my heir. He did not
know, and has never known, that I had a son by my
first wife, and my marriage with Alice maddened
him. It seems certain that he was insane on that
fearful night, and perhaps he has been more or less a
madman ever since his accident.”

Here Sir Harold abruptly stopped, as if some new
thought had suddenly presented itself to his mind,
and turning away his face from Lafitte, he murmured

brokerrly :
What will become of my child

“Oh, Heaven!
now ?”

The despairing words were faintly spoken,lbut the
outlaw overheard them.

“Trust him to me, Sir Harold,” said he, promptly,
taking the dying man’s handin his own. “Itis true
that I no longer have a country, and hereafter men
wiil call me an outlaw an@ a pirate. ‘But I can, and
will, protect your child, and carry out any instruc-
tions you may have formed for him, My word has
never been, and never will be broken, to friend or
foe.” a

“T have no choice,” replied the baronet, sadly, after
a short silence. ‘Fate has left me helpless in-yeur
hands. May Heaven deal with yous you deal ith
him.” y

“He shall be to me as my Own 808,” said Lafitte,
aolemnly. “And now what plans had you in view

ivr Lis future?’
“Promise me one thing betors #reply,” said Sir
“While that villain Cloudsley

Harold, earnestly. ao
lives, let him not®mow that Ralph is legitimate. I

 

feel suré he would kill Ralph if he knew him to be my
heir. Conceal his true namo from piy son wntil hgis
old enough to protegt himself dsley dics. Vhis
is the more necessary becausc RAlph, as I believe,
will, if you faithfully carry out my plans for him,
become soener or later possessed of immense
wealth.” ;

“Rely upon me,” answered the
“You have my promise as solemi

    

outlaw, promptly..
yas I can give it.

  

“The voyage you have interrupted was undertaken
to secure it,” said Sir Harold. ‘Tho particulars, you
will find in these pabers whic weenfide to.you,
They were Sent to jay. father, very mystcriously,
many years ago, by the Superier of the Convent ot |
La Mercid, at Gracias-a-Dios, 4m Honduras, with a |
letter stating that they were forwarded to lim
atthe dying request of a very aged nun. They re-
late to a treasure concealed on an island of the Vir-
gin group——” :

“You cannot mean the Blackbeard treasure on
Deadman’s Key ?” cried Lafitte, in atone of astonisb- |
ment. ; |
“It is the same, indeed,” replied the baronet, equal- |
surprised. ‘What can you know of it!’ |
“No one who has sailed upon the bloody seas is ig-
norant of the legend,” replied Lafitte. “We have an
old quartermaster on board here who has. related it
in my presence often.”

“Tae Sir Roland Woodleigh of the tale was my
baronet, “and having |
taken all his wealth with him, his son, my futher, was
very poor, The property [inherited came from my |
mother, an helress of Cumberland. My son is not |
only heir of that, but of the buried treasure which |
these papers will tell you how to proeure for him.”

“Twill do my best,’ responded Lafitte, earnestly. |
little fellow. The surgeon told you |
how he tried to defend you when you were stricken
down? -Come here, my boy, and shake hands with
me, tuat we may know each other better.”

The boy, whe had remained quictly at the far end
of the eubin overhearing little that had passed
frankly approached and placed his band within La-
His large blue eyes were fixed wistfully upon
bis father, who, in turn, gnzed sadiy upon him.

“T have renounced my country? said Lafitte, “and
1m now on my way to offer my services to Bolivar,
the patrict oi Carthagenia. Hé will accept them,
and Lsuatl thus acquire a station and influence which
willcn:. Ié mec to séeure ta Ralph a resting-place.
Rely upo: it, Sir Harold, be shall know no hardship
tuat I can shield him froin.”

“I beliove. you, my friend;” replied the baronet,
“and thus believing, I can die in peace. Remember,
Ralph,” he added, drawing hhiis-son tenderly to him,
“Lhave given you to this“gentleman. When I am
gone, he will he your ently frfend.”

Tie boy burst into tears, and ‘threw his arms about
his father’s neck. Lafitte retired noisclessly. The
last adieux of the dying father were too sacred for
intrusion.

 

|
i
i
j
{
}
}

ly

CHAPTER VI.
TIDINGS OF GOOD AND EVIL.

Ona bright meonlight night;neéarly nine months
after the capture of the brig, the Fire Fly lay at an-
chor, close to the southern sher@of the Island of Ja-
mai¢a, under the skadow of thehighlands. ten miles
to the eastward of the entrance to Kingston Harbor.
Lafitte and his first otficer, Daniar, were slowly pac-
ing to and fro upon the quarter-deck, conversing in
low toncs and occasionally pausipe to examine with
anxiety the narrow strétch of "water between the
vessei and the shore, ;

“Was it not risky, captain, to temst such a child.on
an enterprise so important { asked Damar, during
one of these pauses,

“Weis intelligent beyond his years,”
fitte, “and the old
enough.” ;

“Have you no fear that the wretch, Heriot, de-
ceived you?” said the mate, anviously. “To my
mind he was malignant enough to lie for revenge,
even while he was dying.”

“He dreaded the torture too much to risk a lie,”
said the captain, ina tone of confidence. ‘He was
firm enough until the council threatened him with
that, and he knew esG@ape was hopeless until we had
proved or disproved his story. If he had lived until
now he would have been as anxious as we are for the
return of our scouts.”

“His sudden death is a mysteryté6. me,” remarked
Damar, as they turned toresume their walk. “Don’t
you think he may have committed suicide to escape
the torture, knowing that he had not told the

replied La-
boatswain, Wilson, is shrewd

“You are torturing me by these deubts, old friend,”
exclaimed his commander, passionately. “If this
last hope of mine proves false, I am indeed wretch-
ed!”

The old man did not reply, and for some moments
they paced te and fro in silence, Lafitte pale and
agitated, and Damar thoughtful.

Suddenly the captain halted, and grasping the
mite’s arm, spoke Ap *

“He did not take his own life, Damar. He was
growing more cheerful every day ; sure proof that he

vas confident of release, the moment we should ar-
rive heré and test hisstory. Upon my soul, I believe
Darkweather, or his’ tool, Harden, murdered him,
either for fear that h@ would revenge himself upon
them if I let him go free, or because they could not

pardon from me. ras a fool for letting him re-
moin on board the. Fishhawk after Sir Harold died,

death, for since BRollyar has accepted our services, I
need every man tcan muster. All I could do was to

 

 

| way down the companion ladder to his ¢
| young man, whemthey had seated themselves. “scems
jalso, that you thoughtof sending the boy to open
| cotamunicaticn with my cousin, and doubly fortunate

| that he wes shrewd I
| had nut done so, you never would have been able to

| her, and

leave the Fishhawk behind at Carthagena, so that
they should not be able to find out what I came here
r ’

]

“Trust them net at all,” said Damar, quickly. “I !}

never think ef either of those men but
snakes alse
the brig outright, and let them go their own way to
destruction.”

“Too late for that now,” returned Lafitte. “T
tnust keep them with me to fulfill my pledge to Boli-

  
   

var. If Heriot’s death had occurred before we en-
tered the Carthagenian service, { mi bave acted

differently.”

Again the¥ were silent, and for many minutes they
stood at the gangway searching with anxious eyes
every shadow on the water and every curve of the
shore upon which the moonlight fell:

No sight or sound rewarded their serutiny, and
once more they resumed their monotonous walk.
Damar was the first to speak.

“Aiter all, Captain Jean,” he said,in a
doubt, “I’m wlin a fog as to what you expect to find
uere. I did notunderstand what Heriot said before
the council, and you have not told me what he said to
you in private afterward.
good news of the daughter of your benefactor.”

“It was indeed good news of her, Damar,” replied
Lafitte, excitedly, ‘and if it prove true, there may be
some joy in life for me yet. He confessed that what
he had led me to believe while a prisoner at the

tone of

that the worst that had befallen her was her having
been forced to marry Louis De Clermont. Sit down
on the rail here, Dainar, and IT will tell you alll
learned from him.”

The old man sat himself down deliberately on
the spot his commander had designated, and
Lafitte, leaning against the main shrouds, thus con-
tinued:

“When Heriot and his fellow-conspirator had so
far succeded in their foul design upon niy
that they had induced him to fiy from France im their
company, they discovered that they could not obtain
possession of his wealth as easily as they had hoped,
for a8 s00n as he was out of danger of arrest by the
French government, the fear which the remembrance
of the Reign of Terror had inspired in his mind, dis-
appeared entirely, and he became again the self-re-
liant and shrewd man of business he had always,
previously, shown himself. The veasel in which they
had escaped had been hired in his name, and the
commander considered himself as being solely at the
old merehant’s orders. N otwithstanding the piausi-
ble objections of the conspirators, therefore, the ves-

I only Know that it was |

think of |
- It would be better if you gaye them |

“That I have not lied as to her being a prisoner,
you have only to question your messengers to prove,”
replied the youth, calmly.” “As to why I should risk
ny worthless tite for her. if you will sit down and
listen to me, Captain Lafitte, you will soon see that I
should be an ingrate and a coward if I hesitated to
do all T could to insure her safety.”

Lafitte mechanically seated himself, and fixing a
piercing gaze upon the speaker, prepared to listen,

“A little nore than six months since,’ began Da
Cunha, “the news of her husband’s death, in a street
brawl at St. Malo, in France, reached Inez. Strange
to say. uo particulars of the quarrel in whiek he lost
his lite, ever came to hand, except that it was a dis-
pute with some sailors; but full proof of the death
was sent by his next male heir, who wished to authen-

 

| tleate it in order to claim succession to the title,

\
|

which had been restored to Louis by the Emperor
Napoleon. p

“Freed from that chain, which had always galled
her, Inez wished to sell the small remnant of her
property, and return to France, taking her daughter
with her——”

“Her daughter?” interrupted Lafitte, in a tone of
surprise.

“Yes,” replied Da Cunha, “her only child, born in

| the first year of her marriage, and now about tour
; years old. Inez had nearly finished her preparations

} time came

| the details when she is in safety.

sel sailed for the Island of Jamaica, where Phillippe |

had many friends and correspondents, relations of
his wite’s family, who had been settled there long be-
fore it had ceased to be a Spanish colony.”

him and Inez te the United States, where he had no |
triends, and where, consequently, they might have |

1 hittle risk.

 

robbed him openly, wi On their arrival

at Kingston here, his wife’s relatives received hin |

with open arms, and very soon he was established in
business and all his money securely invested. Thus
they were torced to adopta very different plan. which
was simply to “nduce Phillippe to bestow his dangh-
ter’s hand upon the Count De Vitre. Inez believed
me dead, and her father thought himself under great
obligations to Louis de Clermont for helping him to
escape from France. Therefore Inez wasyat last,
married to Clermont, though a long time elapsed be-
fore she could be persuaded to consent. Within a
year afterward Phillippe died, and his will gave half
his estate to Walter Heriot and half to Inez and her
husband. [have no doubt whatever, that the old
man’s death was hostened by these wretches, as
soon as they had induced him to execute that will.
Louis de Clermont deserted his wife immediately
aiter he had secured her property, and returning |
to France at the same time Heriot returned to Eng-
land, entered the army soon after the emperor's ac-
eession When Heriot last heard from Inez, she
was living with her mother’s relatives, at the place
to which [have sent Wilson and the boy to seek her
out:’’

Lafitte had just concluded the last sentence, when
the sound of oars, faint in the distance, fell upon his
ear, and he turned sharply round.

“Here they come, at last,” he cried, eagerly.
“Heaven grant that they have not failed.”

As he spoke a large boat shot out into the moon-
light from the shadows near the shore, and propelled
by six stout oars, drew rapidly near the vessel. As
it appreached three forms could be seen in the stern
sheets, two of which the watchers quickly recog-
nized as tuose of Wilson, the boatswain, and the boy,
Ralph Vane.

Before they could hazard any conjecture as to who
the third person was, the boat came sweeping along-
side, and tossed oars atthe gangway. The boy was
first to reach the deck, and he ran at.once to where
Laditte was standing.

“We found her, sir,” he cried, eagerly, as he ran.
“T gave her your letter myself, and she sent this gen-
tleman with us to bring her answer.”

He pointed, as he spoke,to the gangway, where
the stranger wis now standing~—a yours 1 » tail, oi
dark complexicn, and handsome . presence. Att. a
sigu froin the commander he advanced and bowed
politely. r

“My name is Ferdinand Da Cunha,” he Bald, grawe-~
ly, fiting a look of much eurivsity on the commander?)
I presumo thet [have tHe honor of addressing Cap- |

Jcan Lafitte?”

i

tinued:

42fitte bowed in assent, and the young

“T am commissioned by my cousin, the Senora Inez |
de Clermont, to seek an interview with you,oen which |
much depends. May we contcrin private ¢

Latitte motioned him to follow, and silently led the |
abin.
is time, captain,” said the

 

Sey

 

   
  

 

an Con- |

 

 

 

  

 

“Your arrival here att

tome truly providential. It wasa fortunate thing,,

enough to actashe did. If he |
reach her,”
Agitated by this strange speech, Lafitte
scarcely command himself sufficiently to spea
“What has happened 3” he asked, eonfusedly.
is she—why do you ts
“My cousin is the most unfortunate of women,” re-

could

“Why

  

 

 

| plied Da Cunha, quickly, “and sha docs not deserve

her misfortunes, for she is always doing good to
others. At the present moment she is in great peril,
and. she looks to you for aid.”

“Speak!” cried Lafitte, impatiently, finding his
voice at last. “Tell me her danger at once, and how
Lean did her? De you not see that I am in tor

| ture?”

“She is a prisonerin her own house, by order of the
governor of the island,” replied the youth, promptly.
“None of her reiatives or friends are allowed to see
should have been unable to do so if I had
not known of a secret entrance into the mansion.”

“Upon what pretext is she a prisoner?’ asked the
captain, angrily. ‘What do these wretches charge
her with

“The charge publicly made is that she is @ spy of
France,” replied Da Cunha, “but that is only a cloak
to mask the real tyrauny of the case. The truth is
that the Governor, Sir Austin Dalrymple, wishes to
foree her to marry his son.”

“To marry his som!” repeated Lafitte, in profound
surprise. “What can be his reason? Those villains,
her husband, aud Walter Heriot, have robbed her of
all her wealth——”

“You are mistaken,” interrupted Ferdinand, quick-
ly. “My eousin is now far richer than when she
married. Her wealth exceeds that of any person on
the Island of Jamaica.”

“Whatcan you mean?” cried the bewildered com-
mander “Surely you are not jesting with me?”

“Tam quite serious,” said the youth, boldly. . “The
entire property of the great merchant and planter,
Manuel Da Cunha, was left to her when he died,
about five months ago. He was her mother’s uncle,
and as he never married, she was his direct heir.”

For a@ moment Lafitte could only stare at the
speaker in dumb astonishment. Then some fearful
thought seemed to strike him, and he grew pale as
ashes.

“My last hope is gone!” he exclaimed, passionately,
burying his face in his hands. “Poor and deserted
she might have flown to me for protection, but now
she Wil turn in contempt from the outlaw——”

“Again you are mistaken,” said Da Cunha, inter-
rupting him, hastily. ‘She looks to you as the only
friend she has who is able to help her. If you could
have seen the excess of her joy when she learned
you were not dead, but had come to seek her at so
much peril to yourself, you would no longer doubt
your welcome. As for this wealth which troubles
you, it has placed her in deadly danger.”

“Halt I remember—the English governor!” ex-
claimed Lafitte, brokenly.

“Yes,” replied.the youth, bluntly. “Her life and
honor are both in peril from him, for he will hesitate
at nothing to secure that wealth for his own family.
When I tell you that she bas even suffered blows at
his hand——”

The outlaw started to his feet, his eyes blazing with
wrath, and his whole form quivering with intense
excitement.

“Blows! Blows to her!” he cried, in a tone of
horror. “T had cause to hate these English long ago,
but now they have filled the cup to overflowing.
From this time forth they shall know no mercy at
my hands. War—war—war! to the whole accursed
race !’’

of * a = * * *

Many minutes passed before the outlaw recovered
his self-control, and then suddenly remembering that.
this handsome youth was the messenger of Inez and |
apparently in her confidence,a darksuspicion sprang |
up in Latitte’s mind. |

Was not all this a plot #

Perhaps this man was more to Inez de Clerme oes
than as mere cousin, and his mission a scheme. As |
this spark of jealousy blazed up, he turned rudely |
upon his guest. i

“And why do you, alone of all her relatives,
defend her?’ he cried, furiously. “They seem
have left her toherfate. Why should you peril life in |
hercause ? For you have periled it, young man,if you
have come here with a lie on your lip!’ —

 

 

| upon.

| ;
| pet birds.

| dedicated to the ladies of America.

worth,
phia.
unnecessary to expatiate upon it. Her admirers cannot
| fail to find much in “Sybil Brotherton” to commend.

|
|
|

 

} on receipt of $1 50, by the

¢ ; Cunha, died, leaving ber all his wealth.
Clock Tower, in regard to her fate, was false, and |

| knowledged that she returned my love, was iner¢
“The design of the two villains had been to take |
|
|
|

for departure when Manuel
This delayed
her departure, though she still intended to go when
the business of the estate was settled, but before that
the governor began to covet her wealth,
and his son herself. I have already given you the
outline of their treatment of her since she refused to
become the son’s wife, and from her you may learn
It only remains for
me to tell you why I ain her sole defender, and what

her grand wunele, Da

 
 

| good cause I have to devote not only life—but honor
| itself, if it were necessary—to her service.
benefactor |

“T am atill young, as you see, but in my short life I
have known sorrows 80 great that Iam aged befo
my time. My childhood and youth were h:
enough, and until I graduated at the great m
eollege of New Orleans, and returned to this
with my diploma of physician and surgeon, I fax id
no wish ungratified, no ambitionsthwarted. Bui my
fate met me within a year after my return, when Tt
fellin love with the daughter of my father’s ene:
and from that momeni Tf have been struggling,
to hand, with horrors unspeakable.

“You, doubtless, know that we colonial Spaniards
are a vindictive race, and that the vendetta is as well
established among us as with the Corsicans. The en
mity between our family and that of the girl I leved,
had existed for several generations, and, fool that I
was, the joy that [ felt when my darling Nina ac-

re
iy
al

na

 
    
   

  
  

vy

daud

 
  

by the fond thought that our union would heal this
breach, and restore friendship to our rival houses.

“How terribly was [ undeceived! When our en-
gagement. was disclosed, my father swore that he
would cast me off, and her father threatened to kill
me if I ever spoke to Nina again. Nothing eould
sotten their hearts, and every effort that domestic
tyranny could devise was made to keep us apart. but
our mutual love was too powertul for any opposition
to defeat our purpose. Nina fled from her father’s
house, and we were secretly married.

“One short month of happiness was all we ever
knew. Our parents discarded us, and used every
means to annoy and disturb us, their influence being

 

| sufficiently powerful to prevent me from obtaining

any employment. In short, we should soon have
been actual paupers if my Cousin Inez had not come
to our assistance.

“Nevertheless, I was a doomed man, for fate had in
store for me a misfortune too horrible to be dwelt
You will scarcely believe that I am speaking
the truth when I tell you that my darling wife was
murdered by her father! Yes, it was murder, though
it was me he meant to kill, and not her. He forced
his way—insane with rage that we bad found a
friend—into the house of Inez, where we were living,
and attacked me with a dagger. I had fallen before
his mad onset, his poniard was raised to pierce my
heart, when my wife threw herself upon me, aud re-
ceived the death-blow intended for me!

“She did not die immediately, but lingered for sev-
eral weeks. It was Inez who nursed her, whose de-
votion soothed her dying pillow, and who would bava
saved her if care and love could have done so. Inez,
also, it was who laid her in the grave, for my brain
had been turned by the awful catastrophe, and watil
many days after my darling was deud and buried, I
was raving in the torments of a furious fever. When
[regained my senses, and knew the worst; again it
was Inez who saved me from despair and selt-
destruction, renewing within me the manhood which
my cruel affliction had almost crushed. Deoyou won-
der now, Captain Lafitte, that Ishould defend Inez
in her peril?

Without speaking Lafitte rose from!’ his seat, and
firmaly clasped the young surgeon’s hand in his own.
There was no need of further words between these
two. -That grasp sealed a friendship which ended
only with life, for he whom we have thus introduced

  

lwas the Gonzalez of the early story, and by that
name we will hereafter continue to know him.

[TO BE CONTINUED ]

wo

OUR CANARIES. By Geo. P. Burnham, Melrose, Masa,

This new volume will be prized by all bird fanciers. It

tells how to mate, keep, feed, and breed canaries and other

It is illustrated with fifty engravings, and

seems as complete a work of the kind as any bird admirer

could desire te obtain. Itis published by the author, and
Price, 50 cents.

SYBIL BROTHERTON. By Mra. Emma D. EE. N. Sonth-
Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadet-

Mrs. Southsworth’s style is so well known that itis

WHAT TO TEACH YOUR BOYS.

Teach your boys that a true lady may be found jin
alice quite as frequently as in velvet.

Teach them that @ common-sebool education with
common sense is far better than a college education
without it.

Teach them that one good, honest trade. well maa-
tered, is worth a dozen beggarly ‘professions.’

Teach them to respect their elders and themselves.

Teach them that, as they expect to be men some
day, they cannot too soon learn to protect the weak
and helpless.

Teach them that to wear patched clothes is no dis-
grace, but to wear a black eye is.

Teach them that God is no respecter of sex, and
that when He gave the seventh commundment, He
meant it for them as well as for their sisters.

Teach them that by indulging their depraved am
petites in the worst forms of dissipation, they are
not fitting themselves to become the husbands of
pure girls,

Teach them thatitis better to be an honest man
seven days in the week than to bea Christian one
day and a Villain six days.

i all this instruction is too much trouble, teach
your boys to think, and you need not worry yourself
about anything & They will revisw all your
opinions and revi your decisions for themseives,
anyhow, and the earlier you qualify them to do so
the better.

Bertha M. Clay’s New Book.
a?

PUBLISHED THIS WEEK IN BOOK-FORM
A SPLENDID NOVEL

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY,

4 AUTHOR OF
“Thrown on the World.”
ENTITLED

Lady Damer’s Secret

A new novel by the author of “THROWN ON
WORLD,” whose stories are having such
Book-Form. *,*
bound in cloth.

 

 

THR
r a larce sale in
Beautifully printed, and handsumely
Price $1 50.

*,* Also ready this week, new and uniform editions of
this author’s other Popular Works:

Thrown on the Wortd,
A Bitter Atonement,
Love Works Wonders,

Evelyn’s Folly.

Ee" Aa the Demand is already enormoua, Booksellers
are requested to send in their orders at once, that they

| secure early supplies.

Ordeas will be filled in rotation—“Firt come, first seh”

G. W. CARLETON & Co., Publishers,

Madison Square, New York
a

 

te Single Copies will be sent by mail, postage pry

NEW YORK WERE

3i ROSE STREET

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Seg Gert ner dt

 

 

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BY GEORGE L. CATLIN.

 

ow £ > heard as ropdest exclamation of
fame mat be heard aye Peat sea
He got to Paris late at night,
So tired he couldn’t stand,
He'd three valises by his side,
A guide-book in his hand.
He singled out a hackman from
The crowd. Said he “My man,
Just drive me to the best hotel,
Je suis Americain.”
The Jehu drove him to the Grand
By course cirouitous,
And charged a price which was—well, by
No means gratuitous.
The stranger paid; then registered,
And to the clerk began:
“J want the best room in the heuse—
Je suis Americain.”

They showed him up to twenty-blank,
Upon the parlor floor ;
Two candles on the mantel-piece,
A gilt plate on the door ;
But, ere he slept, he mused, and thos
His lucubrations ran :
“To-morrow I'll make Paris howi—
Je suis Americain.”
And make it “how?” he did indeed.
From Concorde to Bastille,
¥rom Madeleine to Luxembourg,
He raced, and at Mabille
Wound up the day. But, when‘s fair
Smiled from behind her fan
Seductively, ‘No, no,” said he;
“Je suis Americain.”
Next day he to the summit of
The Are of Triomphe hied.
*Vell, vat you zink of zis ?"linquired
A Frenchman at his side.
“This? This is nothing,” answered ho;
“Deny it if you can;
You ought to see our Brooklyn Bridge
Je suia Americain.”

Inte a gilded restaurant
He chanced to drop, one day ;

The waiters’ jargon fairly drove
His appetite away.

*Confound your dishes, cooked,” said be,
“On the Parisian plan!

I want a plate of pork an’ beans—

Je suis Americain.”

Where’er he went, whate’er he did,
’"Twas always just the same;

He couldn’t, it appeared, forget
The country whence he came;

And when, once more at home, his eyes
Familiar scenes did scan,

He doffed his hat, and cried, ‘““Thank God,
Je suis Americain fi"

February 14, 1879.

 

*I am an American.
>

THE MASSACRE AT CHICAGO.
A TRUE STORY OF INDIAN WARFARE.

BY JOHN 8. C. ABBOTT.

 

 

One of the most memorable events connected with the
early wars with the Indians was the massacre at Chicago.
At the commencement of this century, the whole popula-
tion of what is now the State of Michigan cons: ot but
about five thousand souls. Most of these were inefficient
and illiterate Canadians. They paid but little attention
te agriculture. Their main dependence was in hunting,
A&shing, and tradimg with the Indians. All the region west
Was @ savage wildern over which roamed many bands
ef Indians, who were-m: yunder British influence and
hostile to the United States,

In the year 1795 a treaty had been made with several
tribes at, Greenville, Ohio, princi y with the Pettawat-
amies and Miamies, by which they ceded te the United
States “a piece of.land six mes square at the mouth of
Chicago River, emptying into the south-west end of Lake

Michigan.”

Here, in the year 1804, the United States government
erected afort. It consisted of two block-houses facing the
south, and an inclosure of an acre or tjvo of land surround-
ed by a strong palisade. There was also a subterranean
Pp from the parade-ground of the fort to the river.
These works were garrisoned by seventy-five men. Cap-
tain Heald wasin command. His two subordinate officers
wers Lieutenant Helm and Ensign Ronan, two very
young men, brave and reckless. Doctor Voorhies was the

surgeon.
Friendly intercourse had for some time existed between
the neighboring Indians and the inmates of the fort. But

the chiefs of nearly all the adjacent tribes—the Pofta-
watamies, the Winnebagoes—were in alliance with Great
Britain. They usually visited Malden, on the Canada side
af the Detroit River, and received presents of blankets,
muskets, and ammunition to alarge amount. The Eng-
lish government, greatly chagrined by the result of the
war of the Revolution, were looking lacerarel to another
war, which they soon ushered in, and in which they
hoped in some way toretrieve what they had lost.

They were therefore anxious to Seoure for this conflict
the tomahawk and scalping-knife of thesavage. Notwith-
standing, however, all these endeavors, there was at that
time no animosity between the chiefs and the inmates of
Fort Dearborn, as the works at Chicago were called.

There were several traders within the fort, and the spa-
cious parade-ground within the palisades often presented
a motley spectacle of plumed and painted warriors, hun-
ters, squaws, and papooses, who, in their vagrant lives,
were ever Visiting the fort, to dispose of their peltries or to
gratify an idle curiosity.

Among the inmates of the fort, in addition to the garri-
eon, there were several Canadians, and the family ot Mr.
Kinzie, a high-minded, honorable gentleman, who had
been for many years engaged in the fur trade, and who by
his fair dealings had won the confidence of the Indians.

About four miles from Chicago, ata place called Hard-
acrabble, a man by the name of Lee had reared a log cabin,
and had opened trade with the Indiansfor their furs.
Thus several years passed away peacefully and prosper-
ously. But the war cloud, which burst upon our country
in 1812, was ever gathering blackness and _ increasing in
menace. The English officials encouraged the Tndians
with the hope that if the savages would join England in
the war, they could easily drive the United States settlers
érem ali the regions north of the Ohio, make the Ohio
River the northern boundary of the United States, and re-
stere te the Indians the millions of acres of hunting-
grounds, trom which they had been excluded by treaties
which many of the chiefs declared to have been fraudu-
lent. This was a resistless bribe to the poor savages.

War with England was declared on the 19th of June,
41812. The British forces, in Canada, with their savage
allies, were all ready to make a rush upon the frontiers. A
few weeks before the commencement of hostilities, on the
7th of April, a marauding party of Winnebagoes attacked
Lee’s cabin, and killed two of the inmates, while two oth-
ers escaped by fiteht.

The place was plundered and destroyed. Thus the In-
dians commenced the woeful, bloody struggle. There was
great alarm at the fort. They were far away, in the path-
less wilderness, remote from every hope of relief. The
ison was feeble, many of the soidiers being invalidect.
‘They were exposed to attacks: from thousands of Indian
wariors, led by British officers, and armed by the best
weapons of war England could furnish. British officers,
guns, and ammunition could be transported by water to the

wadls of the fort.

On the 7thof August, a friendly Indian chief, by the
name ef Winzemeg, having threaded his way for hundreds
ef miles through the trails of the forest, reached the fort
with dispatches from Governor Wall. The governor was
then commander-in-chief of all the forces, scattered
throughout the military posts of the north-west. The dis-
patches announced the declaration of war between
England and the United Stales; that the British troops
hat already captured Mackinaw, far up at the head of the
lake, and that Governor Hull, at the head of a considera-
ble army, was on the march from Fort Wayne to Detroit.

In accordance with these alarming tidings Captain Heald
was ordered to evacuate Fort Dearbon, if practicable, and
-cemmmencs an immediate march toward Detroit. All the
‘property in the fort, which couid. not be removed, he was
to Cistribute among the Indians, hoping thus to secure
their friendship, that they would not molest his retreat.

Their numbers were such that they could, without diffi-
culty, if so disposed, gather in ambush somewhere along
his circuitous route, and cut him off. ;

Winnemeg, though we call him a savage, was @ very in-
“elligent man, and sincerely friendly to the United States.

After silently delivering his dispatches, and waiting till
‘Captain Heald had perusedthem, he solicited a private in-
kterview with Mr. Kinzie.

With delicacy not te be expected of a savagé, he was not
willing to give directly military advice to the commandant
ot the fort.

“Gevernor Hull,” said this noble Indian, “thas made me
acquainted with the purport of the communications which
I have brought. In my judgment the garrison cannot
safely evaculate this post. The Indians, in numerous war-
like bands, all along the route between here and Detroit,
ware hostile. Their swift runners will instantly announce
the commencement of the rei % The troops will be sur-
reunded by superior numbers, taken at a disadvantage,
wand probably destroyed.

~“‘Here the garrison, within its strong palisades, has an
“@mple supply ef provisions and ammunition. Here the
»seldiers have a great advantage over their foes, and can
«easily so strengthen their works that they can repel any
sattack which may be made. The safety of the garrison de-
mands that it should remain here, until reinforcements
can. be sent to its aid. ‘

“But if, for any reason, it is decided to evacuate the post,
@ momentis to be lost. The garrison must move before
hostile Indians have had time to make preparations to
erceptthem. By setting out at once and pressing for-
das rapidly as possible in forced marches, the garri-
¥: perhaps succeed in threading the long paths of the

   
 

 

 

    

  

 

  
 
 
 

 

©
f which thronged with their foes. The peril is so
that, in case of an evacuation, the best course would
~ march out at once

) this very night, leaving every
ig standing. The In

bands now surrounding the
are, at heart, in syn hy With the British. They
“ire ready at any moment to attack you. By leaving be-
‘nind so large an amount of plunder, they may possibly get
mnecaged in the division of the spoil that the garrison
get beyond their reach before they commence the

 
  
 
 

ie was‘ao impressed with the truth and impor-

 

| military ability.

 

tance of these suggestions, that he sought au immediate

interview, with Captain Heald, and informed him of the
views of the Indian chief.

The captain was a very worthy man, but he possessed no
Kiven when the path of expediency was
80 oleae pointed out before him, he could notsee it. With
strange iniatuation, he said :

“f intend to evacuate the post, in accordance with the
instructions which I have received. But before leaving,
I shall assemble the chiefs of all the adjacent tribes, and
make an equitable division among them of the whole prop-
porty to be abandoned.”

Thus, with folly quite unpardonable, he decided publicly
to announce his decision to abandon the fort with all its con-
tents; then to wait until hundreds of Indian chiefs, with per-
haps thousands of their followers, were encamped around
the fort. To them he would distribute all the guns, pistols,
swords, hatchets, powder, and balls within the fort, which
the seldiers could not take with them.

Then, when entirely at the mercy of these savages, out-
numbering him perhaps ten to one, and armed to the
teeth, he was to set out ona march, through the tangled
forest, of several hundred miles, exposed at every mile on
the way to be attacked by a well-armed and ferocious foe
in front, on his flanks, and in the rear.

The next morning at parade the order for abandoning
the fort was read. ‘hus in an hour it was known by every
warrior, squaw, and pap »s0 in the wigwams clustered
around the post. Probably conscious that the measure
would not meet the re of his officers, he calledno
council of war, and held no conference with his subordinate
officers.

The two impetuous young men, Lieutenant Helm and
Ensign Ronan, were greatly excited. They considered it
cowardice to abandon their post, and folly unutterable to
arm the savages, and then to expese themselves to a com-
bined attack, as inalong Hine in single file they were
threading the narrow and intricate trails of the forest.
They presented the following forcible remonstrance.

“Tt is highly improbable ‘that the command can pass
through the country in safety to Fort Wayne. It is well
known that though some of the chiefs are very friendly to
Mr. Kinzie’s family, there is no general feeling of friend-
ship toward the Americans. Our march must be slow, as
there are many women and children in the detachment.
The hostile tribes on the route thirst for our blood. Our
force is small. Many of the soldiers are superannuated
and others are invalids. As Governor Hull has left us to
our discretion, we earnstly ativise that we remain where
we are, and fortify ourselves as strongly as possible. We
can easily hold out against the Indians. Sueccor will

robably arrive before the British can descend from

ackinaw with heavy guns to attack us. If succor
should not arrive, it will be much better for us to fall into
the hands of the English than of the Indians.”

To this forcible remonstrance Captain Heald replied
that he deemed it best to endeavor to secure the friend-
ship of the Indians by distributing among them the pro-

rty of the fort. He hoped then to obtain trom them their
riendship by the promise of a very liberal reward upon
their saie arrival.

The sub-oflicers were so dissatisfied with this reply, that
they declined all further intercourse with the captain.
Even the common soldiers were so incensed that they were
upon the eve of a mutiny.

Mr. Kinzie ventured jagain upon the
entreat the captain to reconsider his resolve.
replied:

“Sven if I thought it best to stay I could not do so, for
I have not a sufficient store of provisions.”

One of the soldiers, who chanced to overhear the re-
mark, replied:

“Why, captain, we have cattle enough to last the troops
six months.”

“But,” said the captain, “I have no salt to preserve the
beef with.”

“Then jerk it,” added the soldier, ‘‘as the Indians do their
venison.’

This was a very simple and effectual operation. The
meat was cut in fhin slices, and was dried and smoked over
a slow fire. As the captain had no reply to this suggestion
he was silent.

Every day the Indians became more rude and insolent.
They strolled about at their pleasure, assuming a defiant
air, as though conscious that the garrison, preparing for
retreat, would not dare to provoke a iigpt.

One of the insolent fellows entered the parlor of an offi-
cer, took up a loaded rifle, and fired it off in the room, as
an expression of defiance.

Agitated groups were gathered here and there; the
squaws wére running about in great excitement, while the
sedate chiefs were often seen in secret eonclave. A storm
was manifestly brewing. Captain Heald was utterly de-
luded. In all these scenes he could see no indications of
approaching trouble. He expressed the full convictions
that the Indians, in anticipation of the rich presents they
were to receive, had been rendered truly friendly, and that
they would escort the soldiers in safety to Fort Wayne.

While affairs were in this alarming condition an Indian
runner came to Fort Dearborn, from the renowned Indian
chief Tecumseh, with the encouraging inteHigence to the
Indians, that Mackinac was captured ; that General Hull
bad been driven out of Canada, and that the allied English
and Indians were everywhere triumphant. He assured
them that Hull would soon be gompelled to surrender his
whole force; and he urged the Indians to arm immediately
and to strike as swift and heavy blows as they could.

The chiefs held a general council, beneath the shelter of
a large tres on the open plain, but a short distance from
the fort. They invited Captain Heald and his officers to
attend. It was rumored, and the rumer was probably cor-
rect, that the young Indian warriors, attending the coun-
cil in large numbers, and folly armed, intended treacher-
ously to tall upon the few officers of the garrisen, and mas-
saore them all.

Captain Heald, in his infatuation agtended. Licutenant
Helm and Ensign Ronan déclined. ery judiciously tuey
brought their heavy uns to bear upon the spot where the
council was to be Held, Joaded them with grape-shot, Unrow
open the pert-holes, 2nd had the gunners standing by with

hted matches.
be Indians perceived all this. Thus, probably, the life
of Captain Heald was preserved.

The deluded captain informed this council of savage
chiefs and warriors that he intended, the next day, te dis-
tribute among them ali the goods in the fort, consisting of
arms, ammunition, provisions, and liquors. He as of
them, in return, that they would furnish him with an €s-
cort to Fort Wayne, promising them, upon their arrival
there, very liberal rewards, In addition to the presents
they were now to receive. The Indians assented to all,

parade-ground to
The captain

   

and wera profuse in their expressions of good will.
Mr. Kiizie was not deceived. He was thoroughly ac-

quainted with the Indian character, and with their profi-
ciency in all the acts of cunning. Again he called upon
Captain Heald, with the endeavor to open his eyes to the
appalling danger.

“The Indians,” said he, “have for along time been grow-
ing increasingly hostile to the Americans. Since the bat-
tleof Tippecanoe I have ordered my traders to furnish
them no ammunition. Nothing can be more dangerous.
situated as we are now, than to place in their hands mus-
kets, powder, and ball, which they can so easily use for
our destruction. They greatly outnumber us, and with
the abundance of arms and ammunition we are about to
furnish them, they can, without any difficulty, shoot us all
down in our long march through the defiles of the wilder-
ness.”

This argument led the commandant in some degree to
appreciate his danger. He resolved to destroy the am-
munition and the liquors after he had so unwisely prom-
ised them to the Indians.

The next day, the 13th of August, 1812, the blankets
and provisions were distributed. But greatly to the an-
noyance of the Indians the ammunition was withheld. In
the night the powder was thrown into an old well, and the
casks of intoxicating drinks were knocked in the head.
The Indians, creeping stealthily about, found this out, and
were very much enraged.

In the dawn of the morning, Captain Wells, with fifteen
friendly Indians, arrived from Fort Wayne. Mrs. Heald
was his sister. From boyhood he had resided among the
Indians, and thoroughly understood their character. He
had heard of General Hull’s order to evacuate Fort Dear-
born. . Knowing the hostility of the tribes through whose
territory his sister, with the retreating garrison, must
sas he trembled for her safety, and made a rapid march

hrough the wilderness, with his friendly Miamies, to pre-
vent if possible a movement so full of peril.

He arrived too late. The ammunition was destroyed.

he Indians were riotously feasting upon the provisions
which had been thrown upon them.

The fort could no longer beheld. Itsimmediate evacua-
tion was a necessity. li that Captain Wells could do was
to urge the departure with the greatest expedition.

A second council was held with the Indians. They were
inarage. They loudly expressed their indignation at the
destruction of the powder and the “‘fire-water.”” Murmurs
and threats were heard on every side.

There were several Chiefs who. while hostile to the
Americans generally, for their constant encroachment on
their hunting-grounds, still cherished very friendly feel-
ings for individuals in the garrison. They did what they
could to allay the angry excitement of the warriors. 4
efforts were in vain. ‘

Among the chiefs was a renowned warrior, of undeniable

nobility of character, called Black Partridge. He had
ever been the friend and ally of the Americans. For some

deed of chivalric daring, while fighting beneath their ban-
ner, he had received a medal of honor, of which he was
very proud. The evening after the second council he en-
tered the quarters of Captain Heald, and said:

“T come to deliver up to you the medal I wear. It was
given me by the Americans, and I have long worn it, in
token of our mutual friendship. But our youug men are
resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the whites.
I cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of
peace while I am compelled to act as an enemy.”

The commandant distributed the reserved ammunition,
consisting of twenty-five rounds for each man. Baggage
wagons were provided for the sick, the women, and the
children. Gloom was upon every countenance; anxiety
was gnawing at every heart. There was but little sleep in
the garrison on the night of the 14th. The shouts of sav-
age revelry, blended with yells and war-whoops, fell ap-
pallingly upon the ear. In the morning they were to leave
the protection of the palisades and expose themselves, in a
long, unsheltered march, to an outnumbering, irritated,
and cruel foe.

The morning of the 15th dawned. The sun rose clond-
less and shone with dazzling brilliance over the ocean-like,
glassy surface of the lake; the air was balmy, and the day
would have been delightful but for the depression of feel-
ings into which the whole party was plunged.

Early in the morning a friendly chief, by the name of
Topensebe, sent 2 message to Mr. Kinzie, informing him
that the Pottawatomies, who had promised te escort the
detachment to Fort Wayne, were plotting mischief. Mr.
Kinzie, whose intelligent fears were greatly aroused, had
decided to send. his family across the lake in a large canoe,
instead of allowing them to accompany the detachment in
its long and circuitous march around its southern end. He
therefore obtained such a canoe in the Chicago river, and
placed init his wife, four young children, a clerk, two
servants, several boatmen, or voyageurs, as they were
called, and two friendly Indians, as guides and protectors.
They were to descend the river into the lake, and, skirting
the shore, were to make their way to asmall trading posi,
called St. Joseph’s, on the south-eastern shore of this in-
land sea.

Mr. Kinzie’s eldest son was to accompany the garrison in
its march. Captain Heald was very urgent for this. He
knew how much the Kinzie family was beloved by all the
Indians. He thought that the presence of the young man
might restrain the fury of the savages. But Topeneebe
entreated him to let his son go with the family, assuring
him that the hostile Indians would probably not make an
attempt to attack them upon the water,

About eight o’clock in thp morning the eanoe, with the
family; commenced descending the river. At nine o’clock
the troops, with a long line of baggage wacons, floating
banners, martial music, and imposing military array, com-
menced their march. They hoped thus in some degree to
overawe ene savages. But the hostile chiefs were far too
intelligent to be deceived by any such pageantry. They
smiled as they saw their victims marching thus pompously
to destruction.

 

NEW. YOR

Captain Wells, with his band of friendly Miamis, led | the limits of the tribe over which the friendly Toponesbe 'her who remained to prove tiat “if you take two
He protected them till November, when two |

 

 

K

the advance. :
the fashion of the friendly Indium warriors whom he led ;
next came the troops of the garrison, with loaded muskets,
marching in what is called doable tile; the wagons, con-
taining the women, the children, and the sick, followed in
a long line behind. Ata little distance from them came
the motley, straggling group of the Pottawatomy escort,
tive hundred in number. They’ wére ail in their war-paiut,
thoroughly armed, and, with moccasine | feet, trod the soil
proudly, fully conscious that the feeble garrison, with its
incumbering train was now entirely at their merey.

The read, or path, led along the sandy shore of the lake,
with the water upon their left, as they journeyed south,
one the wide, sweeping prairie, level as a tloor, upon their
right.

About a mile from the fort, within the present limits of
the city of Chicago, they came toa series of sand hills,
ten or ifteen feet high, and distant-but a few rods from

the water. The beach, between the water and the sand |

hills, was smooth, but the feet of both men and horses
sank in the soit, dry sand.
followed mons the beach. All the officers were mounted.
The Indian chiefs alao were on horseback.

The treacherous Pottawatamies had their plank fully
and very skillfully matured.
soon a8 they reached the sand hills, tustead of following
the garrison, they filed rapidly to the right, and ran along
so asto come up abreastof the troops and the wagons,
with the sand hills between them. The military sagacity
of this movement will be obvions to all.

Five hundred warriors, wnerring marksmen, armed with

the best of English rifles, with the sand hills for their |

rampart, could open a deailly fire upon the feeble garrison
with its incumbering train. The watchful and suspicious

eye of Captain Wells detected the movement. Spurring |

his horse, he rode back, shouting out:

“The savages are about to attack us.
and charge upon ther.”

He had scarcely uttered these werds when the repart of
five bundred muskets, in continuous explosion, fell ap-
pallingly upon the ear, and a storm of bullets swept their
whole line,
utmost precipitation,
They knew that the dooin of the garrison was sealed.
fense against such overpowering odds was manifestly im
possible. If captured? fighting for the white men against
their own countrymen, the most cruel of deaths, by linger-
ing torture, was their inévitable lot. We cannot much
blame them for being unwilling, thus uselessly to throw
away their lives. The chief, however, of ths Miamies,
who was splendidly mounted, galtoped his horse up to the
Pottawatamie chief, and brandishing his tomahawk in his
face, exclaimed:

“You are guilty of the basest treachery. I will be the
Fa lead a party of Americans to punish you for this
deed.”

Then he and bis Uttle band rapidly disappeared from
the scene of tumult and of blood. ‘There was not a soldier
in the ranks who did-not instantly perceive that their case
was hopeless. Yet h#roically they resolved to sell their
lives as dearly as possible. Hlastily they formed for tho
charge, and rushed over the sand hills upon a foe ountnum-
bering them more tha ten toone. The soldiers capable
of bearing arms amounted to but sixty-six men. Many of
these were struck down, either killed or wonnded by the
first fire.

It. was an awful scene. The yells of the Indians, the
shouts of the svldiers, the cries of women and children,
the incessant rattlo af muskets, the rush of the troops in
the charge, the whistling of the bullets, the plunging and
rearing of the territied horses, the felling dead, the gush-
ing bleod of the wounded, all formed a scene of horror
which haunted even the dreams of the survivors for many
years.

Mr. Kinzie’s very intelligent step-daughter was the wife

Form instantly

There is much excuse for them.

of Lieutenant Helm. She has given a very graphic account |

of what she then saw and experienced. She must have
been a woman naturally endowed with wonderful forti-
tude, which, in thisterrible hovr, was almost supernatur-
ally strengthened by Christian faith. Fully convinced
that ber last hour had come, and that there was nothing
left for her but to aivait the approach of death, she with-
drew a little from the tumult, sat down upon a mound, and
awaited her fate... The whole scene was open before her.
She gazed upon her husband and father, who were hero-
ically pressing along against the foe in the midst of the
dy and the dead;

While thus engaged, Dr. Voorhies came hobbling to-
ward her, badly wonnded and covered with blood. A bul-
let had struck down his horse beneath him, and the ball
had passed through hisleg. Every muscle of his coun-
tenance was quivering with the agony of terror.

“Do you think,” saidhe, “they will take our lives? I
am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we
can purchase our lives by offering them alarge reward.
Do you think thera is any chance?”

The heroic Christian woman replied :

“Dr. Voorhies, dé not let us waste the few moments that

et remain tous insuch vain hopes. Our fate is inevita-

le. Inafew monients we must appear before the bar of
God. Let us endeavor to make what preparation is yet in
our power.” : 4

Dr. Voorhies had been religiously educated. He knew

his duty, but had done it not. Amiable and, thoughtless,

he had’ lived merely asaman of the world. Freely ac-
ae the dlaims of Christianity, he had postponed
preparation for th, ever saying, wi ‘h the Roman gov-

ernor, “Go thy way for this time. When I have a con-
vement season I will call for thee.” In this awful hour he
found himself without any support. Almoet frantic with
terror, he cried ous
“Oh, Loannot din If i had buta
short time to prepare !

am not ft ta
Desth is awtui f”

Mr Helm pointed to E Ronabg@ Very young man,
who, not ve Paz distant eal pecs aifeck down, and was |

lying: mo y ‘Wwern
iad raised bimseliy
firing his nrusket 1a

“Look atthat man,” said Mra. Helm.
like a soldier.”

“Yes,” exclaimed the unfortunate young man, quite con-
vulsed with terror; “but he has no beef ii responsibility
at God’s bar. Hie has no fear of the future. He is an un-
believer in Chri8tianity.”

Just then a blocd-stained Indian warrior, with loud yelis
and uplifted tomahawk, came rushing upon them. He
aimed a blow at Mrs. Helm’s nead.

Aa the -gleaniing-. mae fell, with ali the force which

dod upon the ground. And yet he
¢ a as loading and

Meat rapidity’ and #nerring aim.

“At least he dies

the muscular 4trength the ssvag# could give, the cruel
blow strack her shouilter, inflicting a deep gash. The
herole woman seized the savage around his neck, and ep-
déavored to grasp his scalping-k nife, that she might plunge
it into his side.

At that moment another savage, of gigantic stature and
herculean strength, came up, and seizing her by the waist,
bore her away as if she had been a babe, notwithstanding
all her resistance and strugglings.

He drag, her toward the lake, which was very near.
Almost at the same instant the tomahawk of the other
savage cleft the brain of poor Voorhies, and he fella
ghastly corpse upon the sant.

Mrs Helm was dragged into the water up to her neck,
and was there held by a resistless grip. But she seon per-
ceived that it was no intention of the savage to drown her,
for he kept her head above water. Regarding him atten-
tively, she found that he was her father’s friend, Black
Partridge. The noble chief was so disguised with paint
that she had not recognized him. He had carried her into
the water as the only possible protection from the bullets
which were flying in all directions around.

In fifteen minutes from the commencement of the con-
flict the whole of the wagon train, with the horses, the
provisions, and the women and children, were in the pos-
session of the savages.

Captain Heald with his little band of surviving troops,
leaving the ground strewn with the dead and wounded,
had rushed to a spot upon the open prairie, where the say-
ages could not attack them without presenting their own
bosoms, unprotected, to the rifles of their antagonists.

The Indian warrior was never willing to approach his
fos unless from behind some sheltering sand-bank, rook,
or tree. The Indians did not venture to follow them, but
collected in a body along the ridge of sand-hills. The vic-
tory was manifestiy entirely theirs. Though the bleeding
remnant of the garrison might hold out for a few hours as
they Were huddled together on a eminence in the
prairie, their doom was sealed.

Upon this cessation of the battle Black Partridge led
Mrs. Helm out from the water. It wasa burning August
morning. Her feet sank deep in the sand. Exhausted as
she was by the cruel wound upon her shoulder, and by the
terrible éxcitements of the hour, she found walking ex-
tremely painful. She took off her shoes to free them trom
the sand with which they were nearly filled. A squaw ran
up, seized them, and carried them away, a her to
walk in her stockings alonc. When they reached the open
prairie, she met her father, who was a captive. He
told her that her husband was alive but wound

It was nearly twe miles back to the encampment of the
savages, on the southern bank of the Chicago river. Black
Partridge, seeing the exhaustion of his captive, kindly
placed her upen the back of a horse, without ‘any saddle.
But she soon, finding the motion of the horse insupport-
able, sprang off. Her kind conducter called another In-
dian eesotum, to hisaid. This savage held, dangling in
his hand, the scalp of one of. the victims, which she aiter-
ward learned to be that of Captain Wells. She leaned
upon the shoulders of these two Indians and thus dragged
her fainting steps along until she reached one of the wig-

was.
In the meantime, as Captain Heald, with his shattered
and bleeding band, stood despairingly together upon

the prairie, one of the chiefs of the Pottawatamies. Black-
bird by name, advanced a few rods upon the prairie with
an interpreter, and beckoned to Captain Heald to approach
him.

The two antagonist chieftains, well-known to each other,
met ase shook hands. Blackbeard then said to Captain
Heald:

“You are entirely in our power, a8 you must see. If you
will surrender, without further resistance, your lives will
be spared. If you continue the contlict you must all per-
ish.”

Captain Heald, after a moment’s hesitation, decided that

it would be most prudent to surrender, though he placed
but little confidence in the promise of Blackbird. He

knew that the chief had but little power to restrain the
fury of the savages. He returned to his men. They threw
down their arms. The savage warriors, about five hun-
dred in number, surrounded them and marched them back
to the Indian encampment. There were several united
tribes in the encampment, and the captives were distribu-
ted among them.

Ai the commencement of the action there were sixty-six
soldiers. Of these thirty-eight, more than half, were killed.
There were alsotwo women and twelve children killedin
the wagons. Captain Heald states the number of prison-
ers to have been twenty-five, non-commissioned officers
and soldiers, and eleven women and children, thirty-six in
all. Such were the devastations of an hour.

But let us return to Mrs. Kinzie, who, with her children,
was descending the Chicago river, toward the lake ina
boat. She was a woman of remarkable energy of charac-
ter. Just before the boat reached the lake, she heard the
firing, and the yelis of the savages, and knew too well
what they foreboded. With anguish she clasped her chil-
dren in herarms. Herhusband and her eldest child were
exposed to the tomahawk and the scalping knife, whose
terrors she knew too well. Who can imagine her anguish!
A friendly chief arrived and, hailing the boat, advised
them to reroain where they were. Indeed, Mrs. Zinzie’s
anxiety to learn the fate of her husband and son prompted
her to stop at every personal hazard. One or two other
friendly Indians arrived and took Mrs. Kinzie and her
children under their protection, leading them safely back
to their encampment. Some of the more hostile of the
savages meeting them furiously demanded their scalps. It
required all the skill and bravery of the friendly Indians
to protect them.

At the encampment Mrs. Kinzie, to her great joy, met
her husband and aon both alive. Though among the cap-
tives, they were treated with comparative humanity. Af-
ter three days the Indians placed Mrs. Kinzie and her
ehildren in & canoe, under the care@f a half-breed inter-
B by the, name of Francois, and sent her across the

se to Saint Joseph. This smaii trading post was within

 

 

WEEKLY.

He wus plumed, painted, and dressed after |

The garrison, with its. train, |

Loitering a little behind, as |

The fifteen friendly Miamies fled with the |

De- |

      

was chietl,
| friendly chiefs conveyed them to Detroit, and surrendered
them as prisoners of war to the British authorities, who
were allies of the savages,
And now let us return to Captain Heald with the cap-
tured remnant of the garrison. Notwithstanding the sur-
reuder, one young savage rushed to a wagon where
were twelve children, and tomahawked them all. The
wounded were also many of them mercilessly slaughtered.
Captain Wells, witnessing these horrors, exclaimed :
“{s that their game? Then I will kill, too!’
He was on hovseback, and still retained his arms. Ap-
parently convinced that all were to be alain, he resolved
to kill as many as possible before he fell. He spurred his
| horse toward the Indian camp. A crowd pursued, and a
| shower of bullets whistled around him, With well-trained
} skill he laid himself tlat upon the neck of his horse, load-
| ing and tiring upon his pursuers,
| Several balls struck him, inflicting serious wounds,One
| re the heart of his horse, and he fell dead beat

lim. Two triendly ohiefs rushed to his aid—Wi eg
; and Waubansee. Though they were united with the other
| Indians in the endeavor to capture the garrison, they were
| personally the friends of Captain Wells, and wished to
| save his life.

They disengaged him from his horse, and were support-
ing him as, covered with wounds, he staggered along,
when Peesotum, the same savage who had Killed and

the back.

Ge fell dead. Others of the demoniac warriors rushed
on. They cut off his head. They tore him limb from Limb.
They dug out his heart, and, carving it into small pieces,
| divided it among them. The next day a friendly Indian,
known as Billy Caldwell, collected the remains of
| mangled body and buried them beneath the sand.
| As Mrs. Helm, faint and bleeding, was led into the wig-
| wim of one of the chiefs, the chief's wife, Waubeenee-

mah by name, pitying her exhausted condition, took a
| Kettle, ran out, and dipped some water from a bro6k,

threw into it a little maple sugar, and, stirring it- up with
her unwashed hands, gave it to the poor captive to drink.
| This act of kindness,” writes Mrs. Helm, “in the midst
of 80 many atrocities, touched me most senaibly.”

Incessant firing was heard, as the reckless savages wan-
tonly shot down all the cattle which were grazing around
the fort. Stragglers were dropping into the encampment.
An old squaw, in ademoniacal state of frenzy, probably
roused and aggravated by the loss of friends in the battle,
seized a stable-fork, and with convulsive strength assanlt-
ed a poor soldier, who was lying upon the ground near by
| groaning and writhing in agony from his wounds. Wau-
| beeneemah, though she mace no attempt to rescue the sol-
| dier, yet with delicacy very remarkable in a savage
| caught ar a mat and held it before the eyes of Mrs. Helm,
| to Shield her from the horrid spectacle. But the mat
; conld not shut from herears the piteous shrieks of the
| dying man.
| ‘The wife of one of the soldiers fought to the last gasp
| with heroism worthy of record. She had always declared

 

there |

sealped Dr. Voorhies, came up and stabbed him through |

from one, vie renuains.”
An Artistic Remedy for a Cold,

|, Am artist went to his doctor for u remedy for*a oold,
| which kept his wite at home. i
| “Paint your wire’s beck with iodine,’ was the in-
| junction. j

In the evening the artist set to work. His artistio
fancy got the better of him. He sketched a land-
scape, with a river in the foregreund, mountains in
the baokground, and introduced bits of still life.

“Have you uot finished?” said the wife, impa-
tiently.

“Yes,” he replied ;
name in the corner.”

“half a minute more to put my

Brevities.

President Lincoln once listened patiently while a
friend read a long manuscript to him, and who then
asked: ‘‘What do you think of it? How will it take?”
|The President reflected a little while, and then an-
swered: ‘Well, for people who like that kind of thing
I think that that is just about the kind of thing
they’d like.”

An unknown, but evidently married, paragrapher
says When a Womun combs Her back hair into two
ropes, holds one in her moath until she winds the
other upon her tuck comb, and then finds that she
has lost her last hairpin, she feels that the sex needs
two mouths—one to hold the hair in, and the other to
make remarks with.

“Madam,” said Jones to Mrs. Brown the other day,
“you are talking simply rubbish.” “Yes, sir,” replied the
lady j “and I do so because I wish you to comprehend
me,”’

“That's a nice new suit you have on; what did you have
to pay for it?” ‘Sixty dollars—and costs.”

A Nevada Girl's Love-Letter.—“‘Dear Jimmy, it’s all up.
We ain’t going to get married. Ma says you’re too rough,
and I guess she's right. I’m so sorry—but can you go to
Europe and get filed down?”

If an actor is desirous of appearing in “several pieces”
in one evening, let him smoke a cigar in a powder-milL

A Boston lady, who contemplated purchasing a home-
stead in North Carolina, rte to anold séttler in that
vicinity, asking if it was true, as repor that the grass
in that country was infested with “jiggers’” that creep
into the flesh. The reply was: “Yes; but all you have to
do is tokeep your legs greased, and they won’t trouble
you.” She concluded not to buy.

 

 

 

 

The Indians used to “bury” their dead in the tops of

| that she would never fall alive into the hands of the sav- | high trees. This was considered an awtul joke on the Ohio

| ages, believing that she would thus be subject te tortures
far worse than death. She fought like a tiger until she
| was out to pieces.

Captain Heald had received two wounds, and Mrs. Helm

{
|
; rs: : S
|} Seven. Mr. Kinzie cut one bullet from her arm, with a

for her a mule and ten bottles of whisky.

Captain Heald’s captor was an Indian of the Kankanee
tribe. He seems to have been a man of much humane
feeling. Witnessing the enfeebled and almost dying con-
dition of Mrs. Heald, he, with extraordinary generosity,
released her husband, that he might accompany her.
They were both sent, in a canoe, across the lake to St.
Joseph.

When the Indian, who had captured and released Cap-
tain Heald, returned to his native village, hp found a gen-
eral clamor raised against him. The Indians deemed
themselves defranded of one of the brightest of their gala
days in being thus deprived of the pleasure of putting to
the torture so illustrious a victim. The indignation was
so great that the Indian pesolved to go to St. Joseph and
reclaim his captive.

Topeneebe heard of this intention. He immediately
placed Captain and Mrs. Heald in a birch canoe, and sent
them, under charge of a half-breed Indian, by the
name of Robinson, three hundred miles along the eastern
shore of Lake Michigan, to Mackinaw, where they were
ane to the protection of the British garrison
here.

The wore soldiers, with their wives and children, were
dispersed among the different villages of the Pottawamies.
These Indian towns were scattered along the banks of the
Milwaukee, Wabash, and Rock rivers. Srhey were gener-
ally treated with as much humanity as could be expected
of savages, and were nearly all eventually ransome

Sueh is a truthful, unexaggerated account of the awful
massacre at Chicago. Little do most of the inhabitants
‘who now throng the peaceful streets of that most wonder-
| ful of eAmerican cities, imagine the scenes of war and

misery which were enacted there but little more than half
a century ago. 7 Pes
7 OS

Pleasant Paragraphs.

Most of our readers are undeubtedly capable of contrib-
: g toward making this column an attractive features of
| the NEW YORK WFEKLY, and whey will obiap Wa by send-
: a er ublication anything which may be deemed of
| cient interest for general perusal Ié is not necessary
that the articles shoulda be ned in scholarly style; so
| long as they are pithy, and Ukely to afford amusement,
} minor defe will be remedied. ]
|

i : An Alarm of Fire.
The fires had all been made snug for the night, the
| children asleep, and the doors and windows duly se-
| cured, when Flutter deposited herself in her lit-
| tle bed for virtuous repose. Fiutter had retired into
| the inner sanctuary of Morpheus an hour before,
| and was snoring meloediously.

Mrs. F. had a mortal dread of fire, and was always
| the ast to inspect the condition of the stoves and
| furnaces. Sho had dreamed several times that her
house was burned, and was determined that she
would contravene destiny if possible. She had passed
through the first stages of sleep, and reached the
point where the solid custom work of somnolency
| comes in, when, as suddenly as if a pin had pricked

her, she started up with a sniff, her eyes wide open,

fancying that she smelt fire.

She did not arouse the stumberer by her side, how-
| ever, but, getting up, she started out to follow her
nose, like a grayhound on the scent. She opened
the door to the hall, and the odor was plain, there;
she passed through the several rooms whbre the
ehildren were sleeping; it was there as plain; she
went to the lower part of the house with the same
result, but there was no sign of fre. Returning to
her own room,in a state of great excitement, she
shook Flutter into consciousness, and asked him if
he didn’t smell smoke.

Then he sniffed vigorously, thrust his nose outside
the door, and made all effort possible to detect the
presence of smoke, but he could not even by the
pressing in of an active imagination.

“There ain’t no fire,” said he,in bad grammar but

forcible expressiveness.
“and ‘tis in the ceil-
burned

 

.
-

 

‘T say there is,” she replied
jing somewhere, and the children will
| alive!”

She wrung her handsexcitedly, and Mr. F. vainly
tried to pacify her by calling her a fool and other
tender names, ending by going on an excursion to
the cellar, with a lantern. He found all safe, and re-
turned just in time to prevent her from swinging a
2 inane rattle at the window and crying,
se re taped a

As she turned toward him the rays of the light fell
on her face.

“What makes your nose shine so?” he asked.

“Shine!” she repeated, looking in the glass. “AsI
live, ’tis that ointment I put on for catarrh, and,”
se & box at hand, “ ’tis that which smetis like

re. ,

‘My dear,” said Flutter, as they retired, ‘the next
time you are awakened by an alarm of fire please
call the department before you disturb me.”

And they laid down to pleasant dreams. 8.

A Dangerous Pet.

One fine day Vienxtemps, the violinist, was in-
vited to spend a few daysat the residence of a wealthy
Russian noble. He was nota little surprised and
seared when, as he was going down the staircase on
his way to dinner, he saw a black masson the land-
ing, in the midst of which glowed two flery eyes.

“What is that?” asked the artist. .

“Oh, nothing—only our black wolf. He’s hungry,”
said the hostess.

At night, when Vieuxtemps was conducted to his
apartment, he almost stepped upon the same black
mages, which lay across the threshold of the bed-

room.

“What's that?” inquired the artist.

“Oh, nothing,” said the valet de chambre who ac-
companied him, “only our black wolf. Ill drive him
off. Schwolf!”

Early next morning, as the attendant entered
Vieuxtemps’ room to open the shutters, a frightful
fusillade was heard in the court-yard.

“What's that?” said the artist, starting up in bed.

“Oh, nothing—only our black wolf.
him for Killing the cook last night.”

“She Was Used to It.”

 

them, were soon in a devil may-care humer.
they were at their best an old gentleman came in,
dressed in old-fashioned attire.
ject of the roysterers’ wit. One was quite sure that
be a captain of Moses’ body guard, a third one saw
in him the Wandering Jew. The old man, however,
did not seem to notice their behavior at all, and
finally, when the insults had reached their maximum,
one of the party approached him, and said:

“Why, old man, you do not seem to be affected
much by the high time we are having at your ex-
pense.”

“Not in the least,” was the coolreply. ‘Iam used
to it. I have been, for the last twenty years, the
doctor of an insane asyhim.” L. DERVALTY.

A New Sum in Arithmetic.

A gentleman, passing a couple of youngsters who
were sitting on a door:atep with slates on their laps,
overheard in their colloquy a strange bit of rhetoric
brought to bear on the problem, “Take two from one
and one remains.” The gentleman, not having thor-
oughly understood the argument, yet eonvinced of
its fallacy, offered adime to him who could prove,
jg te rhetorically or mathematically, the solubility

 

fthd problem; whereupon they offered him ocular
demonstration, and led him through to their mother,

| who sat in the kitchen with twins inher arms. Hav
|ing each deprived her of an infant, they pointed to

penknife, as she was led into the wigwam where he was |
held. Mrs. Heald was bought from her captor by a | ious to see snakes.
friendly balf breed, by the name of Chandonnia. He paid |

medical student, burrowing around in the ground be
neath.

A black stocking, with a yellow snake coiled around
the leg, is the latest novelty. When the girls get to
wearing these stockings thousands of men w. be anx-

An art critic, who has an unfortunate habit of occa
sionally indulging in rather more wine than his health
demands, recently determined one day after luncheon to
pay a professional visit to a private art collection. Ar-
rived in the firstroom, he found himself opposite toa
large mirror. Mechanically he drew out his ket-book,
and therein wrote: ‘No. 1. Study of a head; unnamefl;
an old toper. Fuddled condition excellently rendered;
most ee, a portrait. Seem to be acquainted with the
original.”

“Has the cooking book any pictures?’ asked a young

 

lady of a bookseller, “Not one,” replied tae dealer in
books.. “Why,” exclaimed the witty miss, “what is the
use of telling us how to make a dinner if you give us no
plates?’

If Noah was a consistent Hebrew, why did he take
Ham into the Ark?

Lady to Guest: “Shall I play something for you on the
piano, or would you rather that I sing a sentimental
song? You have your choice.” Guest: “Since you kind
ly ere me my choice, I would prefer that we go and have
our dinner.”

 

THE TRAGEDY AT SLOAN’S.

BY MAX ADELER.

“Do I understand, Mrs. Sloan,” said the magistrafe,
“that you make acharge of attempted intanticide
against your husband?”

“Well, not exactly that,” replied Mrs. Sloan, ‘You
; seo, I——”

“One minute—permit me. te lain,’ exclaimed
Gtantion is this. We
oO

 

 

 

“Mr. Sloan. ‘‘Your honor, the
have one beby ayear anda hb
also have twins just two mor
both of them. heir mothe
but my eyes and my amiable ¢
“His hair, too, your honor,”
hair—red.” _
“Before we were married,
said Mr. Sloan, ‘‘she was
auburn.

and then we

    
  
 

 
  

sen

it please the court,”
[of alinding to it as
But no matter. She went yesterday toa
woman suffrage eonvention.’ Estaid at home with

 

 

 

the childyen—three of them, your honor! I have
only two arms. oot the little folks cried, i
would set dovn a > one and carry those that
screamed. Then the one I put down would begin,
and I’d have to pick Aim up and lay down another;
and then tt would scream. I tried to carry the odd
one pig-a-back, but it was no use; he wowld slip down
and bump his nose on the fioor. Imegine tho situa-
tion. It was hard. Iwas nearly wild Only two
nursing bottles, too, and the third baby yelling like a
Crow Indian while the twins were feeding.”
“Couldn’t be suck his thumb?” asked the magie-

trate.

“Mra. Sloan won’t let him. She closed the gate of
oy, 80 to speak, against her own offspring! Abso-
utely prohibited the child from sucking its own
thumb! Nero, in his werst days, never went that far,
I imagine.”

“The historians forgot to mention it if he did,” said
the justice.

“Precisely. Well, I got along as well as I could,
when in comesa boy with a note trom Mrs. Sloan
saying that Mrs. Gibbs, the vice-president of the
convention, wanted her baby out of the way while

ays and means, soin comes the sergeant-at-arms
tn Mrs. Gibbs’ baby for me to take care of. That
made four. Your honor, if Mrs. Gibbs’ baby grows
up and becomes a ‘missionary, he can preach to the
heathen in Afriea without lea home. He hasa
voice like a fog-horn. So he turned in and cried, and
the other babies cried for sympathy.”

“Tt was hard,” said the magistrate.

“Hard! Well, I’m an accommodating man, so I put
one twin in one cradle and rocked it with my right
foot, and I put the other in another cradle and rocked
it with my left foot; then I sat Gibbs’ baby on one
knee and Johnny on the other, and by a peculiar ac
tion of my legs Kept ali four in motion atonee. You
underatand? Well, sir,just as calmmess began to

 

 

They‘ve shot

A party of jolly students were dining in a restan-
rant, and after drinking freely of the wine served to
When
He was soon the ob-

he was the Prophet Elias, another one took him to,

prevail, in comes the sergeant-at-arms again with the
secretary's baby. Said Mrs. Sloan had sent it while
the secretary wrote up her minutes, and wouldn’t I
look after it for awhile.”

“Was it asleep ?”

“Well, no. Now Idon’t want to exaggerate, your
honor. Iam under oath, and I shall ne to state the
fact mildly. But I am sadly mistaken if you couldn’t
blow a church organ with the secretary’s baby’s left
lung! It whoo and hallooed in such & manner as
to alarm me. en Gibbs’ baby joined in, and they
gave usaduet. Pretty soon our three tuned up for &
ebhorus, and—well, suppose a whole orphan asylum
should suddenly have a spasin of stomach-ache, and
you can form some idea of the racket.”

“Couldn’t you quiet them by singing to.them ?”

“No, sir: you couldn’t have Keard a bass drum in
that room.’”" ®

“What did you do?”

‘J gave the family Bible to one twin, and put Web-
ster’s Unabridged Dictionary on the lap of the other,
merely to play with. I thought I'd go down stairs
and get some milk for the whole crowd. I did. When
I came up, a8 I had only two nursing bottles, I emp-
tied a bottle of hair renovator, which Mrs. Sloan

uses—

“T don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Sloan:

“And a castor-oil bottle. I put the milk in thess
and in an old paregoric bottle, punched boles through
the corks, and handed them around. When I came
to the twins, they had the Bible and the dictionary
ie > right on their bosoms, and they were blue in
the Taact too heavy, your honor! SoI bad to pick
them up and souse them a_ couple of times in the
bath-tub to bring them to; and when I got back into
the room with them I found Gibbs’ baby in spasms
from the taste of the hair restorer, and the secre-
tary’a baby had swallowed the cork, and the other
child looked asif the castor-oil bottle somehow had
not agreed with it. A minute later in came Mrs.
Sloan, and the secretary, and Mrs. Gibbs, and they
hustled me out. Idon’t know what happened,after that
but-I believe it was old Gibbs put Mans. Sloan up to
charging me with murder.”

“The case is dismissed,” said the justice, and the
Sioans withdrew. Mrs. Sloan has hired a nurse.

a ny neg ne

ANOTHER charming story, from Rose ASHLEIGH, of
South Carolina, is almost ready for publication. [tis
founded on Bulwer's popular play of “RICHELIEU;
or, THE CONSPIRACY,” and the admirable plot is
elaborated with Rosr ASHLEIGH’S artistic skill and
elegance. Tho pen-picture of the great cardinal is a
beautiful specimen ot word-painting.

bette ia ee ek

A STUPID-LOOKING Chinaman was arrested in San
Francisco for having unstamped matches in bis pos
session, and brought before Judge Hoffman. He was
not quite so stupid as he appeared, for on being
asked when he would be ready for trial, he said, as he
vigorously scratched varioug, portiong of his body,
“Me leady now—me laplosy .t my body.”
The sufferer from leprosy > discharged’
rand hustled out of the 2 as afterward
learned that he had m be a leper,
to escape prosecutio aoe

   
   

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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