“MAJOR JACK; Or, A LUCKLESS MAR

; & Brilliant Story of English Life, Week After

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887. vy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Office

Vol. 42.

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

3! Rose St.

New York, June 25, 1887.

Two Copies Five

Three Dollars Per Year,

No. 34.

Dollars.

 

 

**T WAS NOT BORN TO DIE.”
BY PETER SPENSER,

Oh, sure I was not born to die,

And quit this earthly scene,
Unnoted, as though wretched I

On earth had never been ;
E’en like the brutes that pass away,
And leave no vestige of their stay.

A living death this life I lead,
Since health and peace have fled;
And if I ever live indeed,
’T will be when I am dead ;
Though now I die, mine be it then
To live within the hearts of men.

I cannot think this mind was meant
To perish with the frame

That holds her often from her bent,
When she would follow fame;

 

Clogging her eager wings with clay,
When she would soar with speed away.

No! for I sometimes feel her wake,

And scorn as an offense

The course the body makes me take
Of restless indolence ;

Longing to make my name sublime,

And bear it to the end of time.

Then rise, my soul! in faith arise,
To Christ, the Prince of Peace,

And He will meet thee in the skies
And make thy troubles cease,

Or, at the least, vouchsafe thee power

To grapple with the trying hour.

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

VAN,
The Government Detectives

i!
AT
i

ti
i

|

THE BASE-METAL COINERS.

By the Author of ‘‘Old Sleuth,”

‘The American Monte Cristo,” “Old Sleuth,
Detective,” “Night Scenes in New York,”
“Old Sleuth’s Triumph,” “Tron
Burgess,” “‘The Shadow
Detective,” etc., etc.

the |

[“VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE,” was commenced
LAST WEEK. ]

CHAPTER YI.
“YT WILL NOT FAIL.”

As before stated, the detective deeply regretted the
necessity that compelled him to subject the young |
lady, whose interest he was studying, to such a fear- |
ful ordeal ; and his own voice trembled when in such
a strange, decisive, suggestive manner he uttered
the words:

“To me you must make an unqualified confession.”

A look so full of anguish, so expressive of heart-
agony, came over Miss Herndon’s face, that the de-
tective’s own heart throbbed like one suffering in-
tense distress.

The beautiful girl thus suggestively accused of
guilt and deception appeared as though suddenly
stricken dumb.

Her lips were frozen, but her face spoke volumes.

One can imagine in reading the tragic account of
the great Cesar’s death the expression that came
over his grand face as he recognized Brutus among
his assassins, and gave utterance to those memorable
words, so full of pain and pathos, “Httu, Brute!” and
it was a similar agitation that caused the wild
thought to flash over our heroine’s mind upon hear-
ing the detective’s words pronouncing his conviction
of her guilt.

A painful silence followed the detective’s com-
mand. At that terrible moment those two people
gazed into each other’s eyes, and there was a world
of meaning in each glance.

Van broke the silence by saying?

“Do not fear me; tell me all.”

A convulsion distorted Miss Herndon’s lovely fea-
tures; the lips moved, but no sound came from
them. She was trying to speak, but her organ of
speech seemed paralyzed.

The detective could not press the fearful ordeal
further, and a noble look came to his kindly face as
he seized Miss Herndon’s hand and exclaimed:

‘As Heaven shall judge us both, I promise never
to doubt again! I know you are innocent!”

The beautiful girl struggled with a soul wrought
to a fearful intensity of anguish, and it seemed as
though she would die, when tears came to her re-
lief. One great relief-giving sob, and she fell for-
ward, with her auburn-crowned head upon the de-
tective’s shoulder.

It was not a bold, or immodest, or in any way a
compromising act. She had been stricken to help-
lessness, and had she not rested upon that strong
man’s shoulder she would have fallen prone to the
floor.

An instant, and she had recovered to a certain
extent her self-possession, and as she raised her
head from his shoulder she drew back, and, in tones
of deepest anguish, murmured:

“Take me to prison and leave me to my fate!
guilty!”

The anguish wrenched the detective’s heart mo-
mentarily, but again upon the instant his great and
wonderful knowledge of human nature lifted the
shadow, and he exclaimed:

“Noteven your own accusing lips shall urge me to
believe in your guilt.”

The fair girl at length had fully recovered her self-
possession, and shesaid:

Tam

| heart you believe me guilty.

 

 

 

 

 

against me.
Iam guilty.

man, but circumstances are In your
Take me
to prison—I will confess !”

Van was worried. He feared that his severe test
had resulted in a disaster too terrible for belief. He
feared the girl’s mind had been shattered by the
blow. In his experience he had known of instances
where similer results had followed.

Firmly clasping her hand, Van said:

‘“‘Miss Herndon, I swear to you that I do not be-
lieve you are guilty. I swear to you that I as firmly
believe in your innocence as inmy own sister’s! I
merely had a professional purpose in my words.”

Miss Herndon looked him in the face, and asked:

“Can I believe you now, or are your words
prompted by a sympathy aroused at the sight of my
suffering ?”’

“T stand a deliberate falsifier, a man forever un-
worthy of belief, lost to all sense of honor, if I do not
speak from conviction when I reiterate that I believe
you as innocent of this crime as an angel in heaven !”

“Then why did you speak those cruel words ?”

“T wished merely one more proof of your inno-
cence. I wished to establish it beyond all peradven-
ture.”

“And have you established it in your own mind ?”’

“As I am to answer at the last day before high
heaven, I declare that no testimony, no series of cir-
cumstances will ever cause me again to doubt your
innocence for one moment.”

There was a grand look in the detective’s eyes as he
spoke, and a grandness in his voice which carried
conviction to the heart of his listener.

‘Will you tell me what purpose you had to serve?’

“T will speak frankly.”

“T trust you will,” urged the fair girl.

“In all my experience I never encountered a more
wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence pointing
toward guilt, and in the face of all that evidence I
was staggered. I did not doubt your innocence even
then, but I desired for my own satisfaction to make
assurance doubly sure.”

“And have you succeeded ?”

“So well that I repeat that I would not believe in
your guilt though your own lips confessed it. I
should attribute the confession to a broken mind.
I know you are innocent, and, if my life is spared, I
will establish your innocence to all the world, in
face of the overwhelming series of incidents point-
ing toward guilt.”

‘What have you discovered ?”’

The detective related in minute detail his expe-
rience of the previous afternoon.

a moment’s silence, she added:

was staggered, and yet I as solemnly declare that I
did meet the woman who resembled me in appear-
ance, coming from the store as I entered it.”’

“T know you did.”

“And yet,” continued the girl, “it is evident to me
that I will be convicted.”

 

“You cannot deceive me; you are a noble, generous

“Never!” cried the detective.

“T do not wonder that your faith in my innocence

 

“T can appreciate your generous enthusiasm, but,
looking at all the facts, I know that it will prove an
impossible job to establish my innocence.”

A peculiar smile flitted over the detective’s honest
face as he answered:

“Tf you knew me better, you would not speak in
such a hopeless tone.’’

“T have thought the matter all over,” returned the
girl, ‘‘and I know that it can never be cleared up.”

“Miss Herndon, I promise you that within four-
and-twenty hours I will be on the track of the wo-

man who, through design or accident, personated |

you. Dismiss all anxiety from your mind. I will
not fail. By this time to-morrow I will have good
news for you.”

A short time later, when the detective took his de-
parture, Miss Herndon said:

“May Heaven aid you!’

CHAPTER VIL.
ON THETRAIL.

Van lingered just one moment at the door talking
to Miss Herndon, and while doing so his quick eye
“took in a point.’”’ No sudden exclamation fell from
his lips, nor did he say to Miss Herndon, ‘‘I’ve a
clew.” All he did was to linger a moment longer
without giving any sign.

As the detective passed out from the residence of
Miss Herndon, he had observed a woman passing on
the opposite side of the street. The latter incident
was a very commonplace one, and, under ordinary
circumstances, would not have attracted even pass-
ing attention; but, as the woman passed, she shot
one quick, nervous glance across the street, and the

detective noticed this one glance, and on the instant

detected its significance.

Detectives are trained to study minor points, which
are supposed to escape the notice of the untrained.
At best they are compelled to found theories and
work threads as mere flittings of facts; and it was
this training that led the detective so speedily to de-

| tect the significance of that one glance shot from the

| turned away; but during that momentary glance she |

opposite side of the street.

Ordinary people can easily control the motions of |

their heads, and feet, and eyes, but they cannot con-
trol those tell-tale facial expressions that flit across
the countenance. The woman who glanced over at
the detective and Miss Herndon looked once only and

could not conceal a passing expression of intense in-
terest. It was this expression which the detective

| noted, and it was a world of suggestion to him.

“Tt is strange,” murmured Miss Herndon, and after |

He gave no sign, but merely lingered a moment

| longer to talk with his client, when he stepped down

|

}
|
|
|

off the stoop and sauntered by the street in an oppo-
site direction from that pursued by the female who
aroused his interest.

Like other experienced detectives, Van was an
adept in disguises. The latter art is practiced in the
secret service to an extent that is simply wonderful.
Itis upon record in our metropolitan papers that
within the last few weeks a well-known detective of-

 

UNH!

SI

THE DETECTIVE, WITH A CAT-LIKE TREAD, TOOK A POSITION WITH HIS EAR TO THE PARLOR DOOR.

for three
months, and during that time appeared among them

) gang of criminals
|
|
| in half a dozen different guises without once being
|

ficer consorted with a

detected.
AS aman capable of going ‘‘under cover,” Van was
|}an expert among experts, and his lightning-like
changes were a surprise and mystery even among
| his confreres.
He turned the corner of the street, entered a beer
} saloon as Van, but never came forth again from that
; place in the same character.

A Dutch sort of looking chap came forth a few
seconds after the detective had entered, and with
| quite a lively step walked back past Miss Herndon’s
| house, and pursued the same direction taken by the
woman who had attracted our hero’s attention.

At the corner the Dutchman met the very woman
the detective had seen. She walked down the street
on the same side where Miss Herndon’s residence
was situated, and in passing No. 17 she scanned the
house intently, but did not stop.

A moment later the Dutchman returned down the
street, and foran hour afterward he followed the
woman from point to point during her perambula-
tions about the city.

The woman at length made her way to the Fulton
Ferry, and the Dutchman dropped his two cents to
the ferry-master just a moment after her passage
through the gates.

During the hide-and-seek play, the disguised gov-
ernment detective had picked up quite a number of
little points. He had ascertained the fact that the
woman was a very guarded person, and acted like
one who had a purpose in view, but for some strange
reason did not dare to carry it out.

After a season the detective learned that the wo-
man had discovered that a Dutchman was following
| her around, but being on her guard she did not let on
| that she had made such a discovery, although it was
| apparent to him.

Innocent people are not on their guard, criminals
always are; and when Van had established the fact
that the woman was ‘‘ playing the caution,’ he con-
nected the latter fact with her interest in the resi-
dence of Miss Herndon, and together with several
points of iesser importance, he came to the conclu
sion that he had made quite a fortunate discovery
and had accidentally struck a very important clew.

The Dutchman had managed to steal through the
ferry gate without permitting the pursued woman
to detect the fact, and when she passed on to the
boat the Dutchman had vanished into thin air, or
had become metamorphosed into the respectable-
looking old gentleman who occupied a seat in the
eabin directly opposite to her.

The woman kept casting furtive glances toward
the cabin door, until the boat was started on its trip
across the river.

There had been
watched, and the
| the boat started.

The old gentleman seated opposite, permitted a
curious light to gleam in the eyes hidden under a

an anxious look in her face as she
anxious look vanished the moment

 

| pair of spectacles, and mentally the owner of the
eyes muttered:

“The Dutchman
here.”

When the boat reached the Brooklyn side, the wo-
man passed out and took a car, and strangely enough
she had the same vis-a-vis as when seated in the
ferry-boat cabin.

When the woman got off the car, the man in the
specs remained aboard and rode a block farther ; but
the moment he alighted he traveled down toward
the corner he had passed at quite a lively gait for a
respectable old man.

It was far up town where the woman had alighted,
and when she had passed a couple of squares from
the car-route, she came upon a very sparsely settled
district.

The old man had kept himself out of sight, and
| learning that he could keep the woman under obser-
| vation when far distant from her, owing to the open
space over which she was traveling, he fell back, and
like Van entered a beer saloou.

Right here another singular incident occurred; the
old man in specs was never seen to come forth from
| the beer saloon, but a plain-looking man in his shirt
'sleeves came forth and leisurely followed across
| lots, so as to head off the woman who had alighted
| from the car.

The latter soon arrived in front of a detached
house, when she stopped a moment and gazed around
in every direction.

Strangely enough, at the very moment she saw no
one, as the man in his shirt sleeves had dropped upon
his face in a clump of bushes.

ain’t out there, madam. He’s

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE SAILOR.

The woman entered the house before which she
| had come to a momentary halt, and the man in his
| shirt sleeves rose from the clump of bushes, and
walked over toward the same house.

Van was like all his professional brethren, a man
of wonderful patience.

Itwas about one o’clock when the woman passed
| into the house, and at nine o’clock the detective, like
|astatue, stood with those keen eyes fixed upon the
premises.

The detective’s steady and tireless watch proved
that he had obtained very satisfactory indications of
what he might expect.

At about nine o’clock a man came from the house.
The latter acted asthe woman had earlier in the
day, when she cast furtive glances in every direc-
tion. It was evident to our hero that the occupants
of the house were on the alert against a surprise of
any sort.

Having evidently satisfied himself that the road
was clear, the man started off toward the main ave-
nue, and the detective followed at his heels.

A few moments later our hero and the man he was
“piping” were passengers on the same car going to-
ward the ferry.

A close inspection of the man’s features revealed
the fact that he was a notorious criminal.

The latter discovety served to confirm all the sus-
picions attached to the movements of the woman;
and our hero had to congratulate himself in having
secured such wonderful results from so trifling an in-
cident as a passing glance.

The man whom Van had thus ‘‘spotted’’ was known
to the criminal fraternity as Trip Hammond, and to
the detective as a successful ‘‘shover of the queer,”
a fellow for whom he had been looking a long time.

Had our hero met him under ordinary circum-
stances, Trip Hammond would have had the irons
placed on him in a jiffy; but now the great govern-
ment officer was on another “lay,” and it was a part
of his plan to permit the base-metal coiner to “gang
his gait.”

The man proceeded on board the boat after leav-
ing the car at the ferry, and upon reaching the New
York side of the river entered a notorious drinking-
place.

Having trailed his man to one of his haunts, the
detective jumped into a carriage and ordered the
driver to carry him to a certain corner.

Half an hour after being driven away, Van re-
turned to the spot whence he started, under cover as
a common sailor.

In thus momentarily losing track of his man, the
detective had not run any risk, as his knowledge of
the habits of the class of men to which Trip Ham-
mond belonged was such that he could make close
calculations on their probable movements.

The drinking-place which the counterfeiter had en-
tered, was located in a portion of the city which at
night was almost completely deserted, save by an
occasional policeman on his rounds, and some busi-
ness men who might have lingered at neighboring
houses of the same sort.

When Van entered the house disguised as a sailor,
he saw Trip Hammond standing at the bar talking
to the man in charge of the saloon.

The sailor staggered up to the bar, called fora
glass of whisky, and, familiarly slapping Hammond
on the back, invited him to have a drink.

The counterfeiter was a proud, uppish sort of a
chap, and, like the majority of his confreres, thought
himself quite a gentleman. He resented the sailor’s
familiarity by a scornful look, and, in an angry tone,
declined to drink.

“Hope yer ain’t mad, boss? Didn’t mean no harm.
Yer see, I’ve just come ashore after a three years’
eruise ona whaler; but I’m a good sort of man,
though I ain’t as good-looking and high-toned as
some others.”’

Hammond shrugged his shoulders in a contempt-
uous manner, and stepped back from the bar.

“Well, now!” exclaimed the sailor, ‘yer needn't
give up the whole deck to me, cap’n; I’m used toa
small berth in the forecas’l. Come upto where ye
were, and ’linot crowd yer.”

Turning to the barkeeper the sailor produced a
large roll of greenbacks, and after the manner of
sailors when on a shore spree, made a grand display
of his wealth.

If any man can measure the capacity of a roll of

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

bills in the hands of a customer, that manis an old
New York bar tender.

The keen eyes of the chap, who was in attendance
at the place where our hero was playing his role,
were fixed upon the sailor’s money, and when those
keen eyes detected bills of the denomination of tens,
twenties, fifties, and hundreds, his whole manner
changed,

There was game in his eye at once, and in a mean-
ing tone, supplemented with a significant wink, he
said, addressing Hammond:

“What are you going to have with this genile-
man ?”’

It is wonderful how, in the eyes of certain inter-
ested people, a large display of money will transform
one into a gentleman.

Trip Hammond had caught sight of the sailor's roll
of greenbacks, and the scornful look faded from his
face, and was followed by one of extreme compla-
cency, as in a half-apologetic tone he said:

“T’ll take a little brandy with the gentleman ; but
he kind of fretted me when he slapped me on the
back, as I’ve just got over a severe attack of rheu-
matism.”

The sailor turned round and extended his hand,
saying in a cordial manner:

“I’m sorry, cap’n, if I hurted yer. I’ma good fel-
fow, though; I’m not got up in fine clothes, but Pve
a heart like an ox, and don’t grudge no man a helpin’
hand any time.”

The bar-tender spoke soothing and complimentary
words, after the manner of his class, and soon
matters were proceeding inavery amicable sort of
way. ;

The sailor drank often and heavily, and Hammond
pretended to join him every time.

‘As it chanced there were few other customers on
that particular night, and the sailor hada sort of
monopoly of the bar. Freely he paid out his money,

and heavily he drank untillong past midnight, and
in the end he had conceived @ most enthusiastic |

friendship for Hammond.

The bar-tender was having a harvest, and would
willingly have kept open shop all night, but as mid-
night approached the sailor signified a determination
to go home.

“Where do you hang out?” asked Hammond.

The sailor had dropped to a sort of maudlin shrewd-
ness, and evaded a direct answer, and finally stag-
gered out of the saloon withont having given any
intimation as to his abiding-place.

When the sailor passed out from the place, signifi-
cant glances were exchanged between the bar-tender
and Hammond, and the latter sauntered out, follow-
ing the steps of the inebriated old salt.

The latter made his way direct to the Fulton Ferry,
and passing the gates, went on board a boat that had
just been made fast to the bridge.

CHAPTER IX.
TWO PLEASED MEN.

The sailor entered the gentleman’s cabin, and flop-
ping down into a seat let his head fall back and was
soon in a maudlin slumber.

A pair of wary eyes were watching him. Hammond
had followed close behind, and had taken a seat be-
side him.

There were but few passengers on the boat, and
the majority of these were dozing.

When the boat struck the bridge on the Brooklyn
side, Hammond roused the sailor, and said;

“Come, old man, are you going to snooze all night
on the boat ?’’

“Hello! is that you?’ returned the sailor, instantly
recognizing the man with whom he had been spend-
ing the evening.

“Yes, my hearty, I’m on deck; Ilive in Brooklyn.
But how is it you are cruising over on this side of the
river ?”’

Lused to have a friend living here a good many
years ago, and I thought ’'d hunt him up instead of
putting up at one of those sailor cribs. Yer see [m
good-natured, and I’m too smart to go swimmin’
where the sharks run thick.”

‘Where does your friend live ?”

“He used to live out on Myrtle avenue, near Broad-
way.”

‘How long ago was that?”

“Well, nigh onto four year ago.”

“And haven’t you seen him since 2?”

“Seeing as I were in the Pacific for the last three
years, it ain’t likely I called on him.”

“How do you know that he lives there now ?”

“T don’t know; I’m going to cruise round and take
the bearings.” ;

The locality that the sailor named was in the near
vicinity of the house where he had seen Hammond
issue earlier in the evening.

“J live out in that locality,” said Hammond. ‘What
is your friend’s name? He may be a neighbor of
mine.”

“You live out that way, eh?’

¥en.” cx
_ “Well, my friend’s name is Myers—Tom Myers. Do
you know such a man?” om

“Can’t say that I do; but do you know the house ?”

“Yes; I could go there blindfolded.”

“The two men had entered a Myrtle avenue car,
and the sailor let his head fall back, when he fell off
into a sleep as when upon the boat. |

Hammond did not disturb him until the car arrived |
within a few blocks of the street the sailor had named,
when he awoke him.

“Well, I swan!” exclaimed the sailor, “have we
got up here so soon ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought the darned old car hadn't started
yet.’?
. “You were asleep.”

“T reckon I was.”

“Come, let’s get out.”

The conductor stopped the car and the two men
alighted.

“Which way will you go?’ asked Hammond.

The sailor rubbed his eyes and looked around in
a half-dazed sort of manner, and finally muttered:

“Well, may I be hit by a whale ef I ain't lost the
bearings.”

“TI thought you would have difficulty in finding
your friend’s house after three years. You see
neighborhoods out here in the suburbs change very
much.”

“T should think they did.
course.”

“What will you do, old man ?”’

“Guess I’ll walk around until morning, and then I
may be able to steer into port.”

“Have you given up all idea of finding yous
friend ?”’

“T reckon I have on this watch.”

“You can’t walk the streets all night.”

“T reckon there ain’t no hotel around here ?”’

“No.”

“Then I ain’t got much else to do.”

“Come home with me.”

“Where do you live?”

“Not far from here.”

“T reckon your wife wouldn’t like it to have you
take a sailor man into the house at such an hour.”

“T’m master in my own house. Come along!”

“Much obliged, cap’n, but ’'d rather not.”

“Nonsense! Come along with me. I'll give you a
bed and breakfast, and you can search for your
friend’s house in the morning.”

“T don’t like the idea.”

“Come along, I say.”

“Are yer in earnest?’

“Of course Iam. Do you suppose I’d let a man

valk the streets all night after spending the evening
in his company ?”

“Well, if yer are in earnest, and yer ain't afraid the
old woman will taire yer hair, I don’t care if I do
run into port with you and cast anchor until morn-
ing.”

Hammond led the way to, his house across lots,
and soon reached the very abode into which the
detective had seen the woman enter whom he had
*piped” so closely.

Hammond was in hard luck. He had run down
low in a financial sense, and the sight of the con-
fiding sailor's money had aroused his cupidity. He
had not decided in his own mind just how he would
work his:game, but on one point he was determined.
He needed the sailor’s roll of greenbacks, and he
was bound to possess himself of it at all hazards.

In the meantime the seemingly innocent sailor had
been playing a deep game, and asthe result proved,
thus far he at played it successfully.

He had determined to enter the house into. which
he had seen the woman go, and he had played a long,
tedious, roundabout game to carry out his purpose.

It would have been easy enough for him to have
shadowed the house for a few days, and at the proper
time have closed in on it; butin that case he would
not have accomplished the real purpose he had in
view.

Having once “piped” Hammond down to his bur-
row, he knew that he could easily hold the man’s
tracks; but Hammond, at the moment, was not his
game. The detective wished to find the woman
whose personal resemblance to Miss Herndon had
got that innocent and unfortunate young lady into
such a serious trouble. :

Hammond was delighted in having succeeded in
piloting the sailor to his own home, and the sailor
was equally delighted in being piloted there.

Two well pleased men a few moments later entered
the parlor of the house which Hammond claimed as
his home.

There was a femalein the parlor, a rather hand-
some woman of about thirty.

As Hammond entered the room he said:

“Hello, Kate! are you up yet?’

“Yes,” came the answer, in a short, half-angry

me.
“Why did you sit up?”
“T was waiting for you.”
The woman spoke in a more decide tone, and the
sailor, reaching over, whispered in Hammond’s ear:
“See here, cap’n, I guess you'd better let me raise
anchor agin.”

Hang it, ’m way off my

CHAPTER X.
A READER OF EYES.
Hammond could not restrain the indulgence of a

7

 

 

light laugh upon hearing the ludicrous and fright-

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

me tone in which the sailor spoke; but he at once
said: :

“No, no, my friend; my wife is a little annoyed,
but I know she will make you welcome.”

During all this time the woman had kept as keen a
pair of eyes as ever flashed beneatlf a pair of arched
eyebrows fixed upon the sailor.

It appeared as though she would pierce clear
through and through the man who had accompanied
her husband home.

The detective noticed the woman’s searching
glance, and the consciousness came over him that
this shrewd, keen-eyed woman was indulging a sus-
picion that had not even fallen as a shadow upon her
husband.

“ve brought a friend home with me to remain
over night, Kate,’ said Hammond.

‘ ‘Who is your friend ?”’ asked the woman, in a sharp
one.

“See here, my friend,’’ whispered the sailor, “I’ve
my jib flying, and I reckon I’d better sail off while
there’s fair wind.”

“You will remain with me to-night!”

As Hammond spoke, he fixed a meaning look upon
his wife.

The latter’s face remained as hard and inflexible as
steel as she said, in cold, hard tones:

“T don’t think we’ve any accommodations, Thomas.
Your friend may find lodgings over at Huber’s.”

“My friend will remain here,” replied the man; and
turning to our hero, he added:

“Come with me, and I’ll show you a room. My
wife is alittle out of temper at my coming home so
late. But this is my house, and if I choose to bring
a friend home with me, I have the right, and no wife
shall boss me.”

“T tell you, cap’n, I guess yer had better let me
make sail.”

“Nonsense! Come along with me.”

The detective followed Hammond up one flight of
stairs, and was shown into a corner bedroom.

“Here, old man, tumble in and make yourself com-
fortable until morning, while I go down stairs and
pacify the good wife.”

Hammond descended the stairs and entered the
parlor, closing the door behind him; and an instant
later a man resembling the sailor, with a cat-like
tread, also descended the stairs and took a position
with his ear to the parlor door.

The tirst words the listener heard caused him to re-
ascend the stairs like lightning, and throw himself,
hat, boots, and all, upon the bed.

The words that caused this hasty retreat were:

“Which room did you put that man in?’

“The little room off the hall.”

“Well, open that parlor door and keep it open while
IT have a few words with you.”

It was the command to ‘‘open the parlor door” that
caused the sailor to retreat up stairs and crawl into
bed, and as he did so he muttered :

“By George! that woman is a keener, and she is
bound to block my game. There will be fun in this
house before daylight, yet!’

“Trip Hammond,” asked the woman, where did
you pick up that sailor?’

“T met himin New York. He has a big roll in his
clothes.”

“He showed you a roll?’

“Yes; like all seamen, he spread his money out
freely.”

“Trip Hammond, you’re a fool!”

The woman spoke ina decided tone and witha
manner of peculiar significance.

“T’m a fool, eh ?’’

sip

“You forget, my dear madam, that we are dead
broke, and that [ was willing to take long chances to
fill our purse.”

“You have been played, and we are ruined!”

The woman spoke in a still more significant tone.

“What are you driving at, Kate?’

“Do you know whom you have brought into this
house ?”’

Sen.”

“You do not.”

“T’ve brought a greenhorn who has plenty of
money that he does not know what to do with, and I
do, my lady.”

“Trip Hammond, it’s the first time since I knew
you that you have been fooled. You are called Tri
Hammond because you have so many times ‘trippec
up’ detectives, but this time you have been tripped
yourself.”

“T wish you would explain just what you mean ?”’

“That man up stairs is a detective!”

“A what?’ ejaculated Hammond.

“A detective!’

‘Woman, you're crazy !”

“You have done the business for me this time,
Hammond !”

“What on earth put all this into your head, Kate?’

A look of anguish came over the woman’s face, and
she wrung her hands as she exclaimed:

“Ah! to think that you, you could be so easily
fooled!”

“T have not been fooled !”

“You have. The man you have brought into this
house is Van, the government detective—the most
dangerous man in all the world to us!”

“Nonsense !””

*“T tell you, yes. I was present at the examination
of that music teacher, and I watched that man, but
he did not know me. T sat within two feet of him for
over an hour. I studied every expression of his
wonderful eyes. You know eye-study is my forte. I
recognized that man, in spite of his disguise, the
moment he entered this room, and there is some-
thing more!”

Trip Hammond had turned wonderfully pale. He
did know that his wife, Kate Hammond, was one of
the smartest women in the United States, and that
she had a wonderful faculty for recognizing people
by their eyes. On numerous occasions she had got-
ten him out of bad scrapes by her quickness and tact
in this peculiar direction.

“Heavens!” he muttered, in a low, hushed whis-
per; ‘‘are you sure ?”

“T am sure.”

“Tt cannot be possible.”

a tell you, Hammond, that there is more to re-
veal.’

‘What more have you to reveal ?”’

“That man suspects that I have detected his iden-
tity. He fixed a look upop me that never flashed
through drunken eyes.”

“Tf you are right, Kate, we are in great peril.”

“T know I am right.”’

Hammond stepped to the door and listened.

All was still in the house.

“Kate, for once you are mistaken.”

“T will wager my life that I am not mistaken! I
could recognize that man by his eyes, where I might
fail in a hundred other cases.”’

“On what ‘lay’ has he come here?”

“He has not come for you, Trip.”

“Who has he come for?”

“Moet?

“Why would he come for you ?”’

“He is bail for the girl who was arrested for shov-
ing the queer, and you may make up your mind that
he believes her innocent.”

“Kate, that man must never leave this house alive !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Pe a

THE CHAMPION LIAR.

The champion liar of the West stopped long enough
in Chicago to reel off the folowing romance about a
novelty in base-ball:

“Up in Dakota last week,” said a commercial trav-
eler, ‘‘I saw the queerest game of base-ball that was
ever played. All the players were blind; yes, sir, as
blind as eyeless bats. Of course you don’t believe it,
I didn’t believe it, either, tillI saw ’em play. How
did they do it? Just like any other players, with
the exception that they used a ball specially prepared
for the oceasion. Through this base-ball there was a
hole, and in the hole there was a little concern like

that which you seeina harmonica. On the home
plate was a little bell, which the umpire rang by pull-
ing a string just before the pitcher fired in a ball.
Judging of the position of the base by the sound of
the bell, the pitcher put the ball right where it ought
to be. As the ball sailed toward the batsman the air
rushing through the hole in it played a little tune
and it was by this sound that the batsman made his
strike. It was the same with the fielders. Wherever
the ball went it was singing its little tune, and the
sound was all the players had to judge by. Handle
the ball? Well, I should say they could. They played
a fine game, and I tell you that the music of the ball
whizzing and soaring about the field, and those blind
fellows catching and throwing it just as if they could
see, made a scene never to be forgotten. The mem-
bers of those blind nines were all inmates of the Da-
kota Blind Asylum, but if they can make proper
arrangements they are going on the road as an ex-
hibition. They’ll draw immense crowds, too.”

 

—> >

THE ADVANTAGES OF MARRIAGE,

It is conceded that marriage will increase the cares
of a young man which he would not encounter if he
remained single; but it must be granted, on the other
hand, that it heightens the pleasures of life. If mar-
riage in some instances has seemed to be but a hin-
drance to certain success, the countless instances
must not be forgotten where it has proved to be the
incentive which has called forth the best part of a
man’s nature, roused him from selfish apathy, and
inspired in him those generous principles and high
resolves which have helped to develop him into a
character known, loved, and honored by all within
the sphere of its influence. Matrimony, it is true,
is chargeable with numberless solicitudes and re-
sponsibilities, and this, all young men should fully
understand before entering upon it ;but it is also full
of poy and happiness that are unknown to the
bachelor.

‘*] DON’T A2NO W .*?
BY FANNY CROSBY.

Merry child, with laughing eyes,
Looking up to yonder skies,

Playing with the butterflies

In the meadow green and fair,

Do you ever dream of care?

How her cheeks with pleasure glow,
While she answers, “I don’t know.”

Maiden tripping o’er the lea,

With a footstep light and free,
Tossing back the golden hair

From your brow so passing fair,

Do you ever dream of care?

How with joy her features glow,
While she answers, ‘I don’t know.”

Sweet contentment thus to rest,
In the pleasant moment blest,
Weaving chaplets while we may,
In the sunshine of to-day.
Looking up to Him whose love
Watches o’er us from above,
He will give us strength to bear
Every burden, every care ;
When our Father wills it so,
Then the future we shall know.
at ot

| THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |

Marrying for @ Home

By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of ‘‘ A Father’s Sin,” “‘ Back to Life,” *‘ The
Forger’s Sister,” etc.

(“MARRYING FOR A HOME” was commenced in No. 26.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIX.
THE “HAPPY FAMILY.”

UST think of you in love with
one of my cast-off beaus!” re-
peated Lillie, with an insolent
laugh.

“You forget yourself, and
the position in which I am
placed,” said Grace, the indig-
nant crimson chasing away
her pallor. ‘““Give me the glass,
please; my father is tired and
needs the wine.”

“T will take it to him,” said
the model wife, officiously. “I ’spose you’re going to
take off your things and stay a while? Have you and
Sam made up? Are you going to live with him ?”

“Never! But I have my father’s promise to pro-
tect me. If I had not beenso afraid of his taking
part against me, I should not have kept myself hid-
den from him. It was foolish of me; but I was des-
perate. I am not afraid of your brothernow. If he
wishes to appeal to the law, so much the better for
me. Ah! I hear the dear boys!” _

Grace rushed out into the hall, where she met her
young brothers, and half smothered them with kisses.
They were overjoyed to see her, declaring how jolly
it was to think she would be at home again, and how
lonely they had been without her.

“You can’t imagine,” whispered a “how wrong
everything goes, how unhappy papa® is, and how we
missed you.” A

“And now Mary is sent away, to cap the climax,”
added his brother.

No wonder the children felt the loss of the faithful
servant who had stood in the hreagh between them
and the grossest abuse, time and ?ihe again.

“And there is a dirty little coloted boy in buttons,”
added Harry, clinging about his sister’s neck as if he
could not let her go. “Oh, Grace, you will not leave
us again! promise you will not!”

“No, no, my dears, [ will not leave you again—un-
less I am driven to it,” she added, under her breath,
shuddering. “There, there, my darlings, I must go
to papa now. He is in the library, very tired with
the ride from auntie’s. You may come in and speak
to him; but*he is not yet strong enough to be wor-
ried; so we must keep our little troubles to our-
selves,”

“Yes, sister. We will tell him nothing to worry
him; but oh, how Mrs. Brooks has nagged us!”

“We must try not to mind the nagging,” said Grace,
with another kiss apiece, and took them in to speak
to their father.

“Go right up to your own room” ordered the model
step-mother, as soon as the boys had greeted their
parent. “Your pa don’t feel like having a pair of
great, noisy, hulking fellows about him; he’s sick.
Put on your slippers at once; I won’t have my new
carpets scuffed out by your shoes; and mind you
don’t speak out loud inthe halls. You can come
down when the bell rings for dinner—not a minute
before!” ‘

“Tf you are comfortable, papa, I think I will run up
and talk with my brothers awhile; it is so long since
I have seen them,” said Grace, as the boys went
frowning out of the room.

“Tt’s just like her!” snapped Lillie, as the sister fol-
lowed; ‘setting herself up against me, an’ teaching
the boys to defy my authority! I expect to have a
pretty time, now she is back here! You ought to
know, Brooks, there ¢an be only one mistress of a
family; so I would like to understand, once for all,
whether Grace or your wife is to rule here ?”’

“J don’t think Grace meant anything, except that
she wished to rs

“She did! She did! She did it to spite me!”

“Ah, Lillie, Lillie, let us have peace this one even-
ing!”

He leaned back in his chair, wearily closing his
eyes. Home had looked so pleasant when he first
opened the door! But what house can be truly a
home with a termagant in it?

It was well that his eyes were shut, or he would
have been still more deeply shocked by the evil
glance which flashed at him out of those blue eyes.
He did not see it, and was satisfied that his young |
wife made him no reply.

For once, Lillie’s heart was so choked with wicked
feelings and impulses that it silenced her sharp
tongue. She flung herself-down in the low chair in
which John Halliday had found her sitting, and
stared moodily out of the window. She did not deign
to give her sick husband a second look or thought;
her mind was entirely taken up with the discovery
she had made of the attachment between John and
Grace. The idea that another woman prized John
raised his value in her eyes. She persuaded herself
that she had always loved him, and that in some way
she was being bitterly wronged by him and this girl,
of whom she had always been vaguely jealous.

“They shall not get much comfort out of their fond-
ness for one another,” she thought to herself, with a
eruel smile; ‘‘I’ll see to that! She isn’t any more
married to Sam than I am; for that young fellow who
performed the ceremony had no license to marry! The
whole thing was a sham; it wouldn’t stand daylight;
an’ Sam’s liable to the law for spending her money.
But I shall make her believe she’s in his power all
the same. And, oh, won’t it be fun to make her wild
with jealousy! Why,if she knew she was free to-
day, I could manage it so that she would never speak
to John again! It was lucky she saw him with my
arms about his neck. ‘Actions aia louder than
words.’ I guess that spoke pretty loud! Didn’t she
turn white when I told her he was my old beau? Oh,
T’ll make it as bitter as wormwood tea for her proud
ladyship !””

These, and a great many more cruel, malicious
thoughts took up her small soul, as she sat gazing
out at the falling twilight.”

Grace meantime was sitting with her young broth-
ers in their shabby room, furnished with everything
which had become too dilapidated for any other por-
tion of the house. She was chatting cheerfully to
them, inquiring about their studies and their young
comrades. ;

“We don’t dare ask a friend to visit us nowadays,”
complained Harry. ‘‘He would be insulted if he

same.”

The loving sister soothed and sympathized, trying
to hide from their boyish eyes the heavy heart-ache
which dulled her eyes and whitened her cheeks—try-
ing to tear her thoughts from her own trouble, so as
to give them full, warm comfort; but she was hardly
her own self that afternoon. She had received a
blow, and she often put her hand to her head or to
her heart in a dazed, dizzy way, as if trying to steady
herself. *

What she had heard—and seen—that day had been
a shock to brain and soul. Lillie’s coarse words of
triumph hummed in her ears: ‘He is an old beau of
mine.” “If ma hadn’t set up thatI should marry
your pa, I expect John and I would have been man
and wife before this.”

Could she doubt the truth of these frank state-
ments ? :

She knew only too well that Lillie’s word was not
always reliable, but—there was that scene upon which

 

she had intruded! What did that mean? What

 

peso

VOL. 42—No. 34.

 

could it mean that was not crushing to her faith in

him as a man?

That Mr. Halliday could ever have loved a girl like
her father’s second wife, was a bitter humiliation to
her. Did he love Lillie still? Was he so base as to
be capable of flirting with a married woman? Ob,
no,no! At the worst, it must have been that, in view
of his long banishment to the West, he had been be-
trayed into a momentary indiscretion at the idea of
parting. Yet, viewed in any light, he could not be
the man she had dreamed himtobe. Well, it would
soften to her the pain of knowing that fate had in-
exorably decreed their separation. She was not free
to marry, so what did it matter to her? Oh, what,
indeed! Yet the pain was there all the same—the
bitter, burning pain.

“T wish papa had refused to see him to-night,” she
mused. “I am no longer anxious that he should
know wy pitiful little story. It matters nothing to
him. I hope he will not think it worth while to
come.”

John Halliday did think it worth while to come;
he could not have remained away. Little Flossie
was indignant that he should desert her on that
precious last evening, and he was a little ashamed of
going, too; but the desire to know what Grace had
offered to have her father explain was intense—irre-
sistible, Perhaps, also, he had a hope that he might
gain a few words with Grace herself, and explain to
her, as he could not to Mr. Brooks, the disgraceful scene
upon which they had opened the door, the recollec-
tion of which kept his dark cheeks of a hot and dusky
red. He fairly hated the silly creature who had got
him into the scrape, as he thought of it. :

Lillie, not expecting her husband’s return, had in-
vited a dozen of her favorites to spend the evening
with her. They came quite early, and she was

obliged to entertain them in the parlors, while dying of |

curiosity to know what was taking place between
John and “old Brooks.” She was so preoccupied
that her jolly friends could but notice it, and
twitted her with being ‘‘under the old man’s thumb,”
“afraid to have a good time when Bluebeard was
around,” and so on.

“You’re awfully stupid to night,’ Effie assured her.
“Mackay is yawning his head off.”

“T can’t help it, Eff. You knowl don’t care for
Brooks, whether he’s home or not, the old fool. It
isn’t that, but—but—John is going back to the West.
He starts to-morrow.”

Effie stared at her a moment in surprise, then burst
into. a boisterous laugh.

“Sentimental ?” she jeered.
it of you, Lill? |
Mackay !”

“You shall not,” cried Lillie, catching her arm.

“Come here, Mack,” kept on the sister. ‘‘Come
over here and find out why our hostess is so glum
this evening. It’s an awful good joke! Oh, my!”

“Cominxg,” said the ex-detective, glad to get away
from the piano where Miss Tweed was singing,

“The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la,
Have nothing to do with the case.”
“What isit now, Mrs. Brooks?: Too much onion in
the stuffing ?”’

“You say a word, Effie Dennison, and you won't get
another dollar nor another dress out of
winter,” hissed Lillie in her sister’s ear

€ “Who'd have thought
Did I ever! [I’m going to tell

“Oh, she’s mad,” said Effie, turning it off with a |

laugh. “I don’t dare to tell you now, Mack; she’s
threatened to cut off the supplies if I do.”

“Pye something to tell you and Sam, though,”
whispered Lillie. ,

“What's that?’ asked the brother, who caught the
sound of his own name. z

“Come here, and I’ll let you know. Grace has
come home !” ’

“You don’t say so!” with a long whistle.

“Yes. And old Brooks is going to consult his law-
yer to-morrow. If I werein your place, Sam, I’d take
a trip for my health about this time. ’Twill be
pleasanter spending the winter in Florida than in—
the Tombs, for instance.”

‘Jingo, sis! I don’t know but you're correct.”

Sam lost a little of his ruddy color, and was absent-
minded for the remainder of the evening. The main
lights being thus rather dull, the lesser ones were not
particularly brilliant, and the
before ten o’clock.” .

“T’ll come round in the morning and learn what
you make up your mind to do,” said Lillie, as Sam
went last.

“All right, sis. I’d like your advice; you’re a sharp
one, when you have a mind to be.”

Her friends having gone, the young wife went
slowly into the library. She knew that Mr. Halliday
was not there, for she had heard the door close after
him about nine o’clock. She hoped her husband had
retired for the night, but he was sitting by the table,
his head drooped in his hand, his eyes fixed on the
dying fire. He looked worn and ill, but no impulse
to comfort him entered her hard little heart. The
promise she had made before God’s altar to love, to
cherish, to keep only to this man whom she had free-
ly chosen, was as null and void as if it had never
been spoken.

Itisa sad fact that there are plenty of selfish wo-
men to whom their husbands are only pocket-books
to go to when they want money; yet many of these
contrive to cover their selfishness with a pretense of
coaxing and fondness, as Lillie had done at first. Of
late, however, even this pretty deceit was too much
trouble. “He married me; he is bound to take care
of me,” was her coarse assertion on all occasions. It
had been weeks since she had volunteered a kiss, a

-aress, or the faintest interest in her husband, his
wishes, tastes, or sympathies.

“Are you going to bed, Brooks?” she asked, in-
differently.

Her mind was crowded with thoughts of Halliday,
of Grace, of Mackay—anybody but this sick man who
needed her care and her affection.

“Presently,” he answered, looking up into the pretty
face pleasantly. ‘Lillie, my dear, I don’t feel equal
to reading my chapter in the Bible to-night; will you
read it to me ?”’

“T suppose so,” ungraciously ; “but it’s awful late,
and I’m sleepy. You’re not getting too old to see to
read, I hope?’ with a laugh, as she seated herself
near him at the table.

“Tt is more headache than blindness, I think, my
dear. Why, where is the Bible that always lies here?”
surprised, on looking the table over, not to find the
familiar book.

“Oh, pa—borrowed it,” Lillie stammered; and, for
once, she actually blushed with shame. ©

“Stole it, and pawned it for brandy,” would have
been the exact truth, upon which she had nearly
blundered, recovering herself just in time to soften it
down with ‘“‘borrowed it.”

Mr. Brooks saw her blush, and guessed something
of the truth. Far too delicate to wish to mortify her
further, or revenge himself for the many hateful
speeches she made to him, he said, gently ;

“Very well. I am tired, and will go up stairs
now.”

CHAPTER XX.
THE HOME WELCOME,

Of all the termagants who have the power to con-
vert a happy homeinto an inferno, there is no ter-
magant quite so hopeless, or quite so heartless as a
pretty fool. When the pretty fool is alsoan old man’s
darling, her power to drive peace from the hearth-
stone.is complete.

Augustus Brooks was sitting up in bed partaking,
with some enjoyment, of the dainty breakfast his
daughter Grace had herself prepared and brought up
to him, the morning after his return from his sister’s.
For a brief five minutes he had forgotten the present
—his home was once more the home of old—his affec-
tionate child was all she used to be to him, In some
other room his dear wife flitted quietly about, with
orderly touch and delicate, lady-like movements—
his own, true, fond wife, who loved him better than
her own soul—he was back in the past—the last
wretched months obliterated.

Suddenly, with a crash, his fork fell out of his
nerveless hand; he was here again, with the miser-
able present.

“You saucy littleimp, ’ll teach you! Take that—
and that—and that!”

The shrill, angry tones rose almost into a screech,
and were accompanied by the sound of blows, The
next instant his younger boy pushed open the door
and came quickly in, white and trembling, followed
by the second wife, flushed, disheveled, panting.

“Father,” gasped Harry, “is she to strike me? TI
tell her she must not do it. If she does it again, I
shall knock her down, if she is a woman!”

‘Harry! Harry 1’

“T can’t help it, father. I’m not going to be boxed
about by her, as if I were an urchin in petticoats. I
warn her, itis the very last time. And, father, I
warn you, too, that if you have no control over this
—this person—to make her let us alone and give us
our rights, we are going, both of us.”

“Going, my son? Where?” ‘

“Anywhere. I don’t know where. I would rather
sleep in a store-box or a door-way, like the beggars,
than come home to such a house as this. However,
I dare say, we can find something to do; and it is
high time we quit here.”

“Just what I say,” added Lillie, in a scream of pas-
sion. ‘*You're plenty big enough to get your own
living, both of you, and I’ve been aching for the day
when I’d see the last of you. And I’ll let you know
I’ll box your ears every time ; an’ if you want to lay
a hand on me, why do it, and I’ll have you up in the
police-court. I’d like nothing better, you imperti-
nent little ape, that sets yourself up to be a gentle-
man. I'd like you to lay afingeron me, indeed! It’s
my business to box you, and I’ll do it thoroughly.”

“No, you will not, madam.”

“Harry, I beg of you, stop this and go to your
room. When I am dressed, if I am able, I will have a
talk with you alone.”

“Very well, father,” and the boy retreated in good
order.

“Yes, you will have atalk with him alone, an’ let
him abuse me and call me an’ my folks names, after
you’ve married me. What did you come around us
for, acting as if nothing was good enough for us, if
you despise us so? What did you marry me for, I'd
like to know, you old fool, you?”

Mr. Brooks, mutely staring at the fair Fury, won-
dered what he had married her for. Was this untidy

me this}

company dispersed |
>

| woman in the soiled wrapper, her hair up in curl-
| papers, frowzy, common-looking, coarse, her pretty
| features distorted by rage, her lips running over
with angry expletives—this slovenly shrew, the
modest, sweet, retiring girl he had wooed and won,
whose rose-leaf complexion, azure eyes, and silky,
fluffy curls had seemed to him the outward image of
a delicate, gentle nature ?

“T know what you are thinking of!” cried Lillie, as
he made herno answer. ‘You’re thinking that ma
and Iroped youin! And so we did. Weroped you
in for your money. Do you s’pose, when I could
have married John Halliday, I would have taken up
with you, old Graybeard, if I hadn’t had an eye on
your money? You must have had lots of conceit not
to know that from the beginning! I married for a
home, and I got it, and I mean to manage it as I like
—not as Miss Grace likes, or Master Harry likes, or
Mary, the servant, likes! They shall all know I’m
mistress here. Here’s Grace begun her interfering
already, bringing up your breakfast when I wanted
Jupiter Ammon to bring it up; or what do I want of
a colored boy in buttons if it ain’t to do the running?
I’ve sent Mary adrift, any way; you can’t help your-
selves there. And I’ve got two girls and a laun-
dress to come in, besides Jupiter Ammon, who is
mostly for style. If I’m rich I want to make some
show of it. 3esides, it’s perfectly ridiculous in
Grace going and falling in love with John Halliday,
my old beau, that’s dead in love with me still, as you
saw for yourself yesterday; nor could I prevent it,
he put his arms about ime so sudden. Luckily you
same in; but he would like to make Grace think he
cares for her, so as to come in for a part of your
money; and she’s no right to think of anybody but
my brother Sam; so it’s better for all of you not to
| stir up my temper; and if those boys don’t walk
chalk, they’ll catch it worse than they have, that’s
}all! The quicker they all get out but you an’ I, the
better it will suit me—there! What are you lying
there against the pillows an’ trembling like an aspen

for? Good Lord! IT hope you ain’t in for a stroke of
paralysis !—though a person may expect anything at
your age. It would be absurd if you were really to
get palsy and go on shaking all the rest of your life!
I should hire a nurse to take care of you. You
couldn’t expect me to tie myself down to waiting on
you. I’m young and handsome, and I intend to enjoy
myself while I can.”

The old husband turned his face wearily to the
wall. A little flame of injured self-love rose in his
wan cheeks. He had not, before he married this
young wife, been in the habit of thinking of himself
as aged or superannuated ; on the contrary, being a
well-preserved gentleman, not yet sixty, he had pos-
sibly been a trifle vain of his erect figure, his thick,
iron-gray hair, his vigor, and good looks; he had even
thought it possible his young wife might learn to love
as well as respect him; but she had crushed such
amiable vanity flat. He was ‘‘an old fool,’’ indeed,
he thought to himself, with unspeakable bitterness.
Silly and heartless, wrapped up in her own charms,
Lillie scarcely knew how she hurt him. If she had
known, it would have made no difference.

“T will take care of papa when he needs it,” said a
low, pained voice behind the model wife. “And now,
Lillie, will you please go out, and let him have no
further disturbance this morning? He trembles be-
cause he is weak and ill, not fit to be a witness of
such scenes. The doctor said he was to be kept quiet
for a few days, and avoid excitement.”

“Oh, I’) go, with pleasure, seeing you are here to
look after him, Grace. Sickness never.was my fov'le.
And I promised Sam to go round to ma’s this morn-
ing, on business,” ending with a malicious, mysteri-
ous laugh in the girl’s anxious face, that made Grace
very uneasy the remainder of the day.

Lillie twisted up her hair, slipped into a silk dress,
with soiled lace on the neck and sleeves, and bounced
out of the room, without the grace of a parting salu-
tation.

A stifled groan broke from the lips of the sufferer
on the bed.

“Oh, Grace, how can you ever forgive me for bring-
ing such a woman into our home? Trepent of it in
dust and ashes; but, alas, repentance is. of little
avail! My poor children! Grace, believe me, I
thought her gentle and affectionate—that she would
be company for you—or I never would have married
her. I thought, because she was noéf a fashionable,
rich girl, that she would be industrious, unexacting,
modest, saving—in short, a model wife !”—with a bit-
ter laugh. “Instead of that, the gayest belle on Clin-
ton avenue cannot rival her in extravagance; she is
asloven; her family are a set of leeches who are
sucking the life-blood out of the little fortune I have
saved for my children. It is true, ‘there is no fool
like an old fool.’ A pair of blue eyes and pink cheeks
have blinded me. A managing mother has got the
best of me. Lamaruinediman! The sooner I am
out of the way, the better!”

“Do not say that, dear father, while you have me
to love you and care for you—ay, even to fight your
battles, if need be!’ and she smoothed his hair fond-
ly, and patted his pale cheek with a soft little hand.

“You ought never to have been placed where you
would come into opposition with such coarseness as
that. What can your gentle weapons effect against
the attacks of sucha Fury? Grace, I hoped to get
out to-day to see my lawyer about—about—this mock
marriage which has given you so much trouble, I
think you have been needlessly frightened. Mr. Hal-
liday thinks so, too. Every hour is an age until I
have advice on the subject. Perhaps this afternoon
I may get out.”

“Will it not be better for me to write a note to Mr.
Allan, asking him to come in this afternoon or even-
ing, papa?”

“Perhaps. Yes, you may write.

“Papa, is Mr. Halliday going out West? Does he
start this morning ?”’

“Yes, my dear; so he said last evening. Grace,
darling, I fear—I believe—Mr. Halliday is not worthy
of the high opinion you seem to have of him.”

; A searlet wave swept over the girl’s proud, pure
ace.

“Tam afraid so, too, papa,” she faltered. ‘I shall
try to think as little as possible of him hereafter. [
was so surprised and—and shocked yesterday. Yet,
to me, he has been most kind, considerate, honor-
able; and his mother and sister fairly worship him.”

“T ought to be the last to condemn him,’ said Mr.
Brooks, with a sad smile. “It is not that he was once
infatuated with Lillie’s prettiness; itis that he should
be playing a double part now.”

“T know,” said Grace, very low, turning away to
the window. ‘Papa, let us never refer to this again.
He has gone, and we will drop him out of our lives.”

Easier said than done, Grace Brooks! You are not
a girl to love lightly, or to forget easily. Wounded
love, indignant pride, fight bravely for the purpose
of keeping John Halliday out of your thoughts, but he
will not be driven out. Instead, there are two Jolins
there now—one, the honest, noble John you learned
to love; the other, a strange, distorted reflection—
Lillie’s lover, not yours.

Quivering with dread lest Sam Dennison might
venture to intrude upon her, even in her father’s
presence, Grace at once wrote the note to her father’s
lawyer, and dispatched it by a messenger-bey. In an
hour they had a brief answer, stating that Mr. Allan
would be with them between four and five o’clock.

Lillie came home before luncheon. She and Grace
were alone at that meal, for the boys failed to put in
an appearance; and an unpleasant meal it was to
Grace.

Lillie was sulky; and Lillie, sulky, was almost as
bad as Lillie in a passion. She had been brooding
over the discovery of the acquaintance of John and
this girl she had always disliked. Dislike had turned
into hatred.

“Tf there’s anything on earth I detest,’ she thought
to herself, looking over at her companion, with sul-
len, brooding glance, “it is the saintly. Grace does
it to perfection. Oh, she is quite too good to live. I
feel I can never endure the contrast between us.
One or the other of us must ‘get up and get.’ Which
shallit be? That little game of Sam’s not having
turned out quite as I intended, I shall have to oust
her by some other means. It seems to me nobody
has any brains but me. I told Sam to bring a real
clergyman, and there the simpleton went and got a
fraud. So the whole game falls through—if they
only find it out. They act so stupid, perhaps they
won’t find it out. I feel like pulling her hair or
scratching her face, or doing something to get her in a
temper, meek little angel! The boys think they are
showing proper spirit by going without their lunch,
I suppose. I haie people who are always on their
‘dig.’ Now, at our house, we squabble an’ fight, and
have it over, and in five minutes we’re friends again.
Good gracious! the tussles Eff and I used to have.
There was some fun in that. But this pokey house is
enough to keep a person in the sulks forever.”

The unsocial meal having come to a speedy end,
Grace was about to arrange her father’s lunch on @
server, when Lillie, snatching it out of her hand, re-
marked:

“I'll ’tend to that,if you please. Here you, Ju-
piter Ammon, you take this up to your master’s
room, and mind you don’t put your fingers into any-
thing, nor spill the tea, or you won’t get a cent of
wages this month. You've got to learn to be a gen-
teel waiter, or I’ll find another boy of the right size
to wear those clothes, do you hear ?”’

Mrs. Brooks poured out a cup of chocolate, and put
several different half-cold articles of food on one
plate, and dispatched the grinning and antic * but-
tons” with the server.

Grace knew that her father disliked chocolate, and
had intended going herself to the kitchen to make
hot toast and poach an egg, but she stood aside,
saying nothing.

Presently there was a significant crash on the front
stairs. Lillie rushed to see what was the matter.
The dainty cup lay in ruins; the dark, greasy choco-

late was soaking into the new stair-carpet, the plate
had rolled to the floor below, depositing its contents
as it went, while Jupiter Ammon, half-way up the
staircase, stood on one foot, sucking his thumb and
rolling his eyes with wild rapidity.

“IT stubbed my toe, missus,’ he howled, as soon as
the madame appeared upon the scene; “I jist stubbed
my toe. Fo’ goodness, I couldn’t help it; my feet so
long my toes allus gittin’ in de way. I wasn’t tuchin’
nuffin. I reckon de sugah mus’ ’a drop inter de cup
w’en it broked. I was jus’ gwine straight up, an’ [
cotched my toe in de stair-rod. Hope to die dis min-
ute if I knows war de sugah wentto. Yes’m, Ill

”

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

34,

VOL. 42—No.

=

 

= an —
bring de watah right away,” and so forth and so on, a
most lively scene-transpiring between the boy and
his irate mistress, of which Grace took advantage to
slip. down into the kitchen and prepare something
suitable for the invalid.

It was her first visit to the kitchen since her return
home the previous evening. The red-faced slattern
who presided over this department plainly indicated,
by the turn of her nose and the general impertinence
of her air, that it would be the young lady’s last visit
as well as her first, if she were to have her way
about it.

“Tll make whatever you want, miss,” she said; “I
don’t like ladies coming down afore my work is done
up, an’ my kitching in order. Mrs. Brooks allers
sends for me to come up to her; she don’t demean
herself by prying into the cook’s department, miss.”

“My father is ill, you know, Mrs. O’Griddly, and
likes me to make his toast and tea.”

“Does he then? Mrs. Brooks thinks I can make it
wellenough. I’m sure I’ve made tay for the Duke of
Buecleugh. But jist as ye plaze, of coorse; only Pll
spake to the mistress about it—whether I’m the cook
or the young lady is,” and she slapped the tea-can-
nister down on the greasy table.

“Make the tea, and poach an egg on a slice of toast.
I will wait in the dining-room for them,” Grace an-
swered, meekly beating aretreat from the dirty en-
virons of the brandy-breathing virago.

A feeling of discouragement drove the hot tears
into her eyes as she sat waiting for the things to be
sentup. The waste and filth apparent, down below
were disgusting and appalling; the odor of liquor
unmistakable as the impudence it begot. She thought
of the neat kitchen over which Bridget once presi-
ded, who always greeted her respectfully, and felt
honored to have her young lady come down to make
a dessert, or to admire the order and economy of the

lace.
E “There seems to me no help for anything !”

Poor child! She had expressed a miserable fact—
there was no help for anything, while the young wife
set up to run this once admirable home according to
her own notions.

Ill-temper, ignorance, and obstinacy are not the
Three Graces who preside most happily over the
hearthstone.

“T'll neither be coaxed nor driven!” was the wife’s
favorite motto.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]
Pag ee ee

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM. ]

The Beilé of the Palace

By LENA T. WEAVER.

(“THE BELLE OF THE PALACE” was commenced in No.
ll, Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER LIV.
“Y HAVE PRAYED FOR HIS DEATH.”

Dr. Black consented that Reade Courtney should
see and talk with Mary White.

To Mr, Smith, Courtney had lisped no word of what he
suspected; he wanted first to hear Mary White’sstory.
After that he should know how to act, and he had
asked the detective to suspend action for twenty-
four hours, when, perhaps, he might have something
to tell him.

And Mr. Smith had consented, though a little un-
willingly, it must be confessed, for experience had
taught him the truth of the old adage, ‘‘A bird in the
hand is worth two in the bush.”’

Mrs. Drake ushered Courtney into the little front
chamber where the young girl, so strangely brought
to her kind care, was sitting.

Mary rose as Courtney entered, and held out her
thin hand.

“Tam ‘glad to see you,” she said, in a voice the
sweetest the young man had ever heard—a voice

whose well-remembered music thrilled through his |

being—a voice he would have recognized in the re-
motest corners of the earth.

There could be but one like it!

He pressed the little hand in his own, and told her
how glad he was to see her improved.

“Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall be well now, as
soon as [amrested. I have been so very, very tired
—and sick, they tell me. But I have realized little of
it; my head has been all wrong here.”” She touched
the scar on her temple.

“Does it distress you to talk ?”’

“Oh, no. Itisso nice to feel that I can think in-
telligently. It was such a long, long time that every-

thing was in confusion, and I could not remember |

anything!”

“Do you remember—try to think carefully—do you
remember ever having seen me before?’ asked Court-
ney, and he trembled and blushed like a schoolgirl as
he put the question.

It would hardly be possible, he thought, that after
having passed through so much, she would remember
aface she had seen, as she had seen his, at the Ice
Palace, among so many others.

Yes,” she said; “I remember you distinctly. Isaw
you at the Ice Palace the night I was abducted. And
you snatched me away from the ruffians as they were
taking me to the carriage. Why, indeed, should I not
remember you ?”’ .

She had noticed him—she had remembered him!
Courtney forgot all about Theresa Otis as the blood
leaped madly through his veins, and he drew nearer
the lovely girl, to whom he had lost his heart a long
time previous.

“Will you tell me who you are? I ask from no mo-
tive of curiosity, but from a well-defined purpose.”

“Who [ am?’ she repeated, in surprise. “I thought

ou knew. [ am Lucia Ashleigh, the daughter of

ohn Ashleigh. the banker.”

“So Tsupposed. But I wanted to hear you say it.
And now, will you tell me what hold a certain scoun-
drel, known as = Vail, has on you?’

Her face flushed crimson; her breath came quick
and fast. She looked about her fearfully, and clasped
her hands.

“T cannot! I dare not!’

“My dear Miss Ashleigh’—Reade took her hands in
his and strove to calm her agitation, and he found it
avery pleasant task—‘‘I wish you could bring your-
self to confide fully in me. Lam astranger to you, I
know. but I would give my life to be of service to
you! This Vail has been at the bottom of innumer-
able crimes. He is being sought by the police far
and wide, and eventually he will be caught. He may
be able to injure you. Will you not tell me the
power that he holds over you, that I may guard you
against it ?’’ -

“Nothing can save me from the power he holds
over me, except his death!’ she cried. passionately;
“and, may Heaven forgive me! but I have prayed,
over and over again, that he might die, that I might
thus be enabled to draw a free breath !”

“But, Miss Ashleigh, surely this power may be
broken.
you.
earth to set you free from his power!”

“Nothing but his death can set me free. Oh, Mr.
Courtney—for that, I am told, is your name—you
cannot know how much I have suffered through that
man!”

“He ought to have been executed long ago; and he
shall be, if he still disgraces the earth!” said Court-
ney, hotly. ‘‘Miss Ashleigh, I swear to you that I
will never rest till I bring Rupert Vail to the gal-
lows !”

“You are very good to feel an interest in one whom
even her own father disowns,” said Miss Ashleigh, a
little sadly. ‘‘I have been to my father’s house, to

ask of him the place which belongs to me, and he did |

not know me; and the creature who has usurped my
birthright turned me from the door of my own dear
home as she would have turned away a dog.”

She bowed her head and wept bitterly.

Courtney had considerable difficulty in resisting
the impulse he felt to take her in his arms and kiss
her tears away; but he suddenly recollected that she
did not feel the interest in him that he had,.so long
feltin her. Heremembered that he was going to be
married in a month, and he felt as if a wet blanket
had been thrown over him.

Little by little he managed to elicit from the young
girl the facts, as she knew them, regarding her ab-
duction, and the events following thereafter, and the
connection of Kate Glynn with the case, and the
kindness she had received from Silas and Marier
Marlowe. And she asked Courtney to see that the
clothes of poor ‘‘Sary” were sent back to them, with
her kindest thanks.

“And if ever I get my rightful place again, these
kind people,” she said, ‘“‘shall have something more
substantial than thanks.”

Andit may be well to say right here, that when
Reade Courtney returned the clothes, there was a
hundred-dollar bill accompanying them.

“Have you any idea who is the woman who has
stolen your place in your father’s home and heart?”
asked Courtney.

“Not the slightest. She is very like me, as I was
before my hair was cut, and sickness had made me
the dreadful wreck I am.”

She held up her thin hands and arms, and looked
at them, with a sad smile.

“You will soon be your own beautiful self again,”
said Courtney, cheerfully; ‘‘and you shall have your
own again,in your father’s love. Never fear, you
have good and true friends working for your in-
terest.”
~ But the young girl’s face did not lighten up as he
would have liked to see it. She had suffered so much,
and she had met with such a chilling repulse where
she had expected comfort for ail her troubles, that
she was not easily cheered.

And Courtney took his leave of her, with the vow

Confide in your friends, and let them help |
Confide in me, and I will move heaven and |

in his heart that the next time he saw her he would
have news for her which should bring the smile to
her lip and the light to her eye.

He had not gone ten paces from Drake’s door when
he stumbled over some one who had evidently been
listening under the windows of the cottage.

until the collision took place.

The man smothered an oath, and Courtney recog-
nized the voice instantly. He could never mistake
the soft, sweet tones of Rupert Vail.

Instantly all the fierce temper he felt against this
man, who had been the instrument of so much dis-
turbance, rose up, and Courtney, without a word,
sprang upon him, and a hand-to-hand conflict en-
sued. Both men were alert, and strong, and deter-
mined, and one of them was desperate.

Courtney thought of the words of the poor girl he
had just left—‘Nothing but his death can set me

the pistol he carried in his pocket, and shoot the
wretch through the heart. But his better nature pre-
Bg He would spare him for the law to deal
with.

The street was dark and deserted. In that quarter
of the town policemen were not very plenty, and if
Vail was secured, Courtney felt that he must accom-
plish it single-handed.

Both men fought desperately. Blood flowed from
a eut in Courtney’s forehead, and twice Vail had
been knocked down, but neither would yield. Thick
and fast their blows fell, and their breath came hot
and swift from their parched lips, and both realized
that it was for life they were contending.

At length, a well-planted blow between the eyes
laid Vail inthe gutter, and Courtney sprang upon
his breast and held him down. At the same time he

salled for help.

Fortunately there was a policeman near, and Vail
was soon bound hand and foot.
called, and he was taken to the city lock-up.

There was great rejoicing when he was brought in.

of the law by leaping through the window at Kate
Glynn’s den, no trace of him had been discovered,
and the authorities had begun to fear that he had
been drowned that night, and that the demands of
justice had been cheated.

the prisoner, who, sulky and silent, sat on a hard
bench, and pushed off the attendant who would have
washed the blood and dirt from his face.

“You have done a good thing for society,” said Mr.
Smith, shaking Courtney’s hand, “and I am sorry
you have got your beauty spoiled by it,’ glancing at
the still bleeding cut on his forehead. ‘The reward,
and it’s a handsome one, is yours. And this capture
simplifies matters in many ways.”

Vail turned his dark, baleful eyes on the detective,
and then his gaze wandered to Courtney.

“You haye crossed my path before, young man,”
he said, hoarsely, ‘‘and just now you have me at a
disadvantage. But I will yet pay you for old and
new.”

“Don’t threaten till you get off the bracelets,” said
the detective. “‘Itisn’t halfso effective. And our
friend Courtney here, though he is an aristocrat, and
a Bostonian, is fully your match, as has been found.
I don’t think I would brag any just now.”

Smith walked to the hotel with Mr. Courtney, and
together they perfected a plan of proceedings, which
received a very decided set back by the announce-
ment which appeared in the next morning’s papers:

 

ESCAPE OF A NOTED DESPERADO.—We learn that
Rupert Vail, the man notorious as a murderer, train-
wrecker, highwayman, and counterieiter, was ar-
| rested late last night by officer Jenkins and Mr. Reade
; Courtney, @ young Bostonian stopping at the Hotel
Ryan, and after much effort he was secured and taken
to the lock-up, where he was fully identified as the
man who wrecked the Omaha express last spring.
He is wanted on several other counts.

He was placed in a cell, and it was thought secure-
ly fastened, but the fellow is full of devices, and he
managed to free himself from his shackles, and make
his escape by removing a couple of bars from the
window of his cell. The window looks into a vacant
lot, and he dropped a distance of ten feet. Once in
the lot, and he would not be likely to be observed.
He is the most daring desperado known to the po-
lice. Vigilant effort will be made to recapture him.

 

Courtney read the morning papers with dismay.
He had been obliged to give his mother and Miss Otis
| an account of his encounter with Vail, because they
| would not be satisfied till they knew the cause of the
eut on his forehead, and Mrs. Courtney, though
pleased that so audicious a villain should be secured,
hardly liked the idea that her son should be concern-
ed in it. ‘
| ‘The idea,” she said, “that one of our family should
|} be mixed upin such an affair. And it will get into
| the papers, and our set will wonder how you ever fell

 

| into such a disreputable way of walking the streets |

| of a strange city at an unseemly hour.

that you hadn’t managed to involve yoursef in it.’
“T am only too glad to have been the means of cap-

| turing such a-seoundrel as Vail has proved to be,”
; said her son.
| ‘And I am glad and proud, too,” said Theresa. “It
will make you quite a hero, Reade. And I adore
heroes.”

“Thank you,” said Reade.
say so.”

But when the morning papers were brought in they
gave a new aspect to affairs.

“You are very good to

CHAPTER LV.
A NEW PHASE OF AFFAIRS.

It would have been plain to the eye of the ordinary
observer that John St. Clair had, at last, lost his
heart.

He had, of course, fancied himself in love scores of
-times before he met Theresa Otis; butone night after
he had waltzed with her in the hotel parlors, and
hung over her as she played some of the bewildering
airs of Strauss, and “‘imooned” with herin adraperied
bay-window, he woke suddenly to a realizing sense of
what love was.

There was no use in trying to put the fair young
Bostonian out of his mind—he knew that at once.

What then was he to do?

He was one of those rare young men who had al-
ways held it as unfair and dishonorable to seek favor
from another man’s fiancee ; and here, before he had
mistrusted what might be the possible outcome, had
he been giving away his heart to Reade Courtney’s
betrothed.

St. Clair was ashamed of himself, and he passed a
ae night revolving the matter in his own
mind.

Not for one moment did he flatter himself that Miss
Otis reciprocated his affection; she was too good and
too conscientious for anything of that kind, said
honest John to himself, and if she had guessed at his
infatuation, and he heartily hoped she had not, she
was probably laughing at it in her sleeve.

That he, the flinty-hearted cattle king, who had
spent years on the wild Texas plains, and had laughed
at the wiles of women, should have been captured
by another man’s prospective wife, was mortifying
enough.

There was but one course left to him, and that he
would take at once. He would go back to his ranch,
and stay there till he came to his senses, and no
matter what he suffered, no
wiser.

He smoked several cigars while he was making his
good resolutions, and he felt like a martyr of the

 

honor to see Theresa again.

mother, by falling in love with Miss Otis, and he
owed to them and to himself to depart, and give no
sign.

The plea of a sudden call home, unexpected busi-
ness complications, would be sufficient; and when he

him that he should start that night for Texas.

‘‘Make my adieus to the ladies,” said St. Clair, ‘‘for
I greatly fear that my time is so limited I shall not
be able to attend to it in person. And I want tothank
you all for the many pleasant hours you have given
me.”

St. Clair’s face was very red, and his manly voice
trembled as he spoke, and Courtney looked at him a
little curiously.

“T think you had better see the ladies yourself,” he
said, courteously; ‘‘they will be very sorry to hear
that we are to lose you, and they will never forgive
you if you do not call to say good-by. Is it absolutely
necessary for you to go home ?”

“Yes, itis absolutely necessary; how much so you
cannot comprehend,” said St. Clair, with a bitter em-
fe which was new to him, and Courtney was

ed to think that perhaps some of the young man’s
pet business schemes had failed, and he was cross
over the loss of money.

He told the ladies that they were to lose their pleas-
ant friend, and Mrs. Courtney was very much dis-
turbed over the news.

“T am so sorry to have him go! If he could only
have put off that urgent business until we were ready
to go East, which will beso soon! He is really the
most companionable young man I ever met—outside
of Boston. And he made such an admirable escort
while you, Reade, were prowling around with de-
tectives, and that sort of persons. I declare it is too
bad!”

Theresa said nothing.

Later in the day the Courtneys went out for a
drive, but Theresa declined at the last moment. She
had a slight headache, and she believed the sun was
too bright for her. And Mrs. Courtney left her lying
down in her room, with a shawl spread over her,
eee on her forehead, and the window draperies

rawn.

Alas, for the total depravity of this model young
woman!

No sooner was the carriage containing her friends
out of sight, than Miss Otis sprang from the sofa
where Mrs. Courtney’s motherly care had placed her,
and brushing her disordered hair into shape again,
she adjusted her dress and prepared to go down.

“T must see him once more!” she said to herself—
“T must! Just one last look, to remember him by!

 

The |
night was dark and wet, and neither saw the other |

free !’—and fora moment he felt tempted to draw |

' Texas is so far from Boston!
| without him all the remainder of my life!”
| She went down the stairs and into the ladies’ par-
j lor. It was, at that hour, almost. deserted, and she
| crossed to the private parlor, where St. Clair had
been so often welcomed by her party. The door was
ajar, and over the low chair which Theresa always
occupied John St. Clair was leaning, his face flushed,
and something akin to tears in his handsome blue
eyes.

He was taking his farewell.

Theresa went in softly and stood by his side.

“Mr. St. Clair!”

She touched his arm before he was aware of her
presence. He started, and strove to recover his com-
posure.

“TI—T beg your pardon,” he stammered. ‘I thought
you had gone out. I saw the carriage drive away.”

“And you had time to come and say farewell to the
room, but not to see us!” said Theresa, reproachfully,
lifting her dark eyes to his face. ‘You are unkind
to us. "

“Unkind!” he cried, impetuously. ‘Indeed I am
not. Heaven only knows how hard it is for me to
leave St. Paul! I have spent here the happiest hours
of my life. Let me go now, before I make a fool of
myself!”

He snatched his arm almost rudely from her grasp
and took a step toward the door, but she spoke to
him.

“Will you not say good-by ?”’

He turned back. He saw the eyelids above those
soft, dark eyes quiver; he saw the clasped hands, the
attitude of quiet sadness, and all his good resolutions
went to the winds.

: i came to her side, and took both her hands
in his.

a

 

A carriage was |

Mr. Detective Smith dropped in, and took a look at |

will never forgive me—you will hate my memory
when Iam gone.

never see you again? Do you not know—can you

; not see that it is because I love you that I am leay-
For, since the time when he had escaped the clutches

ing you? And you are pledged to another, and I
am a weak and dishonorable wretch to speak thus to
you!”

She bowed her head, her fair face and neck criim-
son; but she Kept silence, and he went on:

“T have fancied myself in love a great many times.
T have seen many beautiful women who stirred my
pulses and made me, for the time, believe myself in
love. But no woman’s power was ever strong enough
to hold me for any length of time. I met you. I
knew that you belonged to another. TIT strove to keep
that thought ever in my mind. I said to myself, over
and over again, she isthe promised wife of a good
and honorable man.

place the next week after we met by the river-side,
for I saw just what was to be. I realized my own
weakness, and I knew just how contemptibly I was
acting. ButI had no power over myself. I said I
will go to-morrow, and I kept on saying it; but to-
morrow never came. Every day my passion grew
stronger and more hopeless. Theresa, scorn me if
you will, but [love you with a love as boundless as
eternity, and neither time, nor absence, nor death
itself, can quench that love!’

He folded his arms on his breast, and stood looking
down upon her, with his passionate soul in his eyes.

“Theresa,” he said, moved, perhaps, to ask the
question by the tears that he saw were stealing si-
lently down her cheeks—‘“‘it may be wrong to ask
you, to put you to so cruel a test—but, if I had met
you, darling, before—before you had met and loved
him, would it have been different, think you? Could
you ever have cared for me?”

“Could I ever?” she eried, with a face glowing as
she lifted it to his. “Mr. St. Clair, I love you now!
And if you go away, I shall die!”

Then she broke down utterly, and sank, sobbing,
into a chair. And St. Clair, being a very mortal
young man, took her in his arms and kissed away her
tears.

And while he was thus engaged the door opened,
and Reade Courtney entered the room.

When he saw the agitated couple in each other’s
armns, he stopped, and he would have whistled if he
had not been too well bred.
aan it was, he turned to go out, but Theresa stopped

im.

“Stay !’ she said, imperiously ; “‘and hear what I
have to say. Donot blame Mr. St. Clair. He does
not deserve it. He would have gone away without

I would not let him. J love him!”

“T ama wretch!” said St. Clair; ‘‘and I am thor-
oughly ashamed of myself!
turn, sir, for all the kindness you have shown to me
in taking me into your confidence and friendship.”

“Nonsense!” said Courtney, with an ease and a
buoyancy of spirif which struek St. Clair as very
strange under the#ircumstances; ‘‘you shall not be-

 

No doubt the |}
|} scamp ought to be hanged, but I do wish, Reade, |

man should be the}

first water when he decided that he ought not in |
7 2 He had betrayed the |
confidence placed in him by Courtney and his lady |

met Courtney next morning on the piazza, he told |

rate yourself. A*man must be stone indeed, who
would be insensible to the charms of the dear girl
| youlove. And if I must be supplanted, there is no
man in the world to whom I would so willingly give
her as to John St. Clair.”

“Why, I do beliege,”» said Theresa, ‘that he is glad
to be rid.of me.” ’ carry

“My dear Miss Otis} you wrong me—indeed you do.
But not for all the wealth of the Indies would I marry
you when your heart belongs to another, and that
other a man 80 eminently worthy of you.”

St. Clair grasped his hand.

“You are the noblest and best of men!” he said,
warmly; ‘and I shallnever forgive myself for the
part Ihave played. But I intended—yes, I did !—to
go away, and make no sign.”

“But I would not let him do it!’’ said Theresa,
elinging to St. Clair’s hand.*

“And Iam glad that you did not,” said Courtney.
“Tt would have made us all unhappy for life. And I
congratulate you both, and you have my sincerest
wishes for your happiness.”

And he withdrew, and closed the door softly be-
hind him.

Theresa burst into a laugh.

“He was glad to be quit of me!” she said, gleefully.
“Did you not see how his face lighted up? I do be-
lieve that he never really cared for me, but his moth-
er wanted our families united, and he was an obedient
son. And you have only taken me out of pity, because
he did not want me.”

St. Clair folded her in his arms, and the answer he
made is not one to be placed on record.

And he did not start for Texas that day.
cided that his urgent business could wait.

Reade Courtney went to his room a happy man.

A et which had puzzled him had been de-
cided. It is always easier for a woman to tell a man
that she does not love him than it is for a man to tell
a woman the same thing; and truth to say, Mr.
Reade Courtney’s mind had been sorely agitated on
the subject of his engagement to Miss Otis since he
had come again into the magic spell of Lucia Ash-
leigh’s presence.

But now it was all settled for him, and he felt as
happy as a boy when he thought that he was now
free to woo and wed the beautiful’ girl who had suf-
fered so much.

But there was his mother!

He drew a breath of dismay as he remembered
Mrs. Courtney. What would she say? How would
she take it? This plan of uniting the Courtney and
the Otis families had been to her avery dear one,
and the thought that it was to be had made her very
happy.

Reade disliked to disappoint her, but it was better
that she should know it at once. And putting on a
| bold front, he rapped at the door of her private
room.

She bade him enter, and as he did so she said, as
she stood at the glass, smoothing back the shining
ripples of her beautiful gray hair:

‘Whereis Theresa? I left her lying down with a
| headache, but she is not in her room. Have you
seen her?’

“Yes, I have seen her,” said Courtney, ‘‘and I think
her headache is better. Mother,’ going up to her
and winding his arms around her waist, and drawing
her head back against his shoulder, ‘‘would it grieve
you very much if Theresa and I should never con-
summate the engagement existing between us?’

“Grieve me, Reade? Whatdo you mean? I can
think of nothing so dreadful as a disappointment in
this matter on which my heart is set.”

‘But if we should deem it best for our mutual hap-
piness ¥

Mrs. Courtney disengaged herself from her son’s
embrace, aud looked at him with cool and lady-like
surprise. It would have been impossible for this
hiehetined woman to have done anything which was
not perfectly decorous and proper.

The fine old face grew pale, and she passed her
hand anxiously across her brow.

“What do you mean, Reade? I do uot think I
understand you.”

“Mother, I believe that you know that I would do
almost anything to make you happy. Theresa Otis
is the best girl alive, but you surely would not wish
me to marry her unless she loved me ?”’

“As she does—sincerely and truly.”

“T beg pardon for contradicting you.
is in love with another man!”’

“Reade, you are beside yourself!”

“On the contrary, I am quite sane.
that she is in love with him.”

“Again Lask you to explain yourself,” said Mrs.
Courtney, with dignity. ‘‘How do you expect me to
understand riddles? Who is the man?’

“Can you not guess ?”’

“T cannot conceive of a girl like Theresa Otis being
engaged to you and in love with another. No, I cer-
tainly cannot guess.”

“It is John St. Clair.”

“No 1”

“T tell you, yes.”

“How do you know? I will not believeit. Reade,
you are laboring under some absurd mistake, or else
you are trying to tease me. And itis not kind in
you to tease me, when you know how I have set my
heart on this marriage !”

“My dearest mother, it is very unkind and hateful
in me to be glad over what distresses you so much!
But it is true. Theresa and I are to be good friends
henceforth—nothing more. She loves St. Clair, and
she could not well love a nobler man.”

Mrs. Courtney turned away her face and put her

He de-

 

Mother, she

And I am glad

 

handkerchief to her eyes. No one but herself could

ce 1
And I—I must live

| love another.

| and the most deeply wronged.

“Theresa—Miss Otis,” he said, passionately, ‘you | : ]
| and Lucia Ashleigh the false.
But what matters it, since I shall |

 

| bracing her; ‘‘tor he is the best man in the world,
I tried to keep away from you. |
I give you my word, Miss Otis, I tried to Ieave this |
| *T dare say he is; and he saved your life; but he is

 

; | there before him.
seeing me, and he would have broken my heart, but |

anes | he could that though her own flesh
This is but a poor re- |

| to the little parlor, ‘‘and she has eaten some break-

| Courtney, cordially, ‘‘for I foresee that this will be

 

it had been the one thing for which she had lived
and hoped—the marriage of these two—and it had
seemed so near.

“My own dear mother! Please do not feel so bad! |
Let us rather rejoice that she found out who she loved |
before it was too late. Mother, I never cared for |
Theresa as @ man should care for his wife. I know
that now, and she is a good, true-hearted girl, and she |
needed a warmer love than I could ever give her.
And St. Clair is just her idea of a man—brave, hand-
some——”

“Do not mention him to me!” cried Mrs. Courtney,
pettishly. ‘“‘Heisarascal! and he knew that you |
and she were engaged !”

“Do not blame him, mother; he could not help it.
He was going away without telling her, and they met
by accident.”

“Well, it is a dreadfully mortifying
must say that you take it coolly.”

“Mother,” the young man knelt down
and laid his head in her lap, just as he
many times when he was a boy, and in

affair, and I

before her,
had done so
trouble, ‘TI
I had not thought to tell you until I
knew if she cared forme. But I lost my heart here
in St. Paul, last winter, and it has never come back
to me; and if I do not win the love of Lucia Ashleigh,
I shall never call any woman by the sacred name of
wife !””

“Reade!
of crime——

“Not that woman, mother, but the real and right-
ful Lucia Ashleigh—the sweetest girl in the world,
There is a long story
to tell; and if you will listen, I will tell it to you
now.”

And sitting at his mother’s knee, Reade Courtney
told her all that he knew of Lucia Ashleigh the real,

That dreadful woman. who accused you
”

And when he had finished, Mrs. Courtney’s sympa-
thies were so roused for the real Lucia, that she was
anxious to go at once and tear the false Lucia from
her position, and give the heiress her rights.

And when, a little later, Theresa stole in, and
standing meekly beside Reade, begged her dear |
friend to forgive her, Mrs. Courtney kissed her, and
scolded her at the same time, and wound up with
saying:

“It will be a dreadful humiliation to me to go back
to Boston and meet the questions and the sympathy
of our set, but I suppose I shall have to bearit. And
I only hope that Reade may yet marry some one
handsomer and richer than you are, Theresa.”

“And so he shall, and welcome,” said Theresa, em-

 

;

except one.’
“St. Clair may be well enough,” said Mrs. Courtney;

bound to live at the West, and you will get to be as
uncivilized as the cowboys, and the other savages
one reads about in the papers.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Theresa; “my husband will
be a gentleman.”

“But he was not born in Boston!” said Mrs. Court-
ney; and in saying this she felt that she had launched
her worst arrow at the unfortunate Englishman.

After that, what could she say more?

CHAPTER LVI.
THE SHADOW OF THE GALLOWS.

Reade Courtney lost no time in going to call at the
house of Tim Drake, after he saw that matters were
settled between Theresa Otis and John St. Clair.

The bdlase man of fashion felt as happy and blithe
asa boy, and he surprised himself more than once
on the way by whistling snatches of old love-ditties
and humming the words between whiles. He had
never loved Theresa, though he freely acknowledged
her goodness and her worth, and he was heartily glad
to know that she had not cared for him, and that she
would be happy with St. Clair. The only one disap- |
pointed or sad over the change was Mrs. Courtney, |
and it was rather too hard to frustrate her pet scheme;
but Reade hoped and believed that she would soon |
be reconciled to things as they were. And if he}
could win the girl he loved, he knew that his mother, |
when once she knew her, could not fail to love her as |
a daughter.

And his heart was very light as he rapped at Tim
Drake’s door.

Ivan, the great watch-dog of the Ashleighs, was |
Every day since Mary White had |
been an inmate of the cottage, the dog came and |
spent a part of the day with her, testifying as best |
and blood had |
forgotten her, he had not. And the fact of the dog’s |
devotion alone would have been sufficient to estab- |
lish her identity in any reasonable mind, without
further evidence.

This was the day the detective had set to take |

 

Mary White and Kate Glynn to Ashleigh house and |
depose the false heiress, and Courtney wanted to see
Mary alone first.

Mrs. Drake admitted him with abroad smile on
her face. Woman like, she had guessed his secret,
and was very happy over it.

“The young lady is looking quite happy and cheer=
ful this morning,’ said Mrs. Drake, as she led the way

fast. I declare it did Tim and me good tosee her
eat. That it did. Mr. Courtney, to see you, my dear,”
throwing open the door of the parlor.

Mary White arose and came forward. There was a
flush on her cheek and a lightin her eye which did
not escape Courtney’s Observing eye. She was glad
to see him, though she made more demonstration
over the dog than she did over him.

“Dear old Ivan! you, atleast, have not forgotten
mc.”

The dog put his great paws on her shoulders and
touched his cold nose to her cheek. Then he lay |
down at her feet and watched the interview between
her and her visitor with keen interest, as if, though
he was a brute, he could understand something of
what it implied.

Courtney looked at his watch. It still wanted two
hours of the time Mr. Smith had named as the hour
when he would be at the cottage.

“Tam glad to see you looking so well,” said Mr.
an exciting day for you. ButI trust we shall leave
you, before its close, safe and happy at home.”

“But what will become of her! The false heiress, I
mean. My father would be lenient with her, but Ed-
ward is different. His sense of justice was always
very stern.”

“We will make it as easy for her as possible, though
she deserves the severest punishment the law will
give. Sheis, without doubt, a murderess, and more
than once her hands have been dyed in blood. Oh,
Miss Ashleigh, it is fearful to think of such a creature
in your place!

“We do not know the temptations she may have
had,” said the girl, softly. “Perhaps she was weary
of the vile life she was leading, and thought to step
into this place and let the old life dropaway. We
will try to think so.”

“She longed for wealth and power,” said Reade,
‘and she obtained them both, I have promised you
that I will use my influence to save her from the gal-
lows, but she richly deserves hanging.”

The girl shuddered and grew pale. She grasped
Courtney’s arm convulsively, and looked into his
face with wild and pleading eyes.

“A woman on the gallows! Oh, it is a fearful
thing! a fearful thing! If you had ever stood in
fear of such a death, you would not speak so! In-
deed you would not! Oh, it is dreadful!”

“Of course it is dreadful! And I trust that this
Victorine Weldon may spend the remaining years of
her life in prison, where she will have time to repent
of her sins. My dear Miss Ashleigh, you are white
and trembling. Are you ill?’

She made a brave effort to control herself, but she
only partially succeeded. Courtney took her cold,
trembling hands in his own.

“You ought not to be compelled to talk of or to
think of such things,’ he said, ‘‘until you are strong-
er. Do not waste a thought on this guilty and un-
happy woman who has usurped your place. Sheis
not worth it. I want to talk to you about somethiug
else.”’

The crimson mounted slowly to his forehead as he
spoke, and the strong white hands which clasped
hers trembled. She looked at him curiously.

“T shall be glad to hear anything you may say to
me,” she replied. ‘I owe so much to you.”

“Since the night I saw you first at the Ice Palace,”
said Courtney, steadying his voice, and feeling doubt-
ful of himself for the first time in his life, ‘I have
thought of you continually. I have never closed my
eyes to sleep without seeing your face and hearin
your'voice. I risked my life at a fire to save a woman
took to be you, but I know now that it was Victorine
Weldon. And sometimes I have wished that I had
let her die!”

“No! no! that would have been too dreadful!”

“But she has made so much trouble!” said Court-
ney, doubtfully. ‘Yes, [think it would have been
better if I had let her alone. They told me that the
heiress of Ashleigh had come back, andI was wild
to meet her, and know her. And when I did meet
her she had your face and figure, but she struck a
cold chill to my heart. I felt that she was not the
lovely girl I had held that night at the Palace for
one little moment in my arms; the girl whose touch
had thrilled me through and through, and wakened in
me a fire which will never die out while life lasts. I
doubted her from the very first. Circumstances con-
firmed the doubt. It came to be impressed upon my
mind that there was some fraud about this heiress of
Ashleigh. Mr. Smith shared in my doubts, though we
said very little to each other about them. We visited
the old Grange where Rupert Vail at one time had
his rendezvous. He had gone. We found nothing
left behind as aclew to his whereabouts. Nothing
except this !”’

He took from his breast pocket a package, and un-
rolled it before the eyes of the wondering gir.

“Why, Mr. Courtney,” she cried, in amazement,
“itis my own hair! They cut it off, though I never
knew it until my senses came back. My poor hair,
that father and Edward were so proud of !”

She lifted up a long tress, and let it slip slowly
through her fingers.

“Tt will be a long time before [ have hair like that
again!” she said, a little sadly.

“Nothing could be lovelier than these little rings of

 

| dignant.

ney, ardently, ‘‘and I would not part with my treas-
ure trove for a king’s ransom.”

He folded up the shorn tresses and returned the
package to his pocket.

“Miss Ashleigh, it is useless for me to dally in
what [ want to tell you. You may be angry, or in-
I expect you will be. But I must say it. I
love you. [have loved you with my whole soul ever
since the first moment I saw you! You are going to
your home—to the love of your father and brother
and I am to you a comparative stranger. Do not an-
swerme now. I will wait. I will wait until you
know me better; until your friends shall counsel
you; until you shall have a chance to know your
heart. Lucia, darling! promise me that you will
give me achance to win your love.”

She had grown very pale while he was speaking,
and a look of despair and distress had frozen on her
face. She drew her hands from his and clasped them
behind her, and her limbs trembled so that she could
scarcely stand.

Courtney Was alarmed.

“For Heaven’s sake, Miss Ashleigh!” he cried,
“what have I said—what have I done to cause you
this terrible distress?—I, who love you so—who would
give my life to save you from suffering !”

She turned to the window and fiung it up, and the
cool air rushed in and saved her from fainting dead
away. He placed her in a chair and stood beside her,
his arm around her shoulders, her pale face against
his breast.

“Lucia, speak tome! Tell me what I have done.”

She lifted her face, and her sad eyes met his. Their
look of forlorn and utter helplessness he would never
forget.

“You love me,’ she said, with strong agitation—
“you would take me for a wife—you would intro-
duce me to the proud family whose last representa-
tive you are; and yet you know nothing of me. You
do net know what my past has been. You know

| nothing of the dark cloud which has so long hung
| over me—which

must hang over me forever—for
even the death of Rupert Vail could not make my
sky blue and clear. Reade Courtney, you know that
between me and Vail there is a dread mystery, and
yet you would link your proud name with mine, and
never ask me what that mystery is! You are more
canhees and unselfish than I dreamed a man could
re.

“My darling, I love you well enough to take you
with all the mysteries about you. And whatever
the secret between you and Vail may be, I feel cer-
tain that,so far as you are concerned, there is no
guilt.”

“You are mistaken,” she said, in a voice whose sol-
emn earnestness carried conviction with it; ‘and if
you knew the truth, you would shrink from me—you
would spurn me from you with horror and with
loathing. And you would not be to blame.”

A cold chill went over Reade Courtney as she
spoke, but the arm he had placed around her did not
slacken.

“T will take you as you are, and ask no questions,”
he said, firmly. “If you doubt it, I shall be only too
glad to have you put me to the test.”

“Tt is kind and noble in you to say so. I appreciate
a love like that; but I should be viler than Victorine
Weldon herself if I availed myself of it. Mx. Court-
ney, [had thought never to tell the terrible secret of
my own accord. I had said that no torture should
ever wring it from me; that if Vail ever betrayed me
—and I was always living in dread of his doing so—T
would deny it to the bitter end. When lovers came
to me I repelled them all. My father wondered ; Ed-
ward laughed, and said it was because the right one
had not appeared. But I knew that I must never
listen to the voice of a lover, or suffer myself to give
my hand in marriage to an honorable man. For
though Vail might die with the secret which was to
blight my life still untold, its constant presence
dwelt forever in my heart, and would not leave me
by day or by night. I mingled in society, I danced, I

| sang, I was the gayest of the gay; butin every scene

of festivity, in every hall of mirth, at home, with the
love of my father and brother to cheer me, alone at’
night in my silent chamber, it hung over me still
that terrible shadow—the shadow of the gallows!”

She paused, and her slight frame shook with emo-
tion, but her eyes were dry and tearless.

Reade Courtney, his heart pierced with a pain and
distress the like of which he had never known, drew
her closer to his side, and spoke steadily :

“Whatever you have done, I love you still! I will
risk everything. Give yourself to me, and trust your-
self to the protection I can bestow on you. It surely
sannot be so bad as you think.”

“Tt could be nothing worse !’’ she said, hopelessly.

| “There is no sin for which the law provides so cruel

and terrible a punishment. Reade Courtney, I have
been guilty of the crime of murder! The blood of a

| fellow bemg is on my hands!”

She lifted the two thin white hands above her head
and wrung them wildly together, as if she would
wash out the stain, and Courtney stood looking at

| her in grieyous amazement, wondering if she had

gone mad.
(TO BE CONTINUED.) =

—_— oor
IT WILL BE ALL LIGHT THERE.

There is a family in Detroit who are dependent at
this moment upon a little child for all the present
sunshine of their lives.

A few weeks ago the young wife and mother was
stricken down to die.

It was so sudden, so dreadful when the grave family
physician called them together in the parlor, and in
his solemn, professional way intimated to them the
truth—there was no hope!

Then the question arose among them, who would
tell her?

Not the doctor! It would be cruel to let the man of
science go to their dear one on such an errand.

Not the aged mother, who was to be left childless
and alone!

Nor the young husband, who was walking the floor
with clinched hands and rebellious heart.

Not—there was only one other, and at this moment
he iooked up from the book he had been playing
with unnoticed by them all, and asked gravely:

“Ts my mamma doin’ to die?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he sped from
the room and up stairs as fast as his little feet would

sarry him.

Friends and neighbors were watching by the sick
woman. They wonderingly noticed the pale face of
the child as he climbed on the bed and laid his small
head on his mother’s pillow.

“Mamma,” he asked in sweet caressing tones, ‘“‘is
you ’fraid to die?”

The mother looked at him with swift intelligence.
Perhaps she had been thinking of this.

“Who—told—you—Charlie ?” she asked, faintly.

“Doctor an’ papa an’ gamma—evyerybody,” he
whispered. ‘‘Mamma, dear little mamma, doan’ be
*fraid to die, ’ill you?”

“No, Charlie,” said the young mother, after one
supreme pang of grief, ‘no, mamma won’t be
afraid.”

“Jus’ shut your eyes in’e dark, mamma, teep hold
my hand—an’, an’ when you open ’em, mamma, it’ll
be all light there.”

When the family gathered awe-stricken at the bed-
side, Charlie held up his little hand.

“Hu-s-h! My mamma doan to sleep.
wake up here any more!”

And so it proved. There was no heart-rending fare-
well, no agony of parting, for when the young mother
woke she had passed beyond, and as baby Charlie
said, “it was all light there.’’—Detroit Free Press.

Her won’t

ep
BURIED ALIVE.

A horrible case of trance has occurred at Odessa,
in Russia, and, owing to the position of the person,
has caused considerable sensation. Major Majuroff,
an artillery officer and aide-de-camp to the Governor-
General of Odessa, aged 35, died, as was supposed,
some weeks ago, somewhat suddenly, and was in-
terred forty hours afterward. His funeral was
marked by much military pomp and by the presence
of all the civic and military notables.

Subsequently, while the family vault in the ne-
eropolis was being renovated for the Russian Decora
tion Day, the coffin lid was noticed to have been partly
forced open. It was immediately removed, and the
body was found face downward. The face was dread-
fully lacerated and the flesh gnawed from the hands.
The corpse was still bleeding, which confirms the
statement of a workman that his attention was first
attracted by a noise in the coffin, and the unfortunate
major died only on the instant of the appalling dis-
covery.

A similar case came to light recently in Cincin-
nati.

While Philip Gray, a wealthy citizen of Auburn,
Indiana, was addressing a religious meeting in Boon-
ville, he dropped dead, as was supposed, from apo-
plexy. His body was hurriedly prepared for ship-
ment to his home, where it was to be buried.

About ten hours after the supposed death the re-
mains arrived at Vincennes. At the railway depot
the coffin was taken from the train to the baggage
room. Just as the baggage men were about to place
the coffin on the floor they were startled by hearing
sounds, as though the occupant were kicking at the
sides. They dropped the coffin hurriedly and ran
to the station master and told him what had oc-
curred.

A crowd of people gathered about the coffin, and
when the sounds continued they ran away in great
fright. No one, however, not even the station-master
or policemen, dared touch the coffin.

Word was sent to the Chief of Police at Cincinnati,
and then the coffin was opened. The man was dead,
lying on his face, and the body was still warm. The
shroud was torn off, and there were other indications
to show that he had come to life after belng placed
in the coffin.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ex THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 42—No, 34,

 

 

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and always kept, to present the works of new and
brilliant contributors from time to time, as often as
space will permit, we announce that in two weeks
we shall begin the publication of

A PICTURESQUE AND GRAPHIC STORY

BY

DORA LESTER,

AUTHOR OF
‘*A Child’s Honor,” etc.,

ENTITLED

MAJOR JACK;

OR,

A Luckless Marriage.

This is a clever story of English Life, written in
the most vigorous and fascinating style, with ad-

*©An Evil Reputation,”

mirably drawn characters, and every scene true to
nature.

Our readers will be sure to hail Miss LESTER as a
welcome addition to the NEW YORK WEEKLY staff.

EXPENSIVE DISPLAYS.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

In speaking of expensive displays, I refer to the
orchards, these days of early summer.

My neighbor, opposite my window, to whom I just
shouted a twilight congratulaton on the magnificence
of his flowering orchard, answered ime laughingly :

“Yes. I’m glad you neighbors appreciate it, for it
is an expensive display.”

He referred, of course, to the high taxes on an acre
in this city kept for fruit trees, to the care of garden-
ers, and all the incidentals. I have heard him say
that his apples and pears, his peaches and plumbs,
cost him eighty per cent. more, raised in hisown
garden, than the same raised in the City Hall Market
of our town.

As the fragrance of this cloud in white, and pink,
and green breathed in upon me through the open
windows, IT could not help thinking of another re-
spectin which all this magnificence of nature was
an expensive display. To consider for a moment the
inexhaustable wealth of the Creator who pours forth,
season after season, such voluptuous splendors ! Not
only in favored gardens, but in every nook and cor-
ner of the way-back pasture; on the unseen lea near
hoary stone walls; on mountain side and moor; in
the straddle of old rail fences that climb the upland
wilderness; in the dim aisles of the aged forests
where small game and birds are the only eyes, save
His own, that ever look upon them; all the hemis-
phere is florescent. And each single petal beyond the
utmost power of man to fashion. All this from year
to year, from century to century, from age to age.
Truly it is wonderful to meditate upon. They who
meditate wonder,

For myself, lam overwhelmed as I mentally ask

the question, Whence cometh all this floral beauty ?
Yesterday, the cold, brown earth a desert! The day
before, anicy plain! To-day, Life! Everywhere the
eye may wander, upspringing, throbbing, growing,
beautiful Life! Life from the dead! That strange
something, Life! To be sure, not intelligent life,
like the animal’s; yet I do not know butadandelion’s
‘birth and growth are as inexplicable and miraculous
as a lamb’s or a child’s. In either case we can only
ask the question, Whence? We cannot answer, ex-
cept we say, Creator in one case as in the other.
ao this life in the sod? Yes, partly, and partly in
the air, but very largely it came millions of literal
mniles, from the sun. We know that heat and light
call vegetable life into being on the earth. So that,
in a sense, all this beautiful verdure and blossom
that we now see, came to us froma distant sphere
hung high in ourheavens. Whence derived the sun
this potential twain, Lightand Heat? Ah, that we
know not. Some Great Unknown hath wealth on
wealth of light and heat which He pours into the
heart of the luminary. That Great One must have
boundless resources. He must be very wealthy. |

The display itself teaches me alesson. Beauty is
not a thing despised by the Creator. He makes a
display. He fashions a great show. He seems to put
His own world on exhibition, that it may be admired.
The God of the Universe decks himself out for our
wondering eyes. There have been narrow sectaries
who attempted to teach that beauty was a sort of
sin, and ugliness alone a virtue. The gorgeous as-
pect of nature, at the present hour, refutes such
sophistry. There is a privilege of display, if the
thing be genuine. Itis the false, the vain, the con-
ceited in display, that offend. It is beauty put to
mean uses that is wicked. The astral meadow and
the astral heavens bespeak God's love of the beauti-
ful. The radiant earth, just now, inculcates the les-
son of beauty in character. The virtues are to the
soul what the flowers are to the bosom of our mother,
earth. It is our duty to be and to act the beautiful.

The flowery spring is but for aten days. Then
ensues the sober work of fruitage. After apple blos-
soms then apples. After clover blossoms then the
ripened hay to feed the stalled ox in winter. All
things edible have their spring flowering; but the
oe or the root that had its flower in spring has its

rnel or its full form in October. ae

How beautiful isthe problem! That fair life, of
which we spoke, which upsprings everywhere, be-
comes the sustainer of life, and higher life than
itself. Man and beast feed on ripened beauty. Like-
wise man himself gives of his lifein turn, and it
feeds other life. The battle-field grasses are always
longest, most silken, and most deeply hued. Itis a
circle. Life is ever wheeling on.

But, even if he consider the Creator as originally
supplying only a given quantity, and subsequent
summers, but using over again that first deposit, still
the problem of his original wealth is just as great.
Whence obtained the impulse for the first rose, which
has gone on repeating itself, so tirelessly, for all
these ages? Man throws a stone, and it descends at
length to the ground. God propelled the rose and it
verpetuates itself from century to century, replen-
ianed, we know not at what source, Or it may be
that we are all wrong. It may be that nature dies
each season. Each spring, then, is a new creation,
as much as “when the morning stars sang together,
and all the sons of God shouted for joy.’ What
wealth, then, of creative resource.

To transform the whole outer world from a winter
to asummer home; to deck it with new carpets and
freshly upholstered furniture; to adorn its walls of
eastern and western sky with new pictures of light
and glory; to furnish its old stars for youthful
lovers’ midsummer trysts, as_ for their grandsires
and granddames; to get up all the costly array of
thunder-storm and freshening breezes ; to temper the
great wide sea with a breath of salubrity in place of
the fierce winter’s awful blast; to bring forth birds
to song and all their new laid eggs to hatching; to
kindle love in the bosoms of all living things and

ive them a joyous hope of the new year. Ah, this

s wonderful housekeeping! This is expense for you,
of which you, oh, man, know nothing!

And when youand I are dead _a thousand. years,
this munificent display of wealth will go right on,

 

for children’s children as for us. The earth shows
not the smallest perceptible trace of wearing out.
The sun of this morning is as bright as that which
shone on Abraham.

A SHAKING QUAKER,

BY THE. “‘OLD ’UN.”

The other day I encountered on Broadway an
elegantly dressed gentleman, who smiled, extended
his hand, and said:

“You don’t remember me.”

“T am ashamed to say,” I replied, as I looked into
his pleasant, frank, smiling countenance, “that I
cannot recall your name just at this moment, though
your face seems familiar.”

“Jacob Easton,” he said, simply.

Jacob Easton! Soitwas! But how changed! The
last time I met him, many years before, in Boston,
he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, a straight-cut suit
of snuff-color, and huge cowhide boots. He had just
emerged from the Quaker fraternity into the world,
as strange to its ways, as simple, as frank as when,
a mere lad, he had ‘‘jined the shakers.” He then
spoke the most confirmed Yankee dialect with the
most nasal of drawls.

He told me of his renunciation of Shakerdom and

of his marriage in the quaintest and simplest fashion.

“Ye see I’d sot my eyes on Lizzie, and it kinder put
notions into my head. We couldn’t speak to one
another and that’s a kind of drawback to courtin’,
isn’t it? No settin’ up and sparkin’ at Lebanon—not
much—the elders a watchin’ of you like Thomas
cats. But they can’t hinder a feller’s lookin’ outer
his eyes. And Lizzie and me had looked things at
each other more’n once on the sly. IthoughtI had a
kinder peep inter her soul, and I fancied she looked
straight down into mine. Oh! how I watched my
chance! It came one day.

“We met on the threshold of a door that separated
two rooms. Every second was precious, for there
was an old elder prowlin’ round seekin’ whom he
might devour. So I came right straight to the p’int.

‘“* ‘Lizzie,’ says I, ‘what d’yer say to us two quittin’
the community, becomin’ man and wife, and j’inin’
the world’s people ?

“My heart was in my mouth, and I can’t tell how I
gotit all eout. But Lizzie said ‘I’m agreed,’ and that’s
the way I courted my wife.

“Ttell ye there was a dredful time when we an-
nounced our intention of steppin’ eout into the world.
But we was free agents—wasn’t we? The Quakers is
bound, when a fellow leaves, to put him in the same
position as he was when he jined. So they owed me
a suit of world’s people’s clothes. They kept to the
letter of the contract, but darned ef they acted up to
the spirit, for they offered me the dientical clothes I
had when I came there asa boy. There was a brand-
new beaver hat, but it wouldn’t go onto my head;
and a pair of calf boots that cost me eight dollars, by
gravy! that I couldn’t get my feet into. As for my
coat, the waist buttons was between my shoulders,
and the extremity didn’t reach to where [ set down.
Thet’s the way I come to be weavin’ Quaker clothes.
Jest as soon as I get money enough, I'll shed my
skin, forI du hate to hear the boys singin’ eout to
mine ‘Quaker! Quaker!’ when I ain’t no more a Quaker
than they be. I always explain the circumstance to
’em; but boys is irrational bein’s, and they only
sarce me the more for it.”

Poor Easton used to call and see me frequently,
tell me his troubles, and ask my advice. One day he
came in with his bright, blooming, innocent face
wearing a shade of anxiety.

‘“‘Been hevin’ more trouble with the boys,” he said.
“T can’t stop ’em callin’ of me ‘Quaker!’ and I don’t
mind it much neow, because I know I’m innercent,
but itdooz aggravate me to have ’em heavin’ ice-
balls at me. You know how they make ’em. They
make ’em over night—satterate snow-balls with
water, and freeze ’em. One of them ice-balls hurts
a feller bad when it hits him sider the head. It’s as
rough as rocks. This mornin’ they was peltin’ of me
sharp, and sez I, ‘It’s agin my principles to strike ye,
boys; but ef you don’t stop, Pll run yedeown.’ They
didn’t stop, and I started fair, run ’em deown, and
bumped their heads agin the frozen ground. It
must have hurt ’em pretty bad, but I reckon it
oer their heavin’ ice-balls at me for a spell, at

east!’

In spite of his secession from the ranks of the
elect, he still clung to many Shaker notions.

“Did ye ever hear tell of the peower of the Al-
mighty ?” he asked one day.

“In what special sense and way ?” I asked.

“Why, you see, the Shakers believe that when a
feller’s all right, purified by prayer and piety, dooz
all his dancing up brown, etc., the peower of the Al-
mighty will descend upon him as a token of his ac-
ceptance. It may come into ye at any time, and
generally manifests itself in a series of jerks. I
knew a fellow what was ridin’ hum layin’ onto the
top of a load of hay. The jerks tuk and riz him right
up into the air horizontally and dropped him down
agin as light as a feather. The peower come onto me
when I was dancing one of our religious dances. On
my right was an elder thet hed treated me pretty bad
offand on. The jerks tuk my arm and slatted it out,
and I fetched him alick across the chops that sent
him down quicker’n link lightnin’—must ha’ hurt
him pretty bad. Don’t laugh: it warn’t intentional,
and I couldn’t possibly control my muscles. I hey
the jerks sometimes now.”

I moved out of the reach of his arm. He smiled
faintly at that, but he was evidently serious and be-
lieved in the superstition.

For some time the poor fellow had great difficulty
in making both ends meet, though his wife was as
industrious as himself and a veritable helpmate to
him.

At one time he dealt in botanical medicines, at an-
other worked as a stevedore, and once, when I met
him in East Boston, and asked what he was doing,
he astonished me by answering that he was “fol-
lerin’ the moon.”

I thought ita queer confession of lunacy, but he
explained.

“I’m a lamp-lighter,” he said. “I thought it would
be an easy job, but I had no idea the corporation was
so mean. It ain’t the lightin’ the lamps and turnin’
off the gas that worries me, but it’s the watchin’ of
the moon. Why, jest for a little, mean new moon, as
thin as a shavin’, I have to shet off the gas. One of
the aldermen saidif I didn’t foller the moon up
closer Ishould lose my situation. Soe I’ve got to
think the moon’s a darned mean institution—keeps a
feller trottin’ up and down like astray dawg. A
chap what tends the street-gas over to Bawston tells
me they ain’t nigh so pertickler abeout measurin’
moonlight. Butit’s allers the way with these here
little branch concerns to reckon a cent’s bigger than
a cart-wheel.”

Such was my seceding Quaker friend twenty years
ago. To-day he has worked himself up into an im-
portant clerkship in a large importing houge in New
York. He has learned the English language, he is a
dandy in his dress, sometimes drives a fast horse in
Harlem Lane, has developed a taste for the Italian
opera, and as for Lizzie, the Quaker bride, you would
never suspect, to see her tripping into Lord and Tay-
lor’s, dressed in the height of fashion, that she ever
was imprisoned in anarrow drab gown, or wore a
sugar-shovel bonnet.

Mr. and Mrs. Easton are going to spend the next
winter in Rome.

AWAY FOR THE SUMMER.

BY KATE THORN.

“Going away for the summer!” With what an air
of relief the busy housewife tells you the important
news when you ¢all to talk over the new style of
hats, the shape of bustles, and the way they drape
overskirts.

She is going away for the summer!

How much that sentence implies! It suggests syl-
van shades, wide piazzas, with any quantity of red
rocking-chairs, garden settees, lawn-tennis, ham-
mocks, croquet, musquitoes, seven-by-nine bed-
rooms, long bills, dust, cinders, gossip, crochet work,
and a thousand other things equally delightful, and
all going to make up the sum total of a summer vaca-
tion in the country.

No getting up in the morning to see about break-
fast; no planning how to serve up yesterday’s re-
mains of dinner so thatit shall be pleasing to the
eye and the gastronomical apparatus of paterfam-
ilias ; no helping Biddy with the dishes; no looking
after the washerwoman; no going to bed loaded with
the cares of the day already passed, and anticipating
the trials and tribulations of another. ;

Away for the summer! What glorious possibili-
ties are suggested! What thoughts of sunshine, and
blue skies, and clear waters, and mountain brooks,
and rainbows spanning the heavens—what sugges-
tions of lake trout done to a turn—of new milk which
has not been submitted to the scientific manipula-
tions of the milkman—of fresh strawberries, and
newly laid eggs, and home-made butter, and new-
mown hay, and a thousand other things equally de-
lightful. ‘ :

And then there is the enchanting thought always
present that her next door neighbor is not going
away anywhere; and what a triumph it will bewhen
she gets home to tell her all about her trip. And she
will have to hear it. And she will not want to, either.

And the woman who is going away makes over her
dresses, and has two or threé new ones, and gets a
supply of cuffs and collars, and some novels, and
studies up some fancy work, and packs her trunk to

the brim, and takes a shawl, and a parasol, anda
sun umbrella, and a vail, and-a hand-bag, and a book,
to cheer her on her journey.

And when she gets to the delightful boarding-place,
which the advertisement stated was five minutes’
walk from the depot and the post-office, and three
churches—and, in fact, five minutes’ walk from every
other convenience that one would be likely to hanker
after—she finds that it is two miles from anywhere,
and over a road that it would try the mettleof a
mountain pony to travel without breaking his neck.

Oh, the delusions of modern “country boarding”
are many and varied; and everybody understands
them, and knows that keeping city boarders is a
trade, and one which has been well learned. But,
nevertheless, when hot weather comes, we sigh for
a change, and the privations and trials one suffers
while away for the summer make the comforts of
home seem all the more delightful. For this reason
there is good in it; and so let everybody, who can,
go away for the summer.

_—_— or

Humor and Philosophy,
BY GEORGE RUSSELL JACKSON.

About this Time.
With sweetly scented June, the summer comes,
And also picnics, sudden showers, and thunder;
The wild bee ’mong the clover blossoms hums,
And nature’s beauteous face commands our wonder.

On terraced lawns made fragrant by arcades,
Which jessamine and ivy are arraying,
Young men are making love to lovely maids,
Pretending it is tennis they are playing.
The cow is feeding in the verdant fields,
And this for city milkmen is a matter
For gratulation, as the diet yields
Milk that will stand a large amount of water.

Some people to the beach have gone away,

And others would but that their means forbid it,
And some who moved upon the firstof May

Are bitterly regretting that they did it.

The thin man’s glad to feel the summer glow,
(Of chilly weather he’s an ardent hater),
The man who weighs three hundred pounds, or so,
Would gladly live in a refrigerator.
There’s great excitement at the base-ball ground—
The players have the umpire in their clutches—
And for a week or two he'll travel ’round
A spectacle of misery on crutches.

It Was on the Way.

SHE—“‘Ah! Henry, you have deceived me.”

He—“Deceived you, dearest! Pray in what ?’

SHE—“Didn’t you propose to me the other night?”

He—“‘Certainly.”

SHE—‘And didn’t I accept you?” f

Hre—‘*You did, and made me the happiest——”

SHe—“And didn’t you promise to send me a pretty
engagement-ring ?”’ :

He—“I did. Haven’t you received it?”

SHE.—‘“‘I have not.”

Hr—‘Why, Isent it by a messenger boy yester-
day.”

Ske (much relieved)—“‘Oh ! a messenger boy. Then
I guess it is on the way, andI will receiveit in a day

or two.” ,
The Old, Old Story.
They stood together at the door,
The young and loving pair;
He’d said good-night, three times or more,
But still he lingered there.

The moon looked down, the zephyrs light
Among her tresses played. | :

She wondered—when he’d said good-night
So often—why he staid.

He gazed around—no one was near—
Then said, in accents low,
“JT wish that you would give me, dear,
One-kiss before I go.”

She blushed and murmured midst her sighs,
The cunning little elf,
“T e—c—an’t, but—I will shut my eyes,
And—y—you take one yourself.”
Ursa Major.

“Tt is becoming a custom, I see,” said Mr. Cally
to Mr. Dally, “for theatrical and concert com-
panies to call themselves constellations. Here is
a concert company announced in a foreign paper
under the high-sounding title of the ‘Orion constella-
tion of stars.’”

“Oh! that’s nothing uncommon.”

“JT wonder what constellation a company of ballet-
girls would call themselver after?”

“The constellation of the Bare, of course.”

She Won't.
She walks with him upon the sand ;
She’s young, and rich, and pretty ;
She sometimes lets him squeeze her hand
While they are listening ta thy band,
Stays out with him till nediy ten
O’clock. But will she know him when
They get back to the city?
Character in Handwriting.
“Can character be told by handwriting, do you
think ?”
“Well, if aman puts his name to a note for you, I
should say his handwriting would indicate that he
was a very good character.”

Her One Fault.
In the skies of June the fathomless blue
Of my darling’s eyes I trace ;
On the rose’s petals I find the hue
That glows in my lady’s face,

In the crimson cherries that deck the spray
The tint of her lips I see,

And the white of her teeth I behold to-day
In the bloom of the apple tree.

But, alas, alas! though she’s fair and sweet,
And to wed me is quite content,

She has one fault—she is not complete—
My lady hasn’t a cent!

The manufacturers of furniture show very little in-
ventive ability. No one of them has ever thought of
inventing a bureau under which a man can get his
head when he is looking for his collar button.

Ornamental, But Not Useful.
Oh! she’s sweet and she’s neat
From her head to her feet,
And the glance of her eye,
Half roguish, half shy,
The gazer entrances—
She plays, sings, and dances,
And paints chinaware,
But, oh! have a care,

For she ne’er was cut out for a wife;
She can’t cook a steak,
Make a pudding, nor bake

A batch of good bread for her life.

“Who was the greatest joker among the poets of
the past ?’

“Goldsmith.”

“Goldsmith ?”’

“Yes, he wrote, ‘Man wants butlittle here below.’ ”

All Bright.
The day’s very hot, but the sweet birds are singing,
And everything seems to be humming ;
I hear the glad bell in the thoroughfare ringing—
The man with the ice-cream is coming.

A writer on the cultivation of flowers says:

“Tt must be a small garden, indeed, that can’t have
a bed of pansies.”

But it doesn’t always depend upon the size of the
garden, you know, but upon the hens.

The Base-Ballist’s Motto.

Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Sees no victorious score, no League game won.

A man who has a torpid liver, and at the same time
a note coming due ‘that he cannot meet, takes very
little interest in ‘‘the latest London styles for gent’s
wear.”

It is nonsense to tell a man who starts an elevator
up and finds he can’t stop it, that ‘‘there is plenty of
room at the top.”

“You seldom work, you often drink,
And how you live I cannot think.”

“Oh! I meet lots of friends, you see,
And that is meet and drink for me.”

It ishard fora woman to be an optimist whose
neighbors can afford to dress better than she can.
“Yrs,” said the tramp, “it is this business of treat-

ing that is ruining the country. Being treated is a
different thing.”

As long as an editor’s temperature is all right, he
is ina healthy condition. There is never anything
the matter with the circulation.

The comet, the story paper, and the scandal mon-
ger all come under the head of tale-bearers.

Sr oo

INTRODUCING AN AUTHOR.

The author was announced to lecture at a certain
town, and the mayor of the town was to be in the
chair. The mayor was a very successful man of
business, but he knew as much about literature as I
do of Sanscrit. He asked a friend of mine, ‘‘What
has this fellow written? I never heard of him be-
fore.”

The young man said he would write out a list of
the author’s works, and the mayor asked him to put
it in the shape of a little speech and he would give it
as his own. ,

The young man did so.

Imagine the consternation of the author, who was
introduced as follows:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have all laughed at the
quaint adventures of Sancho Panza; we have all
felt the better for reading the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress ;’

 

 

 

we have all wept over the pathetic picture of Paul
Dombey; we have all admired the beautiful character
of Colonel Newcome; we have all been fascinated by
the romance of ‘Lorna Doon;’ we have all read with
delight ‘The Princess of Thule.’ Ladies and gentle-
men, I have this evening the pleasure and the honor
of introducing to you the celebrated—yes, gentle-
men, the justly celebrated—author of the characters
I have named.”

CITY CHARACTERS.

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

No. 20.—THE BALLET-MASTER.

Country people have a marvelous faculty for
guessing a man’s business by his looks, but I often
wonder how they would operate, or what they would
think, if they were to meet a ballet-master.

Men who buy and sell, whether they be junk-deal-
ers or agents for corner-lots on Fifth avenue, have
some features in common; so have professional men,
all the way from the pettifogging lawyer to the lead-
ing statesman; so the countryman can study strange
faces by his sense of comparison.

But with whom can he compare the ballet-master
—a man whose business is unlike any other on the
face of the earth?

He is in the show business, yet no other showman
bears any resemblance to him. He is, perhaps,
slightly akin to the trainers of animals, but the re-
semblance soon ceases for while some of the ballet-
master’s pupils are quite as rude and stupid as any
beast in the circus, their trainer has to have a great
deal of artistic sense in his nature.

Tn fact, he looks more like an artist than any other
human being, and yet there is something in his
manner that plainly shows you that he is not a
painter of pictures. Itis an air of patience and en-
durance, of which more anon.

The ballet-master is so seldom seen and known,
outside his profession, that city people know as little
about him as the most remote backwoodsman, and
they form most erroneous opinions of him.

He is usually supposed to be quite young, hand-
some, and graceful—a gay Lothario among the fair
sex, and as wicked as Satan himself.

On the contrary, his person is almost always
middle aged, stout, and awkward; like the rest of us,
he admires most what he does not himself possess;
consequently he admires fine figures and physical
grace. One of the best ballet-masters in the world is
a homely little hunchback, and the one who has
mounted the most artistic ballets that New York has
seen in the past few years is so fat that he isashamed
to look a weighing machine in the face.

Instead of making love to every pretty woman he
meets, the ballet-master is generally in love with his
wife, and with her only. In fact, his business ex-
perience has led him to look down upon the fair sex
and to regard pretty girls as a lot of conceited,
stupid young idiots, of whom the less seen the better.

But business is business; his living depends upon
training girls to dance gracefully, or, at least, fash-
ionably ; so day by day he puts them through the
motions. To him the prettiest pupil is exactly what
the performing dog or monkey is to its trainer—a
physical machine, being put in such order as will
make it most fit to earn money.

Awful to relate, the ballet-master sometimes
wishes his pupils were four-footed animals, for then
he could quicken their slow wits with a whip. After
going through bis work for an hour, any one of us
would feel justas savage and wicked, probably a
good deal more so, for the ballet-master has generally
acquired more patience than the rest of us.

Indeed this patience of his is his special distin-
guishing quality‘ ifit were not for his patience, he
would have gone to a mad-house before he had been
in the business half a year. ‘

It is usually supposed that any pretty girl who can
dance at a party can get a place in the ballet at once,
if she will let herself down to it.

This may be true of the lightly clad females who
pose, caper, and flirt in the comic operas, in what, by
a violent stretch of the imagination, is called ‘the
ballet.”

But were any of these girls to apply to a genuine
ballet-master, they would be put through a course of
gymnastics as severe aS any boating man or prize-
fighter, besides being a great deal longer and more
regular.

A prize-fighter may be trained to “condition” in
three months, and an oarsman in six, but it takes
from three to six years to make a girl competent for
the first row in the ballet. Through all that time the
ballet-master must watch her a great deal, correct
her awkwardnesses, which are numberless, teach her
how to hold her head, her arms, her knees, and, most
of all, her toes. And during all that time the pupil
is probably grumbling and making faces at her in-
structor.

Then he has to teach her to smile—and such a
smile! When you see it, from a seat at the opera or
theater, it does not look as if it were worth learning,
so lifeless and meaningless does it seem; but, such
as it is, it has cost the ballet-master hundreds of
hours of effort. Think of being obliged to look at
that wooden smile for an hour or two every day for
months and months, and to finally get rid of it only
in order to begin on another equally wooden and
more ungracetul! Yet nobody ever heard of a ballet-
girl being murdered by her teacher.

As already said, the ballet-master is generally sup-
posed to be in love with all his pupils. The truth is,
that the only pupils in which he shows affectionate
interest are very small children. Among ballet-
masters I have met, I never saw one really happy at
his work except when he was training tiny tots for a
pantomime or dance.

“Ze children,” said he, “tis always full of ze grace,
but ze young women—nevaire! Zeze little children
here is angels, some of zem; but my grown-up pupils
is—bah! elephants!’ Who could fall in love with an
elephant ?

There is a counterfeit of the ballet-master who is
no more like the original than brass is like gold. It
is the fellow who advertises in newspapers for ‘“‘beau-
tiful young ladies for the ballet of a traveling com-
pany—no previous experience necessary.” He may
really be in earnest in what he says, but the ‘ballet’
in which those who apply to him usually find them-
selves requires a severe letting down of personal
manners and character.

One thing more about the ballet-master—the genu-
ine article. Instead of being an adorer of pretty
girls, it is a historic fact that he dislikes them, rather
than otherwise. It is a settled belief among most
members of his profession, that the woman with a
pretty face is generally inactive and slow, whereas
to become successful in the ballet she should above
all things be nervous, active, and untiring. Given
these qualities, and she excites the ballet-master’s
untiring enthusiasm. She may be as homely as a
brindle cow all bespattered with mud, but he regards
that as a trifling imperfection which can be over-
come, at a few minutes’ notice, by paste, powder,
rouge, and false hair, while physical agility cannot
be made to order.

Take him all in all, the ballet-master stands very
near the head of a great city’s original characters.

 

—<—>-

A MOTHERLY OLD LADY.

Mrs. MuLLIGAN—‘And so you have no mother
now ?”’

MOTHERLESS BOY—‘‘No, mum.”

Mrs. M,—**Well, me boy, whenever you feel the
want of a good licking, come to me, and I’ll be a
mother to you.”

Iv is best to strive to cultivate an interest in sim-
ple, innocent, and inexpensive pleasures. We may
thus aid in diffusing that spirit of contentment which
is of itself a rich and permanent possession.

THERE is norule for beauty; this enables every
man to have a better looking wite than any of his
neighbors.

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

te Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

Irke, Lincoln, Ill.—To preserve health, the pores of the
skin must be kept open. When bathing is neglected and
undergarments not often changed, perspiration accumu-
lates and dries up upon the skin, and mingling with the
oily matter secreted by the oil glands forms a tenacious
gluey matter which closes up the pores. By this neglect
the worn-out matter, which would go off with fluids
through the pores, is retained to poison the blood, or to
seek an outlet through the kidneys already burdened with
asmuch as they should be required todo. But bathing
can be overdone, especially by persons of debilitated con-
stitutions. Tepid baths not oftener than twice a week
are recommended for them. Bathing in very cold water
is not generally approved except with persons of very
robust constitutions. Very warm baths are weakening
and relaxing. Sea bathing moderately indulged in is
thought to be good for dyspeptics and all persons inclined
to biliary derangements. If bathing facilities be want-
ing, with one or two coarse towels. and a quart or two of
water, one may take a very good bath. A daily towel ab-
ae thoroughly performod, is a great promoter of
1ealth.

B. C. B., Lewes, Del.—ist. The pineapple is so called
from its resemblance in form and external appearance to
the cones of some species of pine. Its American origin
has been disputed, but there is little doubt that it is a
native of Brazil. The first pineapple known in England
was sent as a present to Cromwell, and the first culti-
vated in that country were raised about 1715, though
they were grown in Holland in the previous century.
Better West Indian pineapples are sold in our markets
than in those of England, as we are nearer the place of
growth, but the fruit raised under glass in England is so
greatly superior to the best imported specimens, that its
cultivation for market is successfully prosecuted. The
largest English pineapple on record weighed fourteen
pounds twelve ounces. 2d. The juice that is used in
flavoring ices and sirups for soda water is put into bottles,
heated through by means of a water bath, and securely
corked while hot. If stored in a cool place, it will pre-
serve its flavor forayear. 3d. The business of canning

ineapples is largely pursued, particularly at Nassau,
New Providence.

Frank E.—1st. The constituents of most depilatories
(preparations for removing superfiueus hair from the
skin) are lime and orpiment (arsenic.) The use of the
latter is dangerous, especially in case of any abrasion of
the skin. The safest application (but we do not recom-
mend it) is said to be astrong solution of sulphuret of
barium made into a paste with powdered starch. It
should be applied immediately after it is mixed, and
allowed to remain on for five or ten minutes. All depila-
tories require caution in their use. They should be ap-
plied to only asmall surface atatime, and great care
should be taken to prevent them from extending to thead-
jacent parts. The paste should be washed off with warm
water, and a little cold cream or any simple ointment ap-
a to the part to allay the smarting. Our advice is to
et the hair alone. If remeved, it will grow again and be
thicker and coarser than before. 2d. July 5, 1871, fell on
Wednesday.

Dalton Dunniston, Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—ist. Colts-
foot is a perennial herb, with a creeping root, which early
in the spring sends up several leafless flower-stems. The
leaves do not make their appearance until after the
flowers have blown. The plant grows spontaneously in
Europe and America. In this country it is found upon
the banks of streams in the Middle and Northern States.
It flowers in April. 2d. Coltsfootis not thought to exer-
cise much influence upon the human system. It is, how-
ever, demulcent, and is sometimes used in chronic
coughs, consumption, and other affections of the lungs,
The leaves were smoked by the ancients in pulmonary
complaints. 38d. The usual form of administration is that
of decoction, An ounce or two of the plant may be boiled
in two pints of water toa pint, of which a teacupful may
be taken several times a day.

W. J. W., Benson, Minn.—ist. Rice is nutritious and
easy of digestion, and entirely free from laxative proper-
ties. It should be well boiled. 2d. More than nine-
tenths of rice is made up of starch and water, and about

a third of the other tenth is made up of gluten. 3d. Rice
is said to be the principal food of nearly a third of the
human race mostly in hot climates, such as Southern
China, India, Burmah, and Siam. 4th. Rice makes more
fat than muscle. 5th. Wheat is considered the best of all
the grains for food. Itis, of course, used mostly as fiour,
but a great deal is used in the form of wheaten grits,
which is simply wheat ground coarsely. It should be
boiled quite soft and eaten with milk. 6th. Wheat is not
known to grow wild anywhere, but is supposed to have
first come from Asia.

Celia D., Morgan, Ga.—Tortoise shell may easily be soft-
ened by putting it into boiling water, and may then be
molded or pressed into shape, which it will keep after
cooling. Pieces may also be welded or joined together by
scraping the edges down thin, warming them, and then

sressing them tightly together in a screw press. In mak-
ing eye-glass rims only a narrow slip of shell is used for
each rim. A slit is sawed in it with a fine saw, the shell
is softened, and the slit is pulled open little by little until
it is made into around hole large enough for the glass.
A groove is then cut around the inside of it by means of a
little circular saw, and the glass is slipped in while the
shell is soft. It is lastly finished by filing and polishing.

Abigail, Somers, Wis.—A deep red or crimson tinge may
be given to hair oil by steeping, for two or three days, a
little alkanet root (say three drams) in each pintof the
oil. The coloring will be hastened by warming the oil.
To impart a green hue to the oil steep in it (cold) alittle
green parsley, or spinach leaves, or lavender, for afew
days; or dissolve in gach pint three drams of gum-guaia-
cum, by the aid of heat. To color the oil orange or yellow,
rub up a little annotto with a portion of the oil while hot,
and then add it to the rest at a gentle heat; or add a little
palm oil while warm. No recipes for other colors that we
can recommend,

B. B. M., Baltimore, Md.—Clams in large quantities are
canned by being placed in iron buckets of two gallons ca-
pacity, which are run into a large iron steam chest. In
twelve minutes they are taken from the chest and
dumped on long wooden tables where they are picked
from their shells by women and girls, washed in their
own juice, and packed in cans which are soldered with
the exception of asmall hole in the lids. The clams are
then treated to another steam bath until they are per-
fectly tender, when the cans are hermetically sealed and
labeled.

S. S., Springfield, Mass.—‘‘Lacon, or Many things in
Few Words,” was written by Charles Caleb Colton. He
graduated at Cambridge, Eng., in 1801, He died by his
own hand, in France, on April 28, 1882, He was at one
period in this country. He afterward went to Paris, and
acted for a time as correspondent of a London newspaper.
He contracted the habit of gambling and was constantly
involved in financial difficulties. ‘The work named was
the most popular of his productions.

G. M. C., Fremont, Ohio.—The University of Pennsyl-
vania, in West Philadelphia, had its origin in a charitable
school established by subscription in 1745. The medical
department was founded in 1765. It has a valuable mu-
seum and cabinets. Instruction in the medical Coe
ment is given by the regular faculty and by clinical lee-
tures in the hospital during the autumn and winter.

Phillip, Newburgh, N. Y.—John Edward Owens, the
comedian, died at his farm near Baltimore, Md.,on Dec.
7, 1886. He left a widow, formerly Miss Carrie Stevens,
but no children. He was born in Liverpool, but was of
Welsh parentage. He came to this country with his
parents when he was three years old.

Oliver R. M., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The number of slaves in
Cuba declared free, in accordance with the abolition law,
between May 8, 1885, and May 7, 1886, was 25,523. The
number who had obtained their freedom previously is
stated to be 120,258; leaving 25,881 still awaiting their
emancipation.

Young Gardener, Long Island.—_To make a substitute
for glass for a hot-house, apply, with a common painter’s
brush, boiled oil, or Canadian balsain, diluted with oil of
turpentine, to the surface of white muslin previously
stretched out and fastened in the position it is intended.
to occupy.

C. T. P., Hagerstown, Md.—There is a ‘Death Valley,”
so called, in Inyo County, California. It is forty feet
long or more, is sunk far below the level of the sea, and is
destitute of vegetation.

N. L. B., Syracuse, N. Y.—AIL commentators agree, we
believe, that the lion from which St. Paul speaks of being
delivered, after his first imprisonment at Rome, was the
Emperor Nero.

W. D., Oregon.—To blue a gun-barrel, apply nitric acid
and let it eat into the iron a little; then the latter will be
covered with a thin film of oxide. Clean the barrel, oil,
and burnish it.

W. C. P., Romansville, Pa.—The U. S. Senators from
Kansas are Preston B. Plumb and John James Ingalls.
The first named resides at Emporia; the second at
Atchison.

Sign Painter, New London, Conn.—The NEW YORK
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will send you the “Painter’s
Manual” for fifty cents.

Naval Cadet.—The bridge over the Susquehanna River at
Havre de Grace, Md.,is three-fifths of a mile long, It
cost nearly $2,000,000.

L. E.L.—The grave of Lola Montez is in Greenwood
Cemetery. It is on Summit avenue, in the seetion known
as Alpine Hill.

Inquisitive, Cooper, Texas.—The ‘Prairie Flower’ and
“Leni Lesti,’ bound in one volume, will be sent to you
for $1. :

Lelia, Plainfield, N. J.—President Cleveland was mar-
ried to Miss Folsom on June 2, 1886.

L. H., Bethany, Cal.—Boiling officinal alcohol dissolves
strychnine without difficulty.

M. L. F., Omaha, Neb.—Wendell Phillips was a gradu-
ate of Harvard College.

J. A. L. Parkersburg, W. Va.—The story desired is out
of print. ®

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

~ ahs at ee PEP et

/

 

 

VOL. 42—No, 34, CRIA THE N EW YORK WEEKLY.

 

HANDS, FEET, AND TONGUE.
BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Oh! how many restless hands,
*Mong all nations and all lands,
Toiling, toiling day by day.

What are they all doing, pray?
They are working with a will,

Some for good, and some for ill!
Some to soothe the sufferer’s pain—
Some for pride, and some for gain—
Busy hands, they daily sow

Seeds of good, or seeds of woe.

Oh! how many restless feet,

In the gay and crowded street,
Traveling, traveling day by day.
Where are they all going, pray?
They are marching with a will—
Some are climbing up the hill,
After glory’s shining crown—
Some, we see, are going down;
Busy feet that tread sin’s road,
Or the narrow way to God.

Oh! how many a restless tongue,
Rich and poor, and old and young,
Talking, talking day by day.
What are they all saying, pray?
They are wagging with a will,
Like the clapper of a mill,
Speaking words of pleasant cheer,
Or the vile ones sad to hear!

Busy tongues that daily go
Telling tales for weal or woe,

Busy hands, oh! sow for life,

Sow for peace, and not for strife—
Busy feet, oh! tread the way
Toward the shining gates of day—
Busy tongues the truth declare,

Sin and error never spare!

All, though human, made divine,
Glory, grace, and joy are thine.
Hands, and feet, and tongue of flame
Work for everlasting fame.

diet ie titted

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

OLIVER THE OUTCANT.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

Author of “The Western Boy,” ‘Mr. Craven’s
Step-Son,” ‘“‘Frank and Fearless,”
“The Train Boy,” etc., etc.

(“OLIVER THE OUTCAST’ was commenced in No. 29.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.[

CHAPTER XXII.
OLIVER ADOPTS A NEW GUARDIAN.

Mrs. Hill, Oliver’s landlady, was glad to obtain
another lodger. She had a vacant square room
which she was willing to let for five dollars a week.
Oliver reported this to Nicholas Bundy at the hotel
the next morning.

“Tf the price is too high,” he added, with an invol-
untary glance atthe stranger’s shabby appearance,
‘‘nerhaps Mrs. Hill will take less.”

“Tam willing to pay five dollars,” said Nicholas
Bundy, promptly. “If you recommend it, I have no
doubt it will suit me.”

When Mr. Bundy presented himself to the land-
lady, she, too—for necessity had made her sharp-
sighted, and experience had made her suspicious—
evidently felt the same distrust as to his pecuniary
status.

“Would you mind paying weekly in advance ?” she
asked, doubtfully.

A smile lighted up his rough features. :

“No, ma’am,” he said. “That'll suit me just as
well.”

He drew outa large pouch, which appeared to be
full of gold pieces, and drew therefrom an eagle.

“That'll pay for two weeks,” he said, as he placed
the coin in her hand. , ; ee

The display of so much gold, and his willingness
to pay for his room two weeks in advance, at once
increased the lady’s respect for him.

“T shall try to make your room comfortable for
you,” she said. “There’s a sofa I can put in, and I’ve
got an extra rocking-chair.”

The stranger smiled.

“I’m afraid you'll spoil me,” he said.
rough it, but you may put’em in. When my young
friend here comes to see me, he can sit on either.”

A shabby-looking trunk and a heavy wooden box
were deposited in the room before sunset.

“Now I’m at home,” said Nicholas Bundy, with
satisfaction. ‘You'll come and see me often, won’t
you, Oliver?” ?

He had already begun to call our hero by his
Christian name, and evidently felt an interest in him.

“T can promise that,” said Oliver, ‘‘for I am a gen-
tleman of leisure just now.”

“How is that?” asked Bundy, quickly.

“T have lost my situation, and have all my time at
my own disposal.” : ;

“How do you pay your way, then?’ inquired
Nicholas.

“JT have money enough on hand to last me about
ten weeks, or with rigid economy even longer. Be-
fore that time passes [hope to get another situa-
tion.”

“How much does it cost you to live ?”’

“About ten dollars a week.”

“Suppose I employ you for about a week,” pro-
posed Bundy. ;

“Ts itany work I am fit for?’ asked Oliver. “If so,
Isay yes and thank you.”

“Tt is something you can do. You must know that
itis twenty years since I have set foot in New York,
and it’s grown beyond my knowledge. I want to go
about and see for myself what changes have taken
place init. Will you go with me?”

“Yes, Mr. Bundy. I will go with you, and charge
nothing for it.”

“That won't do,” said the stranger.
on paying you ten dollars a week.”

“But it seems like robbing you.” ’

“Don’t you trouble yourself about that. You think
Iam poor, perhaps ?” 4 ;

“You don’t look asif you were rich,” said Oliver,
hesitating.

“No, L suppose not,” said Mr. Bundy, slowly. “I
don’t look it, but I am worth fifty thousand dollars—
in fact, more.”

“Oliver looked surprised.

“You wonder that I am so rough-looking—that I
don’t wear fine clothes, and sport a gold watch and
chain. It ain’t in my way,boy. [I’ve been used to
rough it so long, that it wouldn’t come nat’ral for me
to change—that’s all.” :

“Tam glad you are so well off, Mr. Bundy,” said
Oliver, heartily.

“Thank you, boy. It’s well off in a way,I sup-
pose, butit takes more than money to make a man
well off.”

“T suppose it does,” assented Oliver, but he pri-
vately thought that a man with so much money was
‘well off,” after all.

“Suppose, after twenty years’ absence, you came
back to your old home and found not a friend left—
that you were alone in the world, and had no one
to take the least interestin you—is that being well
off ?”

“That is very nearly my own situation,” said Oliver.
“T have a step-father, but he has cast me off.”

“Did you care for him?”

‘He never gave me cause to.”

“Then you won’t miss him.”

“He has all my mother’s property—property that
should be mine—and he cast me off with twenty
dollars.”’

“He must be a mean skunk,” said Mr. Bundy, in-
dignantly. ‘Tell me more about it.”

pon this Oliver told his story. Mr. Bundy lis-
tened with sympathizing interest. Atone point he
smote the table with his hard fist, and exclaimed :

“The rhinoceros! I'd like to hammer him with my

st!’

“T should pity him if you did, Mr. Bundy,” said
Oliver, smiling.

When the story was ended, Nicholas took the boy’s
hand in his, while his rough features worked with
friendly emotion. :

“You've been treated bad, Oliver,” he said, “but
don’t mind it, boy. Nicholas Bundy’ll be your friend.
He won’t see you want. Let the old scoundrel do
his worst. You shan’t suffer as long asI have an
ounce of gold.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bundy,” said Oliver, gratefully.
“T may need your help, but, remember, I have no
elaim on you.”

_ “You have as much claim as any one. Look upon
me as your guardian, and don’t be anxious about the
future. I, too, have been wrongly used, and some
day I’ll tell you the story.”
‘wo days later, as they sat on the deck of a Staten
PY cari steamer, Nicholas Bundy told Oliver his
ory.

“T’m used to

“T shall insist

\

\

 

“Twenty years ago,” he said, “I was a clerk in a
store in New York. I was a spruce young man then
—you wouldn’t think it, but I was. I was earning a
moderate salary, and spending it nearly all as I went
along. About this time I fell in love with a young
girl of sweet face and lovely disposition, and she re-
turned my love. I’ve been battered about since, and
the years have used me hard, but I wasn’t so then.
Well, [had a fellow-clerk, by name Jones—Rupert
Jones—who took a fancy to the same girl. But he
found she liked me better, and would say nothing to
him, and he plotted my ruin. He was an artful,
scheming villain, but I didn’t know it then. I
thought him to be my friend. That made it the
easier for him to succeed in his fiendish plot. I
needn’t dwell upon details, but there was a sum of
money missing by our employers, and through this
man’s ingenuity, it was made to appear that I took
it. It was charged upon me, and my denial was dis-
believed. My employers were merciful men, and
they wouldn’t have me arrested. But I was dis-
missed in disgrace, and I learned too late that he did
it. I charged him with it, and he laughed in my face.
‘Addie won’t marry you now,’ he said. Then I knew
his motive. Iam glad to say he made nothing by it.
IT resigned all claim to my betrothed, but though she
consented to this, she spurned him.

“Well, my career in New York was ended. I had a
little money, and after selling my watch, I secured a
cheap passage to California. I made my way direct
to the mines, and at once began work. I had vary-
ing luck. At times [ prospered—at times I sufferea
privation. [made my home away from the coast in
the interior. At last, after twenty years, I found
myself rich. Then I became restless. I turned my
money into gold, and sailed for New York. Here I
am, and I have just one purpose in view—to find my
old enemy, and to punish him if I get the chance.”

; ers blame you,” said Oliver. ‘He spoiled your
ife.”

“Yes, he robbed me of my dearest hopes. I have
suffered for his sin; for I have no doubt he took the
money himself.”

“Do you know where he is now ?”’

“No; he may be in this city. If he is, I will find
him. This is the great object of my life, and you
must help me in it.”

“Oy 29

“Yes. I will take care of you. You shall not want
for anything. In return, you can be my companion,
my assistant, and my friend. Is it a bargain?’

“Yes,” said Oliver, impulsively.

“So be it, then. If you ever get tired of your en-
Seremens I will release you, but I don't think you
will.”

“Do you know, or have you any idea, where this
man is—this Rupert Jones ?”

“T have heard that such a man is living on Staten
Island. I saw his namein the New York Directory.
That is why I wished to come here to-day.”

“We are at the first landing,” said Oliver. “Shall
we land ?”’

SY on. 77

The two passed over the gang-plank upon the pier,
and the boat went on its way to the second landing.

CHAPTER XXIII.

MR. BUNDY IS DISAPPOINTED AND OLIVER MEETS
SOME FRIENDS.

The village lay farther up on the hill. Oliver and
his companion followed the road, looking about them
inquiringly.

“Suppose you find this man, what will you do?’
asked Oliver, curiously.

He had an idea that Nicholas Bundy might pull out
arevolver and lay his old enemy dead at his feet.
This, in a law-abiding community, might entail un-
comfortable consequences, and he might be deprived
of his new friend almost as soon as the friendship
had begun.

“T will punish him,” said Nichlas, his brow con-
tracting into a frown.

“You won’t shoot him?’

“No. Ishall bide my time, and consider how best
toruin him. If he is rich I will strip him of his
wealth, if he is respected and honored I will bring a
stain upon his name. I willdofor him what he has
done for me.”

The provincialisms which at times disfigured his

I’D LIKE TO HAMMER HIM WITH
MY FIST!”

“THE RHINOCEROS!

speech were dropped as he spoke of his enemy, and
his face grew hard and his expression unrelenting.

“How he must hate this man!” thought Oliver.

They stepped into a grocery store on the way, and
here Mr. Bundy inquired for Rupert Jones.

“Do you know any such man?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; he trades here.”

Nicholas Bundy’s face lighted up with joy.

“Ts he a friend of yours.”

“No,” he replied, hastily. ‘But I want to see him;
va o if heisthe manI mean. Will you describe

im ‘ :

The grocer paused, and then said:

“Well, he is about thirty-five years old, and——”

“Only thirty-five?” repeated Nicholas, in deep dis-
appointment.

“T don’t think he can be anymore. He hasa young
wife.”

“Ts he tall or short ?”’

“Quite tall.”

“Then it is not the man I mean,” said Bundy.
“Oliver, come.”

As they left the store he said:

“T thought it was too good news to be true. I must
search for him longer, but I have nothing else to do.
There are many Joneses in the world.”

“Yes, but Rupert is not a common name,” said
Oliver.

“You say right, boy, Rupert is not a common
name. Thatis whatencourages me. Well, shall we
go back ?”’

“T think as we are over here, we may as well stay a
while,” said Oliver. ‘‘The day is pleasant, and we
ean look upon it as an excursion.”

“Just as you say, Oliver. Thereis no more to be
done to-day. Have you never been here before?”

“NG,’?

“T used to come over sometimes when I wasa
clerk. I often engaged a boat at the Battery, and
rowed down here myself.”

“That must have been pleasant.”
“Tf you like rowing, we can go
pier and engage a boat for an hour.’
“T should like that very much.”

“T should like italso. Itis long since I did any-
thing at rowing.”

They engaged a stout row-boat, and rowed out half
a mile from shore. Oliver knew something about
rowing, as there was a pond in his native village
where he had obtained some practice, generally in
company with Frank Dudley. What was his sur-
prise when bending over the oar to hear his name
called from a boat which was approaching his
own. Looking up, he recognized Frank and Carrie
Dudley and their father.

“Why, it’s Oliver!’ exclaimed Frank, joyfully.
‘Where have you come from, Oliver ?”’

“From the shore.”

“T mean, how do you happen to be here?’

“Only an excursion, Frank? What brings you
here? And Carrie, too. I hope you are well, Carrie.”

“All the better for meeting you, Oliver,” said
Carrie, smiling and blushing. “I have been missing
you very much.”

Oliver was pleased to hear this. What boy would
not be pleased to hear such a comfession from the
lips of a pretty girl ?

“T thought Roland would make up for my absence,”
he said, slyly. ‘He told me when we met the other
day what pleasant calls he had at your house.”

“The pleasure is all on his side, then,’ said Carrie,
tossing her head. “I hate the sight of him.”

“Poor Roland! he is to be pitied!”

“You needn’t pity him, Oliver,’ said Frank. ‘He
loses no opportunity of trying to set us against you.
But he hasn’t succeeded yet.”

«And he won’t!” chimed in Carrie, with emphasis.

This conversation scarcely occupied a minute,
though it may seem longer. Meanwhile Dr. Dudley
and Nicholas Bundy were left out of the conversation.
Oliver remembered this, and introduced them.

“Dr. Dudley,” he said, “permit me to introduce my
friend, Mr. Bundy.”

“T am glad to make the acquaintance of any friend
of yours, Oliver. Weare just goingin. Won’t you
and Mr. Bundy join us at dinner in the hotel ?”’

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

back to the ferry

 

 

 

Nicholas Bundy did not in general take kindly to
new friends, but he saw that Oliver wished the in-
vitation to be accepted, and he assented with a good
grace. The boat was turned, and they were soon on
land again.

i “Who is this man, Oliver?” asked Frank, in a low
one.

“He is anew acquaintance, but he has been very
kind to me, and I have needed friends.”

“Ts it true that your step-father has cast you off?
Roland has been spreading that report.”

“Tt is true enough.”

“What an outrage !”’ exclaimed Frank, indignantly.
“But, at least, he makes you an allowance out of your
mother’s property ?”’

“He sent me twenty dollars, and let me understand
that I was to expect no more from him.”

“What an old rascal!”

“T hate him!’ said Carrie.
his hair !”

“That’s a regular girl’s wish,” said Frank, laugh-
ing. ‘‘Perhaps you can make it do by pulling Ro-
land’s, sis.”

“T would like to pull

“I HAVE ONE PURPOSE IN VIEW—f0O FIND MY OLD
ENEMY, AND TO PUNISH HIM!”

“T will, when he next says anything against
Oliver.”

“Look here, Oliver,” said Frank, lowering his
voice, “if you are in want of money, I’ve got five dol-
lars at home that I can let you have as well as not.
I’ll send it in a letter.”

“I’ve got three dollars, Oliver,’ said Carrie, eager-
ly. “You'll take that, too, won’t you?”

Oliver was moved by these offers.

“You are true friends. both of you,” he said; “but
I have been lucky, and I shall not need to accept
your kindness just yet. I have nearly a hundred
dollars in my poeket-book, and Mr. Bundy is paying
me ten dollars a week for going around with him.
But, though I don’t need it, I thank you all the
same.

“‘He looks rough,” said Carrie, stealing a look at the
tall, slouching figure walking beside her father; ‘‘but
if he is kind, I shall like him.”

“He has done morethan [I have yettold you. He
has promised to provide for me as long as I will stay
with him.”

“He’s a good man,” said Carrie, impulsively.
am going to thank him.”

She went up to Nicholas Bundy, and took his rough
hand in hers.

“Mr. Bundy,” she said, “Oliver tells me you have
been very kind to him; I want to thank you for it.”

“My little lady,’ said Nicholas, surprised and
pleased. “if I had been kind, that would pay me; but
I’ve only been kind to myself. I’m alone in the
world. I’ve got no wife, nor child, nor a single rela-

“oT

| tion; but I’ve got enough to keep two on, and as long

as Oliver will stay with me, he shall want for noth-
ing. He’scompany to me, and that’s what I need.”

“T wish you were his step-father instead of Mr.
Kenyon.”

* «What sort of aman is Mr. Kenyon?” asked Nicho-
las of Dr. Dudley.

“He isa very unprincipled schemer, in my opinion,”
was the reply. ‘‘He:has managed to defraud Oliver
of his mother’s pro prty, and cast him penniless on
the world.” ;

“He is a scoundrel, no doubt; but I am. not sorry
for what he has done,” replied Mr. Bundy. ‘But for
him I should be a solitary man. Now I have a young
friend to keep me company. Let the boy’s inher-
itance go! I will provide for him.”

They dined togetherggnd then Dr. Dudley and his
family were obliged to¥eturn.

“Shall I give your love to Roland?” asked Frank.

“T think you had better keep it yourself, Frank,”
and Oliver pressed his hand warmly. ‘‘You needn’t
tell Roland that [ am prospering, or his father either,
I prefer, at present, that he should not know it.”

They parted, with mutual promises to write at reg-
ular intervals.

CHAPTER XXIV.
ANOTHER CLEW.

Nicholas Bundy was disappointed by his first fail-
ure, but by no means discouraged.

“There’s many Joneses in the world,” he said, ‘‘but
Rupert is an uncommon name. I didn’t think there’d
be more than one with that handle to his name. If
he’s alive, I’ll find him.”

“Why don’t you inquire of somebody that knew
him ?’ asked Oliver.

“The thing is to find such a one,” said Bundy.
“There’s been many changes in twenty years.”

“Don’t you know of some tradesman that he used
to patronize, Mr. Bundy ?”

“The very thing!” exclaimed the miner, for so I
shall sometimes designate Mr. Bundy. ‘‘There’s one
man that may tell me about him.”

“Who is that?’

“He kept a drinking-place down near Fulton Ferry.
He may be living yet. Tl go and see him.”

So one morning, Nicholas Bundy, accompanied by
Oliver, took the Third avenue cars and went down
town. They got out near the Astor House, and made
their way to the old place, which Bundy remembered
well. To his great joy he found it, a little shabbier,
a little dirtier, but in other respects the same.

They entered.

Behind the bar stood a man of nearly sixty, whose
bloated figure and dull, red face indicated that he
appreciated what he sold to others.

“What will you have, gentlemen?’ he asked,
briskly.
ign ete Bundy surveyed his countenance, atten-
ively.

“Are you Jacob Spratt?” he asked.

ss

—_—_C ==

‘WHY, IT’S OLIVER!” SHOUTED FRANK, JOYFULLY.

“Yes,” answered the bartender. ‘‘Do you know
me?”

“T knew you twenty years ago,’ answered the
miner.

“T don’t remember you.

“You once knew me well.”

“T have seen many faces in my time. I can’t re-
member so many years back.”

‘Do you recall the name of Nicholas Bundy ?”

“Ay, thatIdo. You used to come here with a man
named Jones.

“Yes; Rupert Jones.
now ?”’

Jacob shook his head.

“He left New York not long after you did,’ he
answered. ‘He went to Chicago.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you why. He came here one
evening, and says he, ‘Jacob, ’m going away. You
won’t see me for a long time—I’m going to Chicago.’”

“Did he tell you why he was going there?” _

‘“‘He said he was going there as an agent for a New
York house—that he had a good chance.”

“You have never seen him since ?”

Can you tell me where he is

 

“No,” said Jacob. Then he added, meditatively,
“Once I thought [saw him. There was a man I met
in the street looking as like him as two peas, makin’
allowance for the years he was older. I went up to
him and called him by name, but he colored up, and
looked annoyed, and told me I was quite mistaken,
that his name was not Jones but something else—I
don’t remember what, now. Ofcourse I axed his
pardon, and walked on, but he was the very picture
of Rupert Jones.”

“Then you feel sure that he went to Chicago ?’

“Yes, he told me so, and that was the last time I
saw him. If he had staid in the city, he would have
kept on comin’ to my place, or I should have met
him somewhere.”

Nicholas Bundy thanked the old man for his in-
formation, and ordered glasses of lemonade for him-
self and Oliver.

“Won’t you have something stronger, Mr. Bundy ?”’
asked the barkeeper, insinuatingly.

Bundy shook his head.

“T’ve given up liquor,” he said. ‘I’m better off
without it, and so will the boy be. What do you say,
Oliver ?”’

“T agree with you, sir,” said Oliver, promptly.

“Lueky for me all don’t think so,” said Spratt.
‘ould ruin my business.”

When they left the bar-room Nicholas Bundy
turned to his young companion.

“Oliver,” he said, “will you go with me to
Chicago ?”’

“T shall be glad to go,” answered Oliver, promptly.

“Then we will start in two or three days—as soon
as I have made some business arrangements.”

“Mr. Bundy,” said Oliver, honestly, “it will cost
you considerable to pay my expenses. I should like
very much to go, but do you think it will pay you to
take me?’

““You’re considerate, boy, but don’t trouble your-
self about that. You are company to me, and ’m
willing to pay your expenses for that, let alone the
help you may give me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bundy. Then I will say no more.
What day do you think you will start?”

“To-day is Tuesday. We will start on Saturday.
Can you be ready ?”

Oliver laughed.

“There won’t be much getting ready for me,” he
said. ‘All my business arrangements can be made
in half an hour.”

Bundy smiled. Our hero’s careless good spirits
seemed to enliven his own. He was not only getting
sr ei to Oliver’s company, but sincerely attached to

im.

“It

CHAPTER XXV
MAKING ARRANGEMENTS.

Nicholas Bundy went down town the next morn-
ing. Contrary to his usual custom he did not invite
Oliver to accompany him. ;

‘‘Perhaps you have some places to visit,” he said.
“Tf so, take the day to yourself. I shall not need

you.”

? He proceeded to the office of a well-known broker
in the vicinity of Wall street, and, entering, looked
around him. His rusty appearance did not promise a
profitable customer, and he had to wait some time
before any attention was paidhim. Finally a young
clerk came to him, and inquired carelessly :

“Can we do anything for you this morning ?”’

“Are you one of the proprietors,’ asked Nicholas.

“No,” answered the young man, smiling,

“T should like to see your employer then.”

“T can attend to any little commission you may
have,” said the young man, pertly.

“Who told you my commission was a little one,
young man?’

“It seems large to him, 1 suppose,” thought the
clerk, again smiling.

“Tf it’s only a few hundred dollars——” he com-
menced.

“TI want to consult your employer about the in-
vestment of fifty thousand dollars in gold,” said
Nicholas, deliberately.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir,” said the young man, his
manner entirely altered. “I will speak to Mr. Ham-
lin at once.”

Though the broker was engaged with another per-

 

i tH

‘

a

“IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME YOU ARE TO GO THERE
AND CALL FOR THE WILL.”

son he waited upon Nicholas without delay, inviting
him to take a seat in his private office.

“Are you desirous of obtaining large interest, Mr.
Bundy ?’ he asked.

“No, sir, I want something solid, that won’t fly
away. I’ve worked for my money and I don't want to
lose it.”

“Precisely. Then I can recomnfend you nothing
better than government bonds. They pay a fair in-
terest, and the security is unquestionable.”

“Government bonds will suit me,” said the miner.
‘You may buy them.”

The purchase was made, and Nicholas inquired:

“What shall I do with them? I don’t want to carry
them around with me. Is there any place of safety
where I can leave them while I am absent on a
journey ?’

“Yes, sir; you want to place them with a Safe De-
posit Company. I will give you a note to one that I
can recommend.”

This advice seemed good to Mr. Bundy. He pre-
sented himself at the office of the company, and de-
posited the bonds, receiving a suitable certificate.

“One thing more,” he said to himself, “and my ar-
rangements will be made.”

He visited the office of a lawyer, and dictated his
will. It was very brief, scarcely ten lines in length.
This also he deposited with the Safe Deposit Com-

any.

‘ “Oliver,” he said, in the evening, “I’ve got through
my business sooner than I expected. Can you start
to-morrow ?”

“Yes anti:

“Then we'll go. We'll pay our landlady to the end
of the month, so that she can’t complain. One thing
more, Oliver, I want to tell you. I’ve left the bulk
of my property in bonds and my will with the Safe
Deposit Company, No. — Broadway. If anything
happens to me, you are to go there and call for the
will. Whatever there is init, I want you to see car-
ried out.”

“All right, sir.”

The next day they started for Chicago.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]
Saran Eee died “eS

INCOMES OF EUROPEAN ROYAL FAMILIES,

The incomes of the royal families of Europe amount
to close upon £13,000,000 a year. Germany stands at
the head of all European nations in the matter of
royalincomes. That empire, with a population of
more than 45,000,000, supports twenty-two royal,
princely, and ducal families, and the direct cost of
their maintenance is £3,300,000. Turkey comes next
to Germany in its royal expenditures, the total
amount absorbed by the Sultan and his family being
about £3,200,000. The imperial family of Russia costs
that country £2,450,000, the greater part of which
comes in the shape of rents from the.crown domains,
which consists of more than 1,000,000 square miles of
land, besides gold and silver mines. The Austrian
imperial family has a revenue of £920,000, all of which
comes directly from the public revenue of the
country. The British royal family comes next, with
a cost to the country of about £900,000.

ee a a en rae
SIX LIVING GENERATIONS.

In Byfield, Mass, there is a family represented by
six living generations. The lineis as follows: Mrs.
Rhoda Kent, aged 94 years 6 months, who buried her
husband, James, last year, aged 95, the first genera-
tion: their eldest child, Mary, aged 73, who married
a Mr. Gould, and is now the widow of James Fee, is
the second; her son Joseph Gould, aged 57, the third ;
his son, Henry Gould, aged 38, the fourth; his
daughter Etta, aged 15 years and 6 months, who
married Newell Rogers, the fifth; and a baby boy,
born about two weeks ago, the child of Mrs. Newell
Rogers, is the sixth.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

foe sa8

WATER.
BY ELIZA COOK.

Wine, wine, thy power and praise

Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays;

But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim

To fill up the niche in the temple of Fame.

Ye who are bred in Anacreon’s school

May sneer at my strain as the song of a fool;

Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn

How the tongue can cleave and the veins can burn.

Should ye ever be one of a fainting band,

With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand,
I would wager the thing I most loth to spare

That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there;
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell

What treasures exist in the cold, deep well;

Sink in despair on the red, parched earth,

And then ye may reckon what water is worth.

Famine is laying her hand of bone

On a ship becalmed in a torrid zone;
The gnawing of hunger’s worm is past,
But fiery thirst lives on to the last.

The stoutest one of the gallant crew
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue;
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye,
And “Water, oh, God,” is the only cry.

There’s drought in the land, and the herbage is dead,
No ripple is heard in the streamlet’s bed;

The herd’s low bleat and the sick man’s pant

Are mournfully telling the boon we want.

Let heaven this one rich gift withhold,

How soon we find it is better than gold.

And water, I say, hath a right to claim

The minstrel’s song and tithe of fame.

| THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

RUBY’S REWARD.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Brownie’s
Triumph,” *‘That Dowdy,” etc.

[“RUBY’s REWARD” was commenced in No. 20. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXII.
AN ARREST.

Madam Howland, as she was known in the sub-
urban city where she resided, was a very proud and
wealthy woman—or so considered by people who only
knew her in a general way.

She had belonged to one of the oldest families of
Baltimore; had been regarded as a beauty and a
belle in her early life; had been married twice, each
time to a rich and cultivated gentleman, and had
naturally held herself with all the pride which
usually attends such unexceptional birth and posi-
tion.

She had no children—though report said that she
had lost, years ago, one idolized son—and lived alone
in her grandeur, with only her servants about her;
was considered exceedingly exclusive and cold-
hearted by society, though it was whispered among
the poor that her purse and heart were always open
to their needs and supplications.

Walter called at her door every morning during the

week after her accident, to inquire for her, and was
glad to learn that she was doing very well, although
her injuries had been of avery serious nature. Her
right wrist and arm had been broken in two places,
besides being badly bruised, while the left hand had
been shockingly lacerated, though no bones were
broken in it.

At the end of a week Walter was invited to enter,
being told that madam desired to see him.

He was conducted to her private parlor—a beauti-
ful room in the second story of the house, where he
found her sitting in a huge invalid-chair, both hands
bandaged and helpless, and looking somewhat worn
from the pain that she had suffered, but still bearing
herself proudly, and with the distinguished air that
had so attracted Walter when he first saw her.

She glanced up, as he entered, in a bright and ani-
mated way, saying:

“Well, young man, you find me still crippled, and I
imagine it will be some time yet before I shall be
able to shake that good right hand of yours that did
me such efficient service. However, I wanted to see
you. So draw a chair near to me, and talk to me for
a little while.”

Walter obeyed, remarking, as he sat down, that he
was glad to find her so much more comfortable than
when he saw her last.

“Yes, if you call it comfortable to be a literal ex-
ample of what it is to have your hands tied,” she re-
sponded, laughingly.

She was acharming old lady, and entertained her
young guest brilliantly for half an_ hour, and, ignor-
ing herself, gradually led him to talk about his own
life, questioned him about his business, and at last
adroitly managed to draw from him something of his
history. :

He wide very much attracted by her, and was sur-
prised at the interest she manifested in him.

“What can I do to reward you for your kindness to
me?’ she asked, with a benignant smile, when he
finally arose to leave. ;

“Pray never mention the matter again in that way,
madam,” Walter responded, flushing, and drawing
himself up a trifle proudly. “I am only too glad that
I was able to be of service to you, and I hope if there
is anything that I can do at any time, you will com-
mand me.”

“Thank you, and I shall take you at your word in-
stantly,’ madam replied, smiling. ‘You can be of
use to me, for you have cheered me wonderfully this
morning, and I shall command that you come to see
me often.”

“That is a very agreeable order, and one which I
am sure I shall take pleasure in obeying,” Walter re-
turned, smiling also.

She looked at him earnestly a moment, then said :

“T like you, young man; you make me think of—of
some one whom I used to know; and it will do me
good to have a young face in the house. So, please
drop in frequently while you remain in the city.”

“T will, thank you,” he replied, heartily, feeling
that it would be delightful to have the privilege.

He approached the door as he spoke, but it was
opened before he could reach it by a servant, who
came in, looking pale and startled.

She cast a frightened look at Walter as she passed
him, and going to her mistress said, in a low tone:

“Madam, there is an officer below who wants——”

“An officer!” interrupted Madam Howland, in a
tone of surprise. ‘‘What can he possibly want in this
house?”

‘‘He says—he has come to arrest—” the girl began,
then stopped, confused, while her glance wandered
apprehensively toward Walter.

“What are you talking about, Sarah?’ demanded
oe excitedly. ‘‘An officer to arrest some one

ere §

“Yes, madam.”

“Whom? Tell me instantly, and end this sus-
pense.”

“The young gentleman, madam,” Sarah faltered,
with a deprecating look at Walter.

The young man looked astonished.

“Did I understand rightly—that there is an officer
below who asserts that he has come here to arrest
me?’ he asked, turning to the girl.

“Yes, sir; so he says.”

“Madam Howland,” Walter continued, turning to
his hostess and speaking regretfully, “I am very
sorry to have you so annoyed, and there surely is
some mistake. It cannot be that I am the person for
whom the officer is searching, since I have done noth-
ing to be arrested for. I will go at once and have the
mystery explained.”

“No,” said madam, making a little authoritative
gesture; “stay where you are, if you please.”

Then turning again to the girl, she added:

“Sarah, go down and ask the officer if he will do me
the favor to come up stairs.”

Walter protested against this, for he could not en-
dure the thought of her being annoyed on his ac-
count; but she insisted.

“Of course, it is all a mistake,” she said; ‘but
it may be a mistake that will cause you some trouble,
and I should not rest until it was explained. Go,
Sarah.”

The girl retired, but soon returned, accompanied
by an_ officer, who, the moment he saw Walter, ap-
ee him and arrested him ‘in the name of the
aw.

“What does this mean?’ the young man inquired,
looking greatly disturbed.

“Tt means that I have orders to take you into cus-
tody, and I am simply performing my duty,” the
man returned, reading his prisoner’s face with a
searching glance.

“What is the charge against him?’ demanded
Madam Howland, haughtily.

“Tregret to say, madam, that it is—robbery,” the
officer returned, respectfully.

“Robbery !” exclaimed both of his listeners, in one
breath, while a vivid crimson shot over Walter’s face,
then quickly receding, left him pale as death.

‘Yes, that is the charge,” the man answered.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 34,

 

~ :
“Whom have I robbed?—what am I aceused of

having taken?” cried the young man, proudly.

“Money and jewels.’

“Money and jewels! IThaveno money but what I
have honorably earned, and as for jewels, I have no
use for them,”’ Walter replied, with a scornful curl of
his lips.

“That may be, my young friend, still I must do my
duty, and you must prove your innocence before a
judge and jury,” the officer answered, but not un-
kindly.

“Pray, Mr. Officer, explain what this proceeding
means ?” madam now interposed, looking flushed and
anxious. “This young gentleman has been very
kind to me, and I am interested in him; he has been
coming to my house nearly every day for a week,
and he certainly does not appear like one who has
committed so grave a crime.”

“That is true, madam,” tbe officer returned, study-
ing Walter’s frank, manly face, and beginning to feel
very favorably disposed toward him, “but quite ¢
sum of money and some valuable diamonds were
missed a week ago to day by a lady, Mrs. Robert
Gordon, who is at present living in the house of Mr.
Edmund Carpenter, of Philadelphia. A thorough
search was at once instituted for the missing valu-
ables—the servants and housekeeper were questioned
~ and examined, but no clew could be discovered, and
at first no one could account for the robbery, as the
house did not have the appearance of having been
forcibly entered, and nothing else was taken, though
there was much in the house that was valuable
which a practiced cracksman would surely have
made way with. Several days passed, and then it
was remembered that this young man had passed the
night in the house, having been detained there by a
severe storm, and having left the place very early in
the morning before any one was astir, suspicion
naturally fell upon him. If, however,” the man add-
ed, in conclusion, “he can prove his innocence, he
will be released immediately.”

“This is very disagreeable,” said Madam Howland,
turning to Walter, and regarding him with a troubled
look.

He was still very pale, and his face wore an anxious
expression, for it had suddenly flashed upon him, as
he remembered Mrs. Gordon’s treatment of him, and
all that Ruby had told him regarding her wishes,
that she should marry Edmund Carpenter, that this
might be a plot to entangle him and to ruin him in
the eyes of the world, and thus blast every hope of
ever winning Ruby for his wife.

“Mrs. Howland,” he said, lifting his troubled eyes
and. meeting her gaze frankly, ‘what the officer has
told you is true—I did pass the nightin Mr. Carpen- |
ter’s house a week ago last night. I went there to |
call upon Miss Ruby Gordon, the lady to whom I am
betrothed, and whois sister-in-law to Mrs. Gordon,
who, itis asserted, has been robbed. A severe thun- |
der-storm came up while I was there, and I was pre- |
vailed upon to remain until morning. I left very
early, as Mr. Carpenter’s residence is quite a dis-}
tance from the city, and I wished to catch the early |
train for Chester in order to be on hand here when |
my men began their work. I did not leave my room
after entering it until I left the house, and you can
testify that I came directly hither, as that was the
morning on which your accident occurred. More
than all this,” Walter added, with a disdainful look, |
“it is not likely that I would be guilty of robbing the
sister of the lady whom I hope to marry.’

“Of course not,” replied madam ; ‘‘and, Mr. Officer,
what he says is all true; the train in which I was |
coming from St. Louis reached the station just about |
the time of his arrival here. I met with a severe ac-
cident just after alighting from the car, and he came
at once to my assistance. He had not the slightest |
appearance of having done anything wrong then, nor |
since, for he has been coming here nearly every day,
and I believe I could vouch for his integrity under |
any circumstances.”

“No doubt, madam, no doubt,’ returned the
official, blandly, “and it will probably all come out |
right; but my orders are imperative. I have a war- |
rant for the young man’s arrest, and I must do my |
duty.”’

“But he can be released on bail; I will be respon- |
sible to any amount,” cried Madam Howland, look-
ing both excited and distressed.

“That is very kind of you, madam, and doubtless |
the young gentleman appreciates your kindness ; but |
he will be obliged to go before the court for examina-
tion first.”

“Where will he be examined ?”

“Tn Philadelphia, of course.”

 

“Do not be troubled on my account, Mrs. How- |

land,’ Walter here interposed ; “I have no doubt that
Mr. Conant, my employer, will do all that is neces-
sary. I thank you very much for your kindness, but |
please do not allow this to excite you.”

“You will let me know the result of your examina-
tion at once,” pleaded the invalid, with a tremulous
voice, “and if you need. help of any kind do not fail
toinform me. Oh,if my hands were not tied I would |
go with you now.”

“Pray do not mind it so much,” Walter begged,
deeply moved by her evident interest in his cause.

said. ;
“You owe me nothing, but you are very kind,” he
answered, smiling and trying to assume a cheerful

air. Then turning to the man, he added: “Officer, FE}

am ready now to go with you; I hope you will not
consider it necessary to make me conspicuous as a
prisoner.”

“No, sir, if you'll give me your word that you’ll
make me no tronble. Iam free to confess I should
hate to put the bracelets on you.”

Walter colored crimson, but lifted his head proudly.

“J give you my word; I will go quietly with you,”
he said, briefly; then with a courteous bow to his
soe he turned and followed the officer from the

ouse.

CHAPTER XXXII.
“I WILL NOT BELIEVE ONE WORD AGAINST HIM.”

In order to understand more fully the events of the
preceding chapter, we must go back to the morning
that Walter left Edmund Carpenter's house after hav-
ing once more passed a night in his old room.

He had slept very soundly; not even the fierce
conflict of the elements had. served to disturb him,
and no thought of treachery or foul play had entered
his mind as, in the dim light of the early dawn, he
hurriedly dressed himself and then crept quietly
down stairs, letting himself out by a back entrance
so that he need disturb no one in the house.

He had noticed one thing, however, while, dress-
ing. It was a trivial circumstance in itself, but it re-
turned to his mind afterward when his trouble came
upon him. ;

It was his custom, and had been taught him by his
mother in his early boyhood, to arrange his clothing
in an orderly way overa chair before going to bed,
so that everything would be convenient when he
arose.

But on this morning he had found his coat lying on
the floor, instead of hanging upon the back of the
chair. where he was sure he had placed it.

Still he attributed it to his own haste or careless-
ness, if he gave the matter any thought at all, and
went on his way all unsuspicious of the vile scheme
that was soon to bring him into the direst strait that
he had ever known.

At eight o’clock on Monday morning, and just be-
fore breakfast was served to Mrs. Coxon’s boarders,
Mrs. Gordon came hurriedly down stairs, looking
startled and anxious. She encountered Ruby upon
the veranda, and asked, excitedly :

“Ruby, have you been to either my jewel-box or
my purse ?”’

“Of course not, Estelle,’ the young girl returned,
looking astonished and a trifle indignant at the ques-
tion.

“But some one has been there, for my solitaire dia-
mond ear-rings are gone from the box, and a hundred-
dollar bill from my purse.”

“Why, Estelle, you must be mistaken; you have
probably mislaid them and forgotten about them.”

Indeed I have not; there is no mistake about it,” re-
torted Mrs. Gordon, flushing with excitement. “I
received the bill only Saturday, when I folded it and
placed it in a side-pocket_of my purse. The purse I
put in my upper bureau drawer under some handker-
chiefs, but this morning it‘lay open and on top of the
bureau, and the money gone fromit. My diamonds
were in their case in my jewel-hox; the box was also
open andthe stones missing, though the case was
left.

“How strange! And was nothing else missing?” |

“No, and that is the queerest part of it. I have
other diamonds and nice jewelry, as you know, but
nothing was touched save what I mentioned.”

“Did you lock your door last night?” Ruby asked,
looking perplexed.

“No, [never lock it. Ihave never had a thought
of danger since we came here,” replied Mrs. Gordon,
with a clouded brow, for her diamonds were very
valuable, and almost the last gift she had received
from her husband.

“It would be well for you to go and look after your
own things,” she added, ‘‘you may have been robbed
also.”

“No one could get into my room, for my door was
locked, and everything was all right when I came
down stairs,” Ruby asserted, confidently.

Mrs. Coxon was immediately informed of the mys-
terious loss, and general inquirtes were made. The
servants were closely questioned, and the coachman
examined, but they all appeared so innocent, and
were so frightened at the mere thought of a burglar,
that Mrs. Gordon was finally convinced that no one
belonging upon the premises had been guilty of the
theft.

It was a very strange affair, every one thought,
and could have been perpetrated by no professional
robber, for such a one would have taken everything
of value that could be readily removed, and made
thorough work after once gaining an entrance to the
house.

Mr. Carpenter was written to, and asked to come
out and try to suggest some explanation and some
way to recover the missing property. But he was
out of town, and did not make his appearance until
two days later, when he seemed as much astonished
and perplexed as any one by the singular cireum-
stances.

 

The matter was then given into the hands of a de-

tective, though with but little hope on the part of

Mrs. Gordon of recovering the lost articles.

On Thursday morning, however, as she was pass-
ing through the upper hall, she espied Mrs. Coxon
in Walter’s old room, setting it to rights and changing
the sheets, she having been unusually busy during
the early portion of the week, and unable to attend to
the work before.

“Why,’’ exc'aimed Mrs. Gordon, stopping and peep-
ing in, *“‘did any one sleep here last night?”

“No, ma’am; but Mr. Walter was caught in the
rain last, Sunday night, and I wouldn’t let him go
back to the city when there were plenty of beds in
the house,” the housekeeper explained, not dream-
ing What mischief she was doing.

“Walter Richardson! did he sleep here last Sunday
night ?” demanded Mrs. Gordon, with a start.

“Yes, ma’am, didn’t you know it?” questioned Mrs,
Coxon, but her face had grown suddenly scarlet, for
she knew in an instant what thought had suddenly
taken possession of her boarder’s mind.

“No; I did—not—know—it,” replied Mrs. Gordon,

with deliberate thoughtfulness; and then the two |

women stood and looked into each other's faces for a
full minute—the housekeeper’s expressive of anxiety
and something of defiance; her companion’s indicat-
ing astonishment and conviction.

“At what time did he go away in the morning ?”
Mrs. Gordon demanded, at length breaking the op-
pressive silence.

“Very early, narm; he had to catch the six o’clock
train to go to his work,”’ Mrs. Coxon replied, assum-
ing an indifferent air, though her heart was quaking
within her for her favorite. ;

“Did you see him before he went ?”’

“No, marm; he went away quietly, and did not
disturb any one.

last sheet, gathered up the other things she was to
take away, and marched with dignity from the room,
thus putting an end to the trying conversation.

Mrs. Gordon went slowly and thoughtfully back to
her own chamber. She dashed off a note and sent it
immediately by the coachman to Edmund Carpenter,
who answered it in propria persone, and the two
were closeted for two long hours in confidential con-
versation; and, the next Monday morning, as we

i Mr. Walter was always very con- |
siderate;” and the housekeeper, having folded her |

 

have already learned, an officer was sent to arrest
Walter upon the charge of having stolen Mrs. Robert |

Gordon’s money and jewels.
Monday evening’s paper gave an exaggerated ac-

amination.
The young man had sent at once for Mr. Conant
upon arriving in the city, and he had expressed both

Mr. Richardson isabove doing any such contemptible
deed, and I believe it is only a matter of personal
spite that has caused his arrest.”

“But circumstantial evidence, you know, some-
times convicts a person,” said Ruby, still looking dis-
tressed.

“True; but hardly in such a case as this, unless the
stolen property is found in his possession, or it can
be proved beyond a doubt that he took it, no sentence
can be passed upon him.”

“But the stigma will remain, unless the real cul-
prit can be found, for suspicion will still rest upon
him,” returned Ruby, dejectedly.

“There may be a doubt in the minds of some,” Mr.
Conant replied; “but no one who has ever known
Walter will for amoment believe him guilty of so
despicable a crime.”

“Can I go tosee him?’ Ruby asked, though she
flushed scarlet as she made the request. ?

“Bless you, my dear young lady! of course you

may; and your presence will do our much-tried young |}

friend a world of good, too. He feels the blow keen-
ly, but if he finds that you still have faith in him, it
will cheer him wonderfully.”

Mr. Conant said he would accompany her, and they
would go at once; and a half-hour later found them
in Walter’s presence.

When Mr. Conant appeared at the door of his room
his face lighted with pleasure, but when that gentle-
man stepped one side and Ruby went forward, his
pale face grew crimson with mingled emotions, and
he cried out, in a voice in which both pain and pleas-
ure were mingled :

“Ruby ! you here!”

“Yes, Walter,” she said, going to his side, as Mr.
Conant slipped out of the room unobserved and
closed the door. *‘Did you think I would remain
away When you are in such trouble ?”’ t

“But I thought you were in Redville,” he faltered,
as he took both her hands in his, bowing his face
upon them, while hot tears sprang to his eyes; for it
was intensely humiliating to his proud spirit to have
her see him there with the stigma of a felon resting
upon him. 2

“T have not heard from Mr. Ruggles,
plained.

He looked up, surprised; then he grew stern.

“There is something wrong in that!’’ he said.

“T have begun to think so, too,” Ruby answered,

”

she ex-

| adding: ‘“‘but Iam glad now that I have been de-

| count of the affair, and mentioned the station-house |
|to which Walter had been taken to await his ex-

tained, and I should not go under any circumstances
while you are in trouble.”
“You believe, me innocent, dear, or you would not

| be here?” Walter questioned, in a low tone.

sympathy and indignation upon hearing the circum-

} stances of his arrest.

“Why, Walter, I would trust you with uncounted |

gold,” he said, in his genial way, ‘‘and I am sure
you would not stoop to take a lady’s money or
diamonds.”

“T never took anything in my life that did not |}

belong to me, and it is not reasonable to suppose

young lady whom I hope sometime to make my wife,”

| that I would begin by stealing from the sister of the |
| her and drawing her to him for an instant.

Walter replied, with considerable scorn and some |

bitterness.

“Ah! then you are engaged to Miss Ruby Gordon?” |

said Mr. Conant, to whom this was news indeed.
‘*Yes, sir.”
“Does she know anything of your trouble ?”’
“T do not know. I presume she will learn of it

;
|
\
i

through the papers, if in no other way;” and the |

young man looked very unhappy. : : :
“Oh, do not look so discouraged,” said his friend,
cheerfully ; ‘‘we will soon have you out of this place.

|

As soon as your turn comes for examination, we will |

have you bailed out, and then see what we can do
for counsel.”

“Have you seen the paper, Ruby?’ Mrs. Gordon
asked, as she came out upon the veranda, after tea
that evening, and found her young sister there.

“Yes,” Ruby answered, all unsuspicious, “I saw
it lying on the hall table as I came out, but I did not
sare particularly for the news, so I left it there.”

“Would you mind reading to me for a little while ?
My eyes have been feeling badly all the afternoon,
and Ido not want to make them worse by reading
that fine print.”

“Certainly I willread to youif you wish, Estelle,”
replied the obliging girl, and she tripped back into
the house for the paper.

Returning, she seated herself in a low rocker by
her sister, and began to unfold the sheet.

| is going to try ake it ar at you are 2 | j ; : ; ‘
| is going to try to make it appear that you are the | must sympathize, and.for which be full of sugges-

Tam afraid he knew |

As she did so her eyes fell upon a flaming heading: |

“Arrest of the thief who stole a well-known lady’s
diamonds,” ete.

“Why, Estelle,” that must mean you,” Ruby cried,
as she read it aloud, and flushing with excitement.

Swiftly-her glance traversed the other lines of
the column, and then all at
startled cry of pain, the paper slipped from

once she uttered a |
her |

nerveless fingers, and she sank back in her chair pale |

| and strengthliess.

“Whatis the matter,

She knew well enough what the trouble

: Ruby?” Mrs. Gordon, asked, |
| in a feigned tone of surprise.

“TI cannot forget that lowe you a great deal,” she | vas, for |

she had known that Walter was to be arrested that |

| day, and felt sure that the papers would be full of it,

and she had taken this way to break the news to
Ruby, as she was anxious to have the scene over with
as soon as possible.
“What ails you, Ruby? Why do you not tell me?”
she persisted, as the girl made no answer.
Ruby aroused herself at this.

“T know you are innocent, Walter. Nothing save
your own confession would make me believe you
guilty,” she answered, with unwavering trust.

“But it galls me almost beyond endurance that you
should see me in such a place as this,” the young
inan said, with a note of bitterness in his voice.

“Of course it is very trying to you to be here; but
the place cannot harm you so long as you are inno-
cent,” Ruby said, looking up into his face, with a
cheering smile.

“Bless you, my darling!” he returned, bending over
“oT cer-

 

| tainly ought to take courage when I have such faith- |
| ful adherents as you and Mr. Conant have proved |

”

yourselves to be.
“You must not lose courage, Walter.

Mr. Conant |
| says you cannot be convicted unless the stolen prop- |

erty is found in your possession, or some one can |

prove that you took it.”
“That is true; but I am afraid that there is more to

this affair than appears upon the surface,’ Walter re- |

plied, thoughtfully. :

“What do you mean ?” Ruby inquired, in a startled
voice.

“T am afraid it is part of a vile plot to ruin me, and

| to separate us; and if thatis the case, Edmund Car- |

penter will leave no stone unturned to accomplish |

his purpose.”
“YT have some such suspicion myself,” Ruby said,
lifting a white face to her lover.

| pleasure.
“But do you think |

that he has taken Estelle’s money and diamonds, and |

criminal ?”” 3
“T cannot help fearing so.

that Iwas at his house during that Sunday night, |
| and he planned this thing; you know he has threat-

ened me several times.”
*Y On,72
membered what Edmund Carpenter had said to her

Ruby answered, looking grave, as she re- |

about its being a “dangerous thing for any man to win

her, for he would surely be revenged upon him.”
“T do not believe that Estelle would be a party to

anything so dreadful, though I know she favors Mr. |

Carpenter,” she added, thoughtfully, yet looking
greatly distressed.

{a beech-shaded walk known

“T hope not, and I do not believe he would care to | 3 ,
short soft grass along the path; the fallen beech

implicate her in any such thing. He is abundantly

able to carry out his own nefarious plots alone,” |

Walter answered.
“How conld he have done it?”
“Easily enough; he has keys te¥the different doors,

and could easily have entered thie house that night |
and have taken .anything he wished, and no one}

would ever think of suspecting him; while the storm
favored his movements.”’

“Have you told Mr. Conant this?’ Ruby asked,
looking greatly troubled.

“Yes, and the lawyer, alse;4hom he brought with
him; but they still claim that the missing property

| must be found, or my agency proved, before I can be |

| convicted.
She arose and stood |

before her sister, looking down upon her with stern |
eyes, which were nevertheless filled with unspeak- |

able agony.

“Estelle, tell me truly,” she commanded, in a tone |

that she had never used before, do you know any-

thing about that arrest ?—is it any of your work, or }
is Edmund Carpenter also at the bottom of this foul |
}

wrong ?”’
“What on earth do you mean, child?
doing ?—of what is Edmund Carpenter at the bot-

what is my |

tom?” returned Mrs. Gordon, impatiently, and try- |

ing to look mystified.

ing stolen your money and diamonds.”
“Walter Richardson! is it possible?

happen to be suspected ?”’ . f
‘Because he slept here on the night of the rob-

How does he |

bery, and it is claimed that no professional, or no |

one from outside the house,
things.”

“Well, that is a startling piece of news;
knows but what he may be the guilty one, after all?

could have taken the |

thought it was possible that the missing articles
might have been put into some of my pockets, for I

As soon as we had talked this over [ |

of receiving her letter, and he had dropped every-
Mgt at once, though he was very busy, to come to
1er.

“Tired! not a bit; andif I was, I’d be willing to
travel miles to see that anxious look go out of your
face,” he said, kindly; adding: ‘‘Come, I know the
lay of the land about here, for I used to come here
otten in brother Ralph’s day—though I must confess
that I was kind o’ nonplused when I found out that
you were summering here—and Pll take you where
there’ll be no danger of anybody hearing what you’ve
got to tell me.”

He arose and led the way around back of the house
into a little lane leading down to the river, and then
told Ruby to open all her heart to him and keep
nothing back.

And the young girl did as he requested; she began
with Edmund Carpenter’s fondness for her, telling
of his proposals of marriage to her, his jealousy of
Walter, of his threats regarding him, and finally of
the trickery that had been employed by him and her
sister to get her to come to Forestvale to spend the
summer.

[LO BE CONTINUED. ]
ey $$$ $$ —
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |

ANOTHER MANS WIFE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘“‘A Fair Mystery,” ‘‘For Another’s Sin,” |

‘““A Heart’s Bitterness,” etc., etc.

(“ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE” was commenced in No, 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXXVII.
“LORD RAVLIN, MAY I CONFIDE IN YoU?’
LL the fair fabric of Beryl’s
hope of clearing from foul
blot the beloved memory of

Jerome crumbled into ashes. |

She, in her eagerness and in_

experience, had not consid- |
it was |
that Sara Hunter should be |

ered how unlikely

brought to criminate herself,

of
*' be the inevitable result.

her that Sara had only to confess, and say she was

penitent, and in some way go free, self-banished from |

the land of her crime.

She did not remember that Sara had outraged the |
| laws

of the land, and that there is no welcome or
safe shelter for the known murderer’s head.

flight an insuperable barrier to the vindication of
Jerome.

She felt asif she could not return at once to the
castle. It was filled with a gay crowd, intent on
Her room was sure to be invaded by some
laughing Comus-crew, with Lady Maria Ravlin at
their head, full of some new project, in which she

tions. Or, worse still, she must meet the keen,
quick gaze of Laura Ranleigh, swift to discover any
change, to trace its cause, and*make hostile use of it.

The day was one of the most glorious of Indian
summer, the air was full of the fragrance of the ripe
fruit lingering against the sunny wall, and the rich
scent of the autumnal flowers, the castle gardener’s
pride.

“Fanny,” said Beryl, “I cannot goin just now; I
will walk for a little in the wood.”

She gave Fanny the reins, and turned slowly down
as “The Lover’s Re-
treat.” Bright asters and hawks-weed starred the
leaves lay brown and crisp upon the way, and her
silken skirts trailed over them with asoft shirring
sound; her broad hat-brim, lined with deep purple

velvet and turned up at one side with a buckle of |
brilliants, set in clear relief her beautiful face, until |
cameo, |
earved with choicest skill; the long plume curling |
about the hat came down against the bright gold of |

it looked like some exquisite, faintly pink

her hair. She was a creature all grace, all beauty,
richly set, and yet all sorrow and profound and hope-
less grieving.

As she moved along, she saw before her on the
path a dead robin, with open beak and wide-spread
wings. She took it up and smoothed tenderly the

| crimson breast and brown back, and looked at the
| round, gold-rimmed eyes, still bright and clear, and

remembered that I had found my coat lying upon the |

floor of my room, when I was sure that [I had hung it
upon the back of achair. But Mr. Conant went to

| fountain of her tears.

somehow this dead, innocent thing opened the bitter
She thought of Jerome dead,

| dishonored, of his helpless young wife; and, free

Chester last evening and brought away everything |
belonging to me, and we could find nothing, though | :
sobs.

we searched my clothing thoroughly.”

“When will the—trial take place?’ Ruby inquired,
with a shiver of dread.

“T have not been examined yet, and my lawyer will

| tertainment for the evening, and had retired to the |

plead for time to work up my defense ; unless—con- |
| clusive proof should be forthcoming at the examina-
“Walter has been arrested upon the charge of hay- |

tion.

“But you surely will not have to remain here all |

that time!” cried Ruby, in dismiay. ‘
“No; Mr. Conant will arrange for my liberty; he
will give bonds for me.”

| this, he heard a sob, and lifting himself on his elbow, |

Walter then related his adventure in connection |

with Madam Howland, and mentioned his subse-

| quent visits to her, her apparent interest in him, and
her offer to give bonds to any amount for him to se- |
| cure his release.

but who |

It does have a suspicious look, come to think of;
it—his sleeping here that night, and then getting |

away before light in the morning.
you against him, Ruby, and I hope you will listen to
me now,” Mrs. Gordon concluded, in a reproachful
tone, as if she wished to imply that Ruby had, in
some way, been partially to blame for the covdtre-
temps.

“Estelle! Walter is as innocent of this crime as I

Well, I warned |

At the end of an hour Mr. Conant returned, and in- |

formed Walter that he was to go before the court for
examination at two o’clock, and then Ruby arose to

| leave, promising to see him again at the earliest op- |
| portunity.

She, however, did not go directly home. She re-

| paired to Mr. Conant’s office, where she wrote a long |
| letter to Mr. Ruggles, telling him of Walter’s trouble

am. I do not see how you can imagine for a moment |
that he could be guilty of such a thing, and [I will not |

believe one word against him,” Ruby asserted, in-
dignantly.

“But if it should be proved against him, how could
you help believing it?’ Mrs. Gordon asked, as_ she
stooped to pick up the paper and began to read the
account for herself, regardless of her aching (?) eyes.

“Tt never can be proved against him. It is utterly
impossible that he could do such a thing,” was the
passionate response, for Ruby had the utmost faith
in the integrity of her lover.

“Well, dear, don’t work yourself into a fever over
it,” returned Mrs. Gordon, soothingly ; ‘‘only promise
me that, if he is proved guilty, you will give up your
foolish fancy for him.”

low, intense tone.
my character!
Richardson had committed a crime.”

“Then you will give him up—you will cancel your

‘Oh, Estelle, how little you know

and of her previous letter to him asking permission
to go to Redville to spend the summer. She stated,
though, that she had changed her mind, and would
remain where she was until after Walter’s affair was

| trusty.

settled, when she should be glad to come to them if |

they would have her. :
This letter she posted with her own hands, and was
confident that she would soon get a reply to it.

Then she went home, and set herself to watch her |

sister, and Edmund Carpenter also, whenever he
should present himself there, hoping that she might
get some clew to the plot which she believed had
been laid to ruin her lover.

Walter’s examination came off as appointed, but
as the evidence against him was not deemed sufii-

| cient to warrant conviction without further investi-
: | gation, his case was deferred for a few weeks, and
“My foolish fancy for him!’ repeated Ruby, in a |

It would kill me to know that Walter |

engagement if he is convicted?” persisted Mrs. Gor- |

don, relentlessly.

“IT should have to give him up if he acknowledged
the crime. Icould never marry a dishonored man,”
Ruby moaned; and with these words she fled up to
her own room, to hide the wild grief that was nearly
breaking her heart.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. RUGGLES APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

It will readily be surmised that Edmund Carpenter
had caused the arrest of Walter.

When first apprised of the fact of Mrs. Gordon’s
loss, he had taken active measures for the appre-
hension of the guilty party, and appeared very much
disturbed that she should have been robbed in his
house.

Still he was not supposed to know that Walter had
slept in the house on that night, consequently his
name was not mentioned in connection with the
affair, until after he received Mrs. Gordon’s note,
stating her discovery and the suspicion which it had
aroused, when he immediately assumed that all was
explained—that he must have committed the deed—
and he immediately caused a warrant for his arrest
to be issued.

Early Tuesday morning, Ruby, in spite of her sis-
ter’s commands and even threats, went into the city
to consult with Mr. Conant regarding her lover’s
trouble, and with the intention of going to comfort
him, if possible. She had not a doubt of his honesty,
and, as some of her remarks to Mrs. Gordon, be-
trayed, believed that suspicion had been thrown
upon him with the hope that it would serve to break
her engagement with him.

She was in a very unhappy frame of mind, for it
seemed as if everything conspired against her, and
she did not know whom to trust.

She had not yet heard anything from Mr. Ruggles,
and she now began to fear that her letter to him had
been intercepted to prevent going to Redville.

She relinquished all thous soing now, for she

ras resolved that she would not leave Walter while
he was in such trouble—she would stay where she
could see him oceasionally and cheer him as much as
she might. ry f

Mr. Conant received her very kindly.

“Do not worry, my dear Miss Gordon,” he said,
almost tenderly, as he looked into her pale, anxious
face, ‘‘for it will come out allright. We know that

 

he was held in bonds for his appearance. Mr. Conant
became his bondsman, and the young man was im-
mediately released from custody.

It was his wish to return at once to his work in
Chester, and Mr. Conant, knowing that he could not
trust his business so well to any one else, decided
that this would be best, and the next morning found
him once more among his workmen, and attending to
his duties as faithfully as if there was no trouble or
anxiety upon his mind.

Mr. Ruggles answered Ruby’s letter in person two
days after it was written.

He came just at dusk, and found his young friend
sitting alone upon the veranda, musing sadly upon
her troubles and her need of the strong help and ten-
der care of her brother.

Mrs. Gordon was up stairs in herown room. She
kept out of Ruby’s way as much as possible, for she
felt very uncomfortable in her presence, knowing
how deeply she had wronged and was still wronging
her; for she continued to play the invalid, since she
feared, now that Walter was released, that Ruby
would again insist upon going to Redville.

She espied Mr. Ruggles’ dumpy, awkward figure
coming up the avenue, and she was sure that Ruby
must have written a second time secretly—she had
taken care that her first letter should never reach
him—and he had now come to her at her request.

Ruby sprang up to meet him with a glad cry, and
clung to his hand as if realizing that at last she had
found a true friend and in him lay all power to pro-
tect her.

“Oh, Mr. Ruggles! how good of you! I was look-
ing for a letter, but I did not think that you would
come,” she cried, with almost a sob of relief.

“Bless you, Miss Ruby! did you think I’d let the
grass grow under my feet when you were in trouble?
And if there’s anything that money or good will can
do for you and that fine young chap of ours, why, I
and my purse are both at your service,” he answered,
heartily. -

Tears sprang to the young girl’s eyes. It was such
a relief to have some one to rely upon in the midst
of her perplexities that for a moment she was over-
come. But she rallied and looked up at him with a
smile, as she repeated :

“Tt is very good of you, and I appreciate your kind-
ness more than I can tell you.” Then she added, ina
lower tone: “If you are not too tired, will you come
and walk with me a little while? I want very much
to talk with you alone, without the fear of being
overheard, and—I should not feel safe anywhere
about this house.”

He gave hera keen glance, and nodded his head
once or twice as if he understood that something
was very wrong. He had feltso from the moment

 

there to weep inthe silence of the woodlands, she
leaned against a sheltering beech and burst into low

But Beryl was not, as she believed, alone. Lord
Ravlin had been challenged to invent some new en-

beech wood to give his
on so difficult a theme.
his back onthe dead
subject, and discussed
him since Halloween.

himself with a capitalized WHy ?

mind to profound meditation

But once out there, lying on
leaves, he had forgotten his
another which had engrossed

As he thought of

saw the Countess of Medford, weeping hopelessly,
with the dead bird in her hand.

Lord Ravlin was a lively trifler, merely because no
great duties of life had thus far come on him. The
youngest of a long list of sons, not fortunate enough

to have been returned to Parliament and engrossed |
with political themes, rich enough, through his god- }

father, for an easy and luxurious life, idly looking for
a wife to suit his captious taste, he was the merry
monarch of a young, harmless, idle set. But at heart
Lord Ravylin was chivalrous, upright, generous,
He came forward promptly.

“Lady Beryl, all that sorrow cannot be for a bird.”

Beryl started, and dropped the bird.

Lord Ravlin, with a kindly grace, picked the little
body up, and laid it snugly on a limb of the tree.

“Mother Nature will care for her own,” he said.
“But, Lady Beryl, I have the deepest anxiety to
know the cause of these tears.”” He took her hand.
“Are they connected with—Halloween night? I beg
of you to confide in me. I am in a conflict as to my
duty.”

Something in his frank, earnest gage, the clear
eyes, now black, now blue, now gray, in changeful

emotions, the warm, brotherly clasp of her hand, the |

look of manly spirit and bold earnestness in the
young nobleman, suggested to Beryl that here was
the help she needed.

She clasped his hand with both hers.

“Lord Ravlin, may I confide in you ?”

“Tndeed, Lady Beryl, you do me infinite honor.*

“But I must put before you a great and terrible
question. These are no idle tears.”

“Trust me with anything. I am all at your ser-
vice.”

“You knew
nestly.

Lord Ravlin started violently.

“Yes; I loved him.”

“Oh, thank you for the word.
lieved those dreadful stories about him, that he had
—had—killed his wife ?”’

“Certainly not. The more I looked at it, the more
I thought it impossible. I knew it impossible.”

‘Lord Ravlin,” said Beryl, looking at him with

Jerome Sothron?’ said Beryl, ear-

lovely frankness, “there was a time when Jerome |

Sothron and I were very dear to each other. He was
poor, and I was poor; my family came between us;
our dream ended, and I trust I am to Lord Medford a
faithful wife. But such remembrances cannot per-
ish out of the heart, and one cannot endtre that
black calumny should fasten on the memory of one
once so dear. Itis Lord Medford’s misfortune that
my feeling for Sir Jerome has been misrepresented
to him so much that, fearing for his health, even his
life—for you may have heard how dangerous excite-
ment is to him—I cannot ask him to vindicate Je-
rome’s honor. And yet, I not only know him inno-
cent, but the very name of Mrs. Sothron’s murderer
is in my possession.”

“Lady Beryl Medford !’”’

“Sara Hunter, her maid

“T suspected it from the first!”

Beryl, in earnest, graphic words, told the history
of her acquaintance with Sara, her delirious confes-
sion, the display of the jewels, her visit, and Sara’s
flight.

“Lady Medford, is it possible that, while all of us
have been idling, Payne time-killing, you have been
going through these experiences?) And what a
shameful thing it was He stopped, then said:
“Tell me—you were very much startled Halloween—
does that rankle on your mind still?”

“No,” said Beryl; ‘‘these terrible facts have ban-
ished what must. have been fancies.

”

the burden of her crime, and, for Lord Medtford’s
sake, J can do nothing.”

“T will find her!” cried Lord Raylin.
me. It is a man’s work. I hayve-leisure; I have
money. I can pursue the matter as Sir Jerome’s
friend, and your name need be never mentioned.
Trust me to do the work, and keep you informed.”

“T do not want all that trouble about Sir Jerome |
2an be |

and his poor wife reopened. If the woman I
found and forced to confess—found quickly, by pri-

[fe grant that execution would |
She |
knew so little of practical life, that it had seemed to |

Not
| daring to appeal to her husband, she found in Sara’s

That subject he introduced to |

Then you never be- |

Now, my con- |
cern is to have this woman found, and made to bear |

“Trust it to |

vate search—and then not suffered to escape as
now Et

“It can be done—it shall be done!”

“You give me hope and life,” said Beryl.

“May I hint we had better return to the house? It
is quite, or past, lunch-time,” said Ravlin, recollect-
ing himself.

They returned rather quickly. Rapid walking
brought a flush to Beryl’s usually pale face, and
Lord Ravlin, roused from his trifling idleness, given
a confidence and an object, had alook of pride, of
strength, of new resolve on his handsome face.

The party at the castle were gathered on the lawn.

“You are late!” they cried. ‘‘We have waited for
you.”

‘‘You look as if prepared to give us grand sur-
prises. Lord Ravlin, it was not fair to take a part-
ner,” said Mrs. Ranleigh. “Still, we benefit by it.
What is it ?”’

“What is what?’ demanded Ravlin.
gotten his errand to the wood.

“Why, what is our grand entertainment this even-
ing?” said Lady Maria. ‘That is what you went to
think out.”

“Oh,” said Ravlin, driven to desperation, ‘‘we are
to have a—a soap bubble party.” ,

“Soap bubbles!” cried Sir Eustace Friar. “Whata
rustic entertainment! Did you devise it, Lady Med-
ford ?”’

“T never heard of it till this minute,” said Beryl.

“Well! What have you been discussing, then?’
cried Mrs. Ranleigh, who stood by the marquis.

Beryl and Lord Ravylin flushed crimson.

He had for-

CHAPTER XXXVITII.
‘THE FAIREST OF THE FAIR.”

The promise of Lord Ravlin that he would interest
himself in clearing the memory of Sir Jerome from
dishonor, and the new, strange feeling that she had
a friend, confidant, and adviser stronger, and wiser,
and keener in sympathy than Fanny, filled Beryl
with a sense of relief that was almost joy; and as
the merry party surrounded the lunch-table, the face
of the fair hostess was smiling and serene, and as
she had rolled the burden of her care on stronger
shoulders, she gave herself to the discussion of her
guests’ entertainment.

“So you have been too much occupied, or too well
entertained, this morning, Lord Ravlin,” said Mrs.
sanlel gn, “to arrange for our amusement this even-
|ing?
|}. “Not at all,” said Ravlin, with a quick look, that
|} had something of anger init. ‘I told you a soap-
| bubble party was wy invention. We shall blow our
bubbles in the conservatory, out of deference to Lady
Medford’s oriental carpets, and rugs, and upholstery.
There shall be two judges, the marquis being one,
and they shall award prizes for the bubbles in order
| of size. We must send a groom to Winderton village
| for unlimited clay pipes, and all you ladies must
| wear cotton gowns.”

“Cotton gowns!
shall be hideous !”

“No, you will shine in your true beauty. Usually,
we cannot tell whether we are admiring yourselves,
| or the rich raiment of Worth; to-night, beauty un-
adorned will beam upon us.”

“T suggest that we have a prize for the most beau-
| tiful. The lady who can best carry off the simplicity
; of a cotton gown shall have a golden apple, and

Ravlin shall be the Paris to award it,” cried Sir
Eustace.

“T know who will get it,’ said Lady Maria to Mrs,
Ranleigh, aside.

All she meant was, that one among them would be
incontestably the most beautiful. But Mrs. Ranleigh,
knowing that the marquis could not avoid hearing
them, replied, with intention :

“Yes, his admiration is quite evident.”

Lady Maria opened widely her innocent eyes, not
knowing how much this remark. covered, and Mrs.
Ranleigh said, across the table, to Lord Ravlin:

“Tf I were you, I would reject the role of Paris. He
has avery disreputable name. Did he not run off
with another man’s wife?”

“Her beauty pleaded his excuse,”
lightly.

“Nothing pleads an excuse for crime,” said the
marquis, with such sharpness that it checked the
mirth of the company, until Sir Eustace Friar cried
out:

“Send that groom for his pipes quickly, and I will
paint every one’s pipe with an emblem, as a memento
of the evening.”

Evening came. In the beautifully lighted con-
servatory, on a dozen pedestals under the palms and
vines, porcelain basins of water artfully mingled to
make good bubbles, and sprinkled with perfumes,
were standing. The lights were in softly tinted
globes, hanging as in chains among the greenery.

The ladies trooped into the drawing-room, a fair,
smiling bevy, in ‘‘cotton gowns” coquettishly ar-
| ranged, all but Beryl’s, which was simplicity itself—
a blue muslin, with yoke and sash.

Sir Eustace handed Lord Raylin a great gilt apple.

“T feel,’ he said, ‘that I should have an apple for
every lady, all are so beautiful. It is hard to choose
fairest among fairest. Lady Medford, as queen rose

 

shrieked Lady Maria. ‘‘Why, we

said Ravylin,

 

| among the roses, will you accept the apple from the

garden of the gods?”

Beryl smilingly took the gilded apple, saying:

“T think I got it, rather as the hostess, than as the
fairest. Will you keep the prize for me, Percy ?”

Then she went among her guests with the basket
of painted pipes, and each taking one, great was the
amusement at the emblems.

“Mrs. Ranleigh has a hand holding a mask !” cried
Lord Raylin.

“T did not need any. Iam onthe awarding com-
mittee with the marquis,” said Laura.

“Oh, you must blow bubbles !” cried Sir Eustace.

“No. I am like Minerva, who threw her flute away
because blowing it made her look grotesque.”

She wheeled to the conservatory door a table cov-
ered with the prizes, little elegant trinkets hastily
gathered, and seated herself beside it, with the
marquis.

Soon the conservatory was a beautiful scene—the
lovely, dainty forms, the smiling faces, the warm,
fragrant air filled with large, floating, rainbow-col-
ored, all-reflecting balls, that rose, and drifted, and
disappeared.

Lord Ravlin and Beryl stood on opposite sides of
the same basin, in the center of the conservatory.

“Now watch forthe great trial of skill for the first
prize!” cried Ravlin; and presently all eyes were
fixed on the pair, as, leaning lightly forward, each
with eyes intent on the other’s bubble, with infinite
zare they inflated two brilliant balls, and at the
same minute set them free, amid a low round of. ap-
| plause.

‘“‘Lady Beryl’s was the larger,” said Mrs. Ranleigh.

“Do you feel very badly at being beaten?’ asked
Beryl, bending with a delicious smile to her an-
tagonist.

“Not when you are victor,” said Ravlin, fervently.

Laura gave a deep sigh, and looked intensely sad.

After a little, a cry rose:

“Look! look!”

The contest had ended, but Ravlin was blowing an
enormous bubble.

“A prize, a prize!’ cried Harley Medford, as it
sailed away.

“There is not a prize left,’ said Mrs. Ranleigh.

“Such a chef @euvre shall not go unrewarded,”
said Beryl, merrily, and taking a knot of blue ribbon
from her sleeve, held it out, saying, ‘“‘I can spare this
as an award of genius.”

“Nothing could please me better,” said the lively
young lord, taking it, with a profound bow.

“So,” said Mrs. Ranleigh, later in the evening, to
Mrs. Harley Medford, and seeming not to know that
the marquis was on the other side of a screen near
them, ‘‘the invulnerable Ravlin is captured at last.
It is a pity it is not by some of our fair young
maidens, that Ravlin Abbey might have a lady.”

“What do you mean ?” said Mrs. Medford. ‘‘Do you
mean Beryl? I don’t know as I like such hints about
married women.”

“One forgets Beryl is married,” said Laura. ‘Her
chains hold her so lightly, she seems to forget it her-
self.”

It was very natural that having such a common ob-
ject and interest as they did, one that could not be
spoken of at all before others, Beryl and Lord Raylin
should have little asides. He was eager to tell what
he was doing in his first serious undertaking; she
was eager to hear. So, sometimes, as she sat em-
broidering, a little apart from the rest, he came and,
leaning his tall, graceful figure against the window
frame behind her, talked in a low voice; or they
played chess together at alittle table in.a corner
after dinner, and evidently were interested in some-
thing besides the game. Nothing but the harpy of
envy would have seen a thing to criticise; but Mrs,
Ranleigh envied Beryl and feared Lord Ravlin, and
wished him away from Winderton Castle. Meaning
looks and shrugs, anxious watchings of “dear, inno-
cent Beryl,’ a hundred little artful nothings, all di-
rected toward the marquis and intended to rouse his
unfortunate disposition to jealousy, these were Mrs.
Ranleigh’s ways to her end, to get up some coolness
between the marquis and his guest, so that Lord
Ravlin would leave the castle.

One evening, just before dinner, Beryl was leaning
back in a great yellow silk fauteuil, her clustered
rings of golden hair gleaming in the light of the
chandelier, the firelight from the hearth flashing
over her dress of pale-blue silk with a bodice of sil-
ver net; her eyes were shining, and her musical
laughter rippled from her lips; for Lord Ravylin,
seated on an ottoman near her, was exhibiting
varions little feats of necromancy, learned from his
Coptic guide in travels through Egypt.

Suddenly looking up, Beryl saw in the great square
glass over the chimney the reflection of her husband,
standing with folded arms, sternly and sadly regard-
ing them.

“Lord Ravylin,”’ she said, softly and impulsively,
| “my husband is very sensitive about the difference
in his and my ages and characteristics; he is the
best man in the world, and has the strongest self-de-
preciation. I think it makes him unhappy—if I say
| very much to any one particular person. I think you
and I will only talk when there are third parties with
us. Our interest in one theme has, perhaps, made
us Seem more acquainted or confidential than we
| are.

 

’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No, 34.

THE N

 

W YORK WEEKLY.

 

Ee Seeos

 

“Tell me one thing only,” said Ravlin, suddenly.

“You said the marquis felt pained in regard to you
and Jerome. Wasit Mrs. Ranleigh stirred him up?”
“Yes! It was.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.
“IN A TRANCE OF HORROR!”

Lord Ravlin was walking in the garden. A few
snow-flakes were flying in the air, for it was nearly
Christmas. The guests who were invited for the
great holiday festivities planned by the marquis,
were arriving; the castle was full of mirth and stir,
and Ravlin had come out to muse a little over his

non-suceess in finding the mysteriously disappeared.

Sara Hunter. :

As he walked, the wind whirled, fluttering through
the air a fragment of note paper, torn, as if one had
stri dup arejected written page. It drifted into

_ Raylin’s face, and lodged on his coat lapel. He took
it between his fingers to throw it off, when he saw his

- own name in clear script. The fragment had neither
address nor signature; it was a torn sentence; but a
single glance showed these words:

“Forgive me; but if you value your peace and hers,
send Lord Ravlin away.”

The face of the young man broke into a flame of
honest rage and indignation. This was Mrs. Ran-
leigh’s hand, and the reason the paper had been dis-
carded was evident; a blot had fallen on the page.

“This is her method!” he cried, angrily, and turned
at once to seek Lord Medford.

As he entered from the garden the glass corridor,
now furnished with an inside door of green baize,
Berry! entered from the other terrace, and Lord Med-
ford, who had seen her pass his library window,
stepped into the corridor from the great hall to meet

er. :

Beryl had been out to see some of her poor people.
She had in her hand her little basket, and wore a sim-
ple gray flannel gown, and gray flannel cloak, and
had pulled the cloak-hood over her head, to shield
her neck from the flying snow.

Lord Medford was angry. He had, within an hour,
heard from Mrs. Ranleigh’s lips the story of Beryl’s
work among the sick and poor during the fever. Mrs.
Ranleigh had collected the information through her
maid, and did not detail it to the marquis. She
seemed to suppose he knew it, or, absorbed in the
paper he was reading, did not heed it

Mrs. Ranleigh told the history to Lady
Mrs. Marion Medford. She seemed lost in admira-
‘tion of “dear Beryl’s sweet charity, and alarmed at
the terrible risk she had run of taking the fever, and
giving it to all in the castle. Beryl was such an an-
gel, she had no notion how improper it was to go
alone to those terrible cottages! So childish, and
like herself, to go off without consulting any one, the
little love! It was all her humility not wanting her
good deeds known.”

Lady Maria said she thought ‘it would have been

Maria and

better to take an elderly servant.”

Mrs. Medford thought no doubt “the account was
exaggerated. Beryl, perbaps, had gone once, with a
maid.”

Lord Medford heard, and determined to rebuke his
wife. Retiring to his library, he found Mrs. Ran-
leigh’s note, and, all indignant at that craftily word-
ed document, he looked up, and saw Beryl, flushed
from s=owy air, tripping in from a cottage visitation.
Angrier than his wont, he stepped into the corridor,
and confronted his wife, while Lord Ravlin, behind
the baize door, was shaking the snow from his whis-

Kers.

“Where have you been, Beryl!’ demanded Lord
Medford.

“Just toone of the cottages, Percy, to take some
fruit to a poor girl, ill of consumption.”

“Such a day as this it would be sensible to send a
servant on your errands, Lady Medford. I do not
approve of this running about to cottages. Who
knows what danger you may be in! Could you not
take a maid, ora groom? You seem to have so little
idea of the proprieties of your position. I have just
heard of your recklessness during the fever. You
must be mad! And why do you wear that abomi-
nable gray gown? It looks as if you belonged to
some guild. People will suppose you are doing a
penance. That extreme is as bad as coquettishness.
I beg you will go dress yourself properly, before our
guests see you. Itis time I took you back to London
society.”

This conjugal outburst, utterly unprecedented from
the courteous, stern marquis, and only explained by

his craftily roused excitement, fell like a storm on |

the head ot poor Beryl. She grew pale, then crimson;

daring to trust herself to speak, she ran past her lord
and up stairs.

Meanwhile Lord Ravlin stood confounded, not wish-
ing to appear before the pair, who evidently be-

. lieved themselves alone in the corridor. The mar-
quis strode back to his library,and Raylin promptly
tollowed him.

‘The marquis was already repentant of his severity.

“My lord,” said Ravlin, with dignity, ‘this scrap
of paper blew just now in my face. May I askif you
received a note bearing a similar Hine?”

“T did,” said the marquis, stiffly.

“From Mrs. Ranleigh ?”’

Lord Medford bowed.

~“Ttis a poor return for the silence which she be-
sought me, even with tears, to observe concerning a
very cruel and wicked act. I did not promise si-
lence. I have merely waited to be guided by events.
She fears I will speak, and contrives this vile charge
to make a coldness or quarrel between you and my-
self which will cause my departure. Do you remem-
ber Halloween ?”

7x es.”

“And the Yellow Mask that leaned on the mantel,
silent, all the while the door was locked ?”’

“Mrs. Ranleigh? Yes.”

“Not Mrs. Ranleigh—her maid!
inoes and masks alike.
slipped into the room and took her place when Mrs.
Ranleigh ran to the head of the staircase. Mrs. Ran-
leigh, hastily dressing herself to represent Sir Jerome
Sothron acting Sir Tristram, appeared to your wife,

She had two dom-

with the purpose of so alarming her that you would |

inquire into the cause of her terror. She tried then,

Lady Beryl was carried from Sir Hillard’s Room, I

there found Mrs. Ranleigh in the Sir Tristram dress.

“She implored me frantically to keep her confi-
dence, lest she incur your anger. I reserved my
decision, waiting to see if Lady Beryl received any

permanent ill impression from the cruelly contrived |
I concluded she did not; and I should have |
kept silence, had not this bit of paper taught me that |

vision.

Lady Beryl has a relentless enemy in Mrs. Ranleigh,
whois intent on destroying your married peace. It
seems to me almost to insult such heavenly sim-
plicity and purity as your wife’s, when I say that my

acquaintance with her has always been of such re-
serve that it cannot even be called a close friend-
ship. Though I admire her as a model of womanly
sweetness and goodness.”

Lord Medford grasped Raylin’s hand.

“My young friend, you are a physician who has
brought salutary medicine to a heart poisoned by
idle, weak suspicions. I see where I have been made
an artful woman’s tool.
lesson.”

With a hearty hand-shake Ravlin withdrew, and a
few minutes after Lord Medford sent a page up with
a note to his wife’s room.

Beryl, standing before her glass, being dressed by
Fanny, hastily ran her eyes over the words:

“My SwEEeT WIFE:—I am and have been cruelly
wrong. Forgive me! From this hour I pledge you
better things, and all confidence and tenderness.

M.”

“Oh, Fanny !” said Beryl, ‘‘hurry and make me just
as beafitiful as you can—just as Lord Medford likes
to see me—so I can go down to him.”

_ Her first impulse was to fling on a dressing-robe
and hasten to him, but she restrained herself, know-
ing his stately insistence on etiquette and dignity.

Escaped at last from Fanny’s hands, a bewildering
vision of rose-colored silk and cloudy white tulle, fair
as a peri, her dainty garments breathing fragrance,
and all perfection from the topmost curl of her
golden head to the tip of her buckled pink satin slip-
pers—her soft, dimpled snowy neck and arms rival-
ing the pearls that clasped them—Lady Beryl ran
down to the library and knocked at the door.

No answer. Oh, he was not there! She knocked
again. No doubt he had said, ‘‘Come in.” She opened
the door. He sat at the writing-table, a pen in his
hand, a parchment with a great seal, before him.

“Do I please you, now, Percy?’ cried Beryl. ‘‘Look
at me!”

He did not turn, and running to him, she laid her
hand on his shoulder, and bent to put her pretty face
near his.

Then she gave a wild, shuddering cry, and Harley
Medford and Lord Ravlin rushed in, to find her ina
trance of horror; her hand on the shoulder of a
cor

se
The ink of his signature was hardly dry.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ns ishpaieiggigasi be
A FRENCH PHYSICIAN ON COLDS.

Dr. Brown-Sequard, in a communication made to
the Societe de Biologie, points out a method by which
that common but uncomfortable experience known
as catching a cold may be avoided. He remarks that
the parts of the human skin which are most sensitive
to the action of cold are at the neck and at the feet,

and these should be hardened and accustomed to
withstand rapid changes of temperature with impu-
nity. His treatment to attain this end consists in
‘blowing upon the neck daily a stream of cold air
from an elastic bag, and placing the feet in water,
_ the temperature of which should be gradually re-
duced from day to day until the coldest water is

 

 

 

Her maid, dressed in one, |

a , | me to do all the talking.
suspected some trick, and opening the panel closet,

 

ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.

BY W. L. SQUIRE.

I wrote two songs in different keys,
And gave the sisters to the world;
On one the critics kindly smiled,
O’er one their lips in scorn were curled,
One, mysteries sought to clear away,
My understanding far above ;
The other was a simple lay,
The sweet, unstudied song of love.

The poem by the critics praised,

The world, perverse, refused to take,
But called it hollow, priggisb, vain,

And, worse than all! a huge mistake.
The song of love, by critics spurned,

The world received, with welcome free.
I asked a simple little maid

To tell me how these things could be.

“ Why, don’t you know?” she, smiling, said,

“*T can the knowledge soon impart;

One is the product of the brain ;
One, the outpouring of the heart.”

Oh, thanks, dear little maid, who could
The mystery so soon explain,

And teach one touch of natnre still
The world can bind in kindred’s chain.

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM., }

MAGGIE,
THE CHARITY CHILD.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
**Little Sunshine,” ‘“‘Daisy Burns,” etc., etc.

(MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD” was commenced in No.
22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXVI.

A DREAM OF LOVE DISPELLED.

It was onone of those beautifully bright and delight-
fully cool evenings in the month of July which en-

| thusiastic star-gazers and young lovers delight in,

that a young lady and a gentleman some years her

senior, might have been seen seated side by side in |

the portico of a beautifully designed country resi-
dence situated on the banks of the Hudson. The first
was our heroine, Maggie, and the second her friend
and benefactor, Edward Wrexham.

The glowing description of Maggie’s charms which
Wrexham had given while in conversation with
Charles Hollister and Gilbert Farmer, was not. with-
out warrant. The little uncultivated bud, timely
snatched from the great highway of life, transplanted
in a more genial soil, and carefully nurtured, had ex-
panded into a mature flower which it was delightful
to look upon. The unfriended, ignorant, pale-faced
“Child of Charity,” had, under the fostering care of
those into whose hands an ever-merciful Providence
had thrown her, ripened into the intellectual, health-
ful, loving woman.. Maggie was, indeed, beautiful
in form and feature, and transcendently lovely in all
those heavenly qualities of soul which elevate and
ennoble humanity.

But Maggie, although of a contented, cheerful dis-
position, and not apt to sorrow at trifles, was not
happy as she sat there beside the man who had years
before rescued her from a fate worse than death, for
as she gazed mournfully up into the blue concave,
her face was very pale, and a tear which trembled
upon her dark eye-lashes glistened like a brilliant
gem in the moonlight.

“Yes, Maggie dear,” said Wrexham, continuing a

1; | conversation which they had commenced some time
her bosom heaved, and tears rushed to her eyes. Not | . : ;

previously, ‘‘that old playmate of yours has grown
up to be as fine-looking a young fellow as you would
meet with inaday’s walk. Nature couldn’t have
done more for him in the way of looks, and, if I may
judge from his conversation, he couldn’t have done
more for himself in the way of study. Altogether he
is just the man calenlated to make asensation among
the ladies, and I am not at all surprised that the rich
Kentucky beauty of whom his English friend spoke,
is inlove with him. Her preference speaks well for
her taste.” :

A deep sigh broke from the bosom of Maggie, but
Wrexham in his careless garrulity, did not notice it.

“TJ can’t help feeling a little envy,” he continued,
“when Isee a man raise himself to a position of
prominence by the sheer force of his own energies.
It proves that there’s something in him. Wealthisa
great drawback toaman. I believe I should have
been a passably smart sort of fellow, myself, if I had
been born poor, but as it is I don't amount to any-
thing. Here Ihave reached the age of thirty-two,
and what have I accomplished? Absolutely noth-
ing. The smartest thing [ever did was to run over

| you, and how I ever managed to do that without kill-

ing you, has always been a mystery to me. Now
there’s that friend of yours, Hollister, he commenced
life a good deal worse off than nothing, and at the
age of twenty-two, he finds himself established in

business, the accepted suitor of arich, elegant and |
| accomplished lady, and the favorite of a wealthy old
| gentleman who will, without doubt, leave him a for- |

tune. Eight years ago, if carriages had been selling
at a cent a piece, he couldn’t have bought a wheel-
spoke, and now I suppose in less than a month he

L : ¢ , | will be driving out in his own establishment with his
as at other times, to give you a false idea of the |
countess’ friendship for my friend Sothron. When |

accomplished and beautiful wife at his side. But
why don’t you say something, Maggie? Don’t leave
IThaven’t heard the music
of your voice for the last half hour ?’

He turned to look at her as he spoke, and was no
less grieved than astonished to find her with her

| hands fixed upon her face and weeping bitterly.

“Why, Maggie,” he exclaimed, in atone almost of
terror, ‘‘what is the matter, darling? Have I, in my
thoughtless jabbering, said anything to wound your
feelings? But no, I cannot think that. I cannot be-
lieve that you would think so meanly of meas to
suppose that anything which I have said was in-
tended as a reflection upon yourself ?”’

“Oh, no, Mr. Wrexham!” exclaimed Maggie,in a
tone of great earnestness, “indeed, indeed such is
not the case!”

“Ah, Maggie,” said Wrexham, tenderly, as he took
her small white hand in his own, ‘tthere you go again!
How often have I begged you to drop that cold and
formal Mr for the more familiar and kindly title of
Edward—or Ned would suit me much better? Butif

a | your grief arises not from anything which I have
Hereafter this shall be my

said, what is the matter?’

“Oh, I am ill—very ill!” replied Maggie, “let us go
in the house!”

“Well, that is the strangest of all strange things !”
exclaimed Wrexham, with a puzzled expression of
countenance, “is is not an hour since you spoke of
feeling particularly joyous and light-hearted, and
you proved the sincerity of what you said by playing
a singing for me allthe merriest airs you could
select.

She did not answer him. She did not seem to hear
him in fact, for she sat like a statue without with-
drawing the hand of which he had taken possession,
and wept in silence.

Suddenly a light began to dawn upon the mind of
Wrexham. He remembered the conduct of Hollister
on the morning of their second interview, and he
could not help coupling it with the present conduct
of Maggie. At length he said, tenderly, but his voice
was tremulous with emotion, and his heart beat
violently as he spoke:

“Maggie, dear Maggie, the little knowledge of the
human heart which I possess—for I freely confess
that [am but a superficial observer—convinces me
that you have labored under adelusion ever since our
acquaintance commenced. You have always im-
agined—you at this moment imagine—that you are
deeply my debtor, and that I owe you nothing. This
is not the case, Maggie. On the contrary, you owe
me nothing—I owe you everything. When the Great
Father of us all, in the abundance of his merey and
loving kindness, threw you in my way I was a wild,
reckless, and prodigal youth, following a course which
if persevered in, could have led to nothing else than
sure destruction. The wan, meek face of the home-
less, friendless little sufferer, so resigned to trouble,
so patient under torture, and so hopeful withal,
effected what nothing else had ever effected in me.
It led me to reflect upon the ills which afflict human-
ity. It was a lesson which taught me that I could be
of some use in the world. It needed but reflection to
give me an interior light, and then I saw my sensuous
soul in allits hideous deformity. From that moment
commenced a reformation, which, though it has pro-
ceeded slowly, will one day, I trust, bring with it
‘that peace which passeth understanding.’ Well, L
watched you as you grew in beauty and intelligence,
with a gratification the depth of which no one but
myself can ever know, as L reflected that I had been
instrumental in saving a human soul from danger—
that I was, thoughinavery limited degree, to be sure,
the city missionary which my little protegee, in her
artlessness, had said I ought to be. harmed by the
purity of heart, the amiability, and the sweetness of
disposition so natural to you, my mother gave you
our family name, and I learned to regard you as a
sister. Atlength Il went to Europe and was gone
some years. Upon my return, though I had altered
in nothing, I found that time had worked a wondrous
changein you. From the little, fragile child, you
had budded into the full-grown, beautiful adult, and
the relation in which we stood to each other was

 

 

that of manandwoman. Then, atonce,andasthough
we had met for the first time, a new and pleasant
idea took possession of me. It was the idea that you
might perhaps become something even nearer than
a sister to me.
reached womanhood in safety, you would one day go
forth into the world, where pure, guileless, and un-
suspecting as you are, you would be subjected to a
thousand dangers. I wished to place you beyond the
possibility of harm by having you with me always,
so that I might watch over you with never-ceasing
vigilance. I wished to own a husband’s right to
press you to my heart aiid there to shield you from
the rude storms of life. It is already rumored in the
meddlesome world that an engagement calculated to
secure to me that right, already exists between us.
Say, Maggie, dear Maggie, can my desire he gratified?
Speak to me candidly, as I have spoken to you. Do
not say ‘yes’ unless your whole heart accompanies
the answer, for if we cannot be husband and wife,
we ¢an still continue to be brother and sister.”

Removing her hands from her face, Maggie turned
her gaze fullupon him. Her countenance was still
as pale as marble, but there were no tears in her eyes
now. She was calm and collected, but her tone was
very, very sad, as she answered :

“My dearest, kindest, best of friends, I am glad
that you have laid open your mind to me, because it
gives me the opportunity to prove to you how deeply
grateful [ am for all that you have done for me. Try
to disguise the fact as you may, I am still deeply
sensible that to you I oweeverything—food, raiment,
education, home. But for you, I might still have
been a wanderer and an outcast, subject to the frowns
of a pitiless world—the biting inuendoes and cruel
sarcasms of theuncharitable andunthinking. [should
be less than human if I did not feel the deep debt of
gratitude which I owe you, and your last proposition
to wed a portionless girl, of whose origin you know
nothing, is only another proof of your generosity,
magnanimity, and sublime unselfishness. Sensible
as [am of my unworthiness to occupy the exalted
position to which you would raise me, I should refuse
your generous offer altogether were it not that I
know a nature such as yours rises superior to every
ignoble idea which would measure human worth by
the standard of wealth and not merit. You have
asked me to be candid, and I will try to be so. The
hand which you hold is yours forever, if you can
take it after you have heard me through, and to be
brief, I will not attempt to disguise the fact that I
would rather call you brother than husband. Not
because you lack any of the essentials which should
render a man attractive in the eyes of a true woman,
but for another reason, which I beg you will not press
meto name. [ idolize you, as @ brother, but { am
fearful that I do not feel for you that description of
love which a woman should feel for the man whom
she is willing to call husband. If, after this confes-
sion, you are satisfied to take me, I am yours, and all
my life shall be devoted to the study of pleasing
you.”

She paused for his reply, and she was not obliged
to wait long. A deep-drawn sigh, a slight tremor of
the hand, and then he answered, with a sad smile:

“Your reply, sweet sister, satisfies me that a sus-
picion but recently awakened within my mind is not
without foundation. It also satisties me that we are
not in every respect suited to enter into relationship
of man and wife with each other. I could never rest
satisfied with the possession of a divided heart. But
you are now more than ever my sister, and as such I
will cherish you as long as I have life. Let us then
never refer to this subject again, but let us school
ourselves studiously to think that one mother bore
us both. And now, if you please, we will retire.”

He conducted her within, and as he left her at the
door of the drawing-room, he imprinted a chaste kiss
upon her fair brow, and whispered :

““Good-night, dear Maggie, and may your dreams
be as sweet as your heart is pure and guileless. Good-
night, sweet sister!”

“Good-night, my noble, generous-hearted brother!”
murmured the fair girl, ‘and may Heaven send you
a companion more worthy of your love than poor
Maggie could ever be.”

Wrexham took his way to his own room, and when
he had reached it, he threw himself into a chair and
for some moments remained buried in deep thought.

“Tt is just as I expected,” he muttered at last, as he
arose and lighted a cigar, “‘she loves Charles Hollis-
ter, and I don’t blame her. By Jove! I’m glad it’s
over. I’ve been dreading it for along time, and now
Ifeeleasy. A good many soft-headed fellows, after
such an interview, would think of testing the merits
of astout bed-cord, or a dose of prussic acid; but
although somewhat disappointed, I can truthfully
say that I feel no more like ‘shuffling off this mortal
coll’ now than I did anjiour ago. The fact is, after

mature reflection I am, rather glad than otherwise |

that the affair ended a& it did, for Lam not exactly
sure that I couldn’t find a more appropriate match.
Maggie, I am afraid, is almost too staid and thought-
ful for a careless fellow like myself—too perfect, in
fact—yes, that’s a better word—too perfect.”
=
CHAPPRR XXVIII.
AN EMBARRASSING INTERVIEW.

Had Charles Hollister been fully aware of the state
of Mrs. Seymour’s feelings toward him he would have

hesitated somewhat before he accepted his old pa- |
tron’s invitation to make the Seymour mansion his |

home during his stay in the city. Mrs. Seymour had
never forgotten the circumstances attending the
death of the boy’s mother—cireumstances which were
rendered more suspicious from the fact that she had
subsequently discovered the portrait which her hus-
band had purchased from McNab, to every question
concerning which Mr. Seymour answered evasively,
and would give her no satisfaction. It was the only

| incident of a disagreeable nature which had ever

happened to mar the matrimonial felicity of the
worthy couple, and Mrs. Seymour felt it all the more
keenly on that account. For about a year she brooded
over it constantly, but as Charles Hollister’s name
was never mentioned in her presence after his flight
trom the city, she ceased to think of it at last, except
when some circumstance recalled it to her mind.
Now, however, his appearance in the house opened
the wound afresh, and although her good sense, no

jless than her Christian charity, told her that the
‘youth himself was not to blame, still she could not

avoid a disagreeable feeling while in his presence.

It was the second day of Hollister’s sojourn in the
house, that as he was passing up the stairs, he acci-
dentally overheard a portion of a conversation be-
tween Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, which gave him no
little concern, and called up within him feelings of a
very disagreeable nature. Charles was obliged to pass

the retiring room of the old couple, in order to reach | :
; | ham’s arm, she would have fallen had he not sup-

his own. As he did so, the door was slightly ajar,
and he heard Mrs. Seymour say, in a resolute tone;
“T have borne this secrecy, Andrew, for more than

| thought occurred to him,
I reflected that, although you had

; altered her.

| end.

| carry

 

 

“Whatever of shame, if any, may attach to my
birth,” mused Hollister, after the negro had disap-
peared, and he blushed scarlet as the disagreeable
“T am satisfied that Mr.
Seymour is guiltless. My heart tells me that he will
one day reveal to me everything which it is neces-
sary that I should know, and confident in that assur-
ance, I think I could rest comparatively easy if Mrs.
aa would treat me with a little more cordial-
ty.”

Singularly enough, just as he had reached this
point in his soliloquy he was summoned to wait upon
Mr. and Mrs. Seymour in the drawing-room. He
proceeded to obey the call at once, but his heart pul-
sated rapidly as he did so, for he knew not what was
about to happen. His suspense was of short dura-
tion, for what was his surprise and gratification
when, upon entering the room, Mrs. Seymour, instead
of holding herself aloof as was her wont, approached
in aright motherly manner, and greeted him with a
warm embrace, while Mr. Seymour looked on with
a happy smile irradiating his benevolent counte-
nance.

““My dear Charles,” said the old lady, affectionately,
“Mr. Seymour and myself have just concluded to
entertain a few select friends to-morrow night, and
we have summoned you to notify you of the fact as
well as to request you to have any friend of your own
whom you would like to have present.”

“You are very kind, I am sure, and I shall be only
too happy to avail myself of your polite invitation.”

“Nonsense, Charley, my dear boy!” exclaimed his
old patron, in a tone of great cordiality, ‘‘no formality.
You are one of us, now, and the sooner you learn to
regard yourself in that light, the better. By the way,
there is to be a very old friend of yours here to-mor-
row night, and one Iam sure that you will be rejoiced
to see. Itis no less a person than your old playmate,
Little Maggie. Wereceived a letter from her this

morning, in answer to one which we sent her some |

days ago, and she states that she will positively be
here if nothing happens to prevent her.”

This announcement had anything but the effect
which Mr. Seymour supposed it would have upon
Charles Hollister, for the latter, although he managed
to hide his feelings in the presence of the old couple,
was really grieved rather than rejoiced atthe prospect
of being obliged to spend an evening in the company
of Maggie. Had he not already committed himself
he would have pleaded some excuse for absenting
himself, but it was too late to take such a course,
and so he evaded a direct answer by saying:

“T have no doubt, sir, from what you told me a
night or two since, that Maggie must have greatly
improved.”

“Beyond belief!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in
atone of admiration. “I will venture to say that
there is not a more beautiful girl in the city of New
York, at the present moment than she is?’

“Tt is not her beauty of person, however, that con-
stitutes her chief loveliness,’ interposed Mrs. Sey-
mour, ‘‘for beauty without purity is of but small ac-
count. Itis her modesty, freedom from guile, and
true religious fervor which render her especially
attractive inmy eyes. Sheis very good as well as
very beautiful!”

“T am more than rejoiced to hear it!’’ exclaimed
Hollister, earnestly. and so he was, but the very
praises bestowed upon her, rendered the thought
that she was lost to him forever doubly painful.
The more he reflected uponitthe more painful became
the idea of meeting and talking with her once again. |
He doubted the strength of his resolution to carry
him safely through the ordeal. To him the idea was
like gazing upon Paradise through a transparent but
impassable barrier. It was too late to recede, how-
ever, and so he determined to nerve himself to the
task.

Accordingly when his interview with Mr. and Mrs.
Seymour was over, he sought out his friend Gilbert
Farmer, and invited him to be present at the party,
after which he set about preparing himself to meet
the severest trial through which he had been called
upon to pass.

The following morning was ushered in by an un-
clouded sky and a brilliant sunrise, and as Maggie

yas expected at the house about midday, Charles
Hollister took his departure from home before that
hour arrived, for he did not care to meet the trouble
which threatened him half way. He spent the day
in the society of Gilbert Farmer, and tried to forget
his misery in a drive out around the suburbs, but all
in vain. He could think of nothing but Maggie.
Every sense was full of her. He remembered as
though it were a thing of yesterday how she looked
when he parted from her last, and all day his imagina-
tion-was busy in trying to picture her as time had
His agitation and nervousness increased
as the day waned, till it grew so» great that Farmer
could not help noticing it, although he was far from
divining the cause.

Hollister wished for the night to come, even while
he dreaded it. Like the condemned felon, for whose
execution the hour has been fixed, he grew desperate
by thinking upon his fate, and wished the last act
over. He thought the sun would never hide itself in
the heavens, but even the longest day must have. an
Night came at last, and nine o’clock found the
sorely tried youth and his companion of the day
among the brilliant throng which crowded the rooms
of the Seymour mansion.

Stationing himself in a corner of the room, the
young man, with a feeling of trepidation, amounting
almost to awe, gazed anxiously around, hoping, yet
fearing to discover in the array of beauty around
him the object which so completely filled his thoughts.
In vain he scrutinized each fair face, however, for he
could see none which at all reminded him of his
little playmate of by-gone years.

‘‘Perhaps she did not come,” he muttered, with a
sigh of relief. ‘I will seek out Mr. Seymour, and ask
him.” But he had searcely taken a step forward to
y out his intention when he heard a voice almost
at his very elbow which sent the blood coursing
madly through his veins, and caused him to lean back
against the wall to keep from staggering.

“T am somewhat out of breath, brother Ned, and if
it’s all the same to you I will not dance this time.

It was Maggie’s voice, and oh, how familiarly it
struck upon the ears of the youth. It was firmer
and of fuller compass, perhaps, than when he had
heard it last, but it possessed the same musical ring—
the same richintonation. Mechanically he raised his
eyes to gaze upon the speaker, and as, rooted to the
spot, he stood silently drinking in her almost super-
natural beauty, he for a moment forgot that he stood
in the glare of a brilliant light, surrounded by
strangers. While he stood rapt in bewilderment she
turned her face toward him and their eyes met. At
first she did not know him, but almost instantly her
heart informed her who he was, and grasping Wrex-

| ported her.

eight years, and now I am determined to know the |

worst. Mr. Hollister may be a very excellent young
man, and I have not the slightest doubt he is, but as
he is no less my guest than yours, while he remains
beneath this roof, it is only proper that I should
know who and what heis. I insist upon knowing
in what relationship you stand with regard to each
other.”

“So you shall, my dear,” replied Mr. Seymour, in
a tone of expostulation, ‘‘all in good time.”

“But I wish to know at once,” persisted the lady.

“Tf there is any revelation to make, the sooner it is |

made, the better.
another hour, eyen—I will be satisfied before you
leave this room !”

Hollister might have heard more, had he been in-

I will not wait another day— |

It was a trying moment for both the young people.
Could each have read the other’s heart, neither a
regard for etiquette nor the fear of ridicule could have
kept them from rushing into each other’s arms and
weeping tears of ecstasy. But, alas, they were ignor-
ant of the true state of things, and so they could only
look at each other, and change color, and tremble.

Wrexham was not blind to what was passing, and
in the endeavor to remove their embarrassment, he
led Maggie forward, exclaiming, as he did so:

“Mr. Hollister, allow me to introduce you to an old
acquaintance of yours—your little companion of by-
gone years, Maggie. This is your old playmate
Charles, Maggie, and now that I have made you

| known to each other, I will leave you to talk over
| old affairs while I secure a partner for the next
| quadrille.”’

clined to play the eavesdropper, but his soul re- |
volted at so contemptible an action, and he kept on |

his way to his own room. He did not for a moment
lose confidence in his patron’s nobility of character.
He was certain that if Mr. Seymour had possession
of any facts which he (Charles) ought to know, that
he would be put in possession of them at the proper
time, but still the few expressions which he had heard
dropped, coupled with Mrs. Seymour’s cool treat-
ment of himself, which he had not failed to notice
from the beginning, bothered him, and he determined
that unless things took a change, he would again
take up his quarters at the hotel.

While he was reflecting upon the matter, his atten-
tion was attracted by the footsteps in the entry, out-
side, of Jolly Dick Blinker, who, having placed a
pair of newly blackened boots at the door of Hollis-
ter’s room, was
again.
something about the matter which occupied his
thoughts, Hollister opened the door of his room and
salled Dick in.

“Dick,” he asked, ‘do you know why Mrs. Seymour
treats me so coldly ?”

“No, sir, not ’zackly,”replied the negro, scratching
his head.

“There is a mystery of some kind hanging about
me, Dick,’ said Hollister, who saw from the negro’s
tone of hesitation that he had heard something, “and
the thought of it makes me very unhappy. If you

about descending to the kitchen |
Thinking that perhaps the negro might know |

Both regretted his action, and both would have
protested against it if they could with propriety
have done so., In the presence of a third party, their

| position was disagreeable enough, but when_ they

 

‘an do anything toward unraveling it, without com- |

mitting any breach of confidence, you will be doing
me avery great favor.”

‘Well de fac’ am, mas’r Charley,” replied Dick, ‘TI
don’t know nuffin’ bout de matter for sartin’, but I’se

found themselves standing alone in each other’s
presence, they knew not how to act. Hollister was
the first to break the painful silence which ensued.

“Circumstances have altered somewhat since we
saw each other last, Maggie,’ he said in a voice
tremulous with emotion. -

“Yes,” replied Maggie, faintly, as her eyes sought
the carpet, ‘time works many changes in eight years,
both in hearts and fortunes.”

Hollister had no thought of applying what. she
said to himself. He looked upon her allusion to
hearts as a sort of half excuse, half apology for her
own change of feeling toward him, and he answered
with as much calmness as he could assume : :

“Tt is too true, Maggie—hearts will change some-
times, even when fortunes are unaltered, and I sup-

Suffering Womanhood.

Too much effort cannot be made to bring to the atten-

 

 

tion of suffering womanhood the great value of Lydia E.

| Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound as a remedy for the

| diseases of women.

‘ader ’clined to de ’pinion, from what I’be hard and |

seed ‘casionally, dat I know wot’s de matter wid
missus.’”’
“Well, then, what is it, Dick?” urged Hollister.
“Kil ki!’ laughed Dick, “itll make yer die a laffin’,
shu’, if [tell yer, it’s so berry funny!

| eral’s letter as follows:

De fac’ am, |

mas’r Charley, unless dis nigger am much mistaken, | |. , ah id
dicinal qualities of your Vegetable Compound. Mrs. Bar-

missus tinks ole mas’r am your fadder. Jes’ to tink
ob sich a ting.
*cusin’ him ob bein’ my fadder !”

Contrary to Dick’s expectation Hollister received

Hi, golly, I’'d jes’ as soon tink ob |

Such an one is the wife of General
Barringer, of Winston, N. C., and we quote from the Gen
“Dear Mrs. Pinkham: Please

allow me to add my testimony to the most excellent me-

| ringer was treated for several years for what the phy-

his communication with a very serious countenance. |
“And you don’t know what leads Mrs. Seymour to |
entertain so very singular an idea?’ he said inquir- |

ingly.

“Golly, no!” replied Dick.
she knows herself.”

Hollister reflected deeply for afew moments, and
then said:

“That'll do, Dick—you needn’t leton to anybody
that I made inquiries concerning the matter.”

“Sho’! ob coose not!” replied Dick, as he started
toward the door, “Dick Blinker done sone mad
when he gets so far as to go ’roun’ totin’ news.”

“T don’t hardly b’lebe

|

sician called Leucorrhea and Prolapsus Uteri combined.
I sent her to Richmond, Va., where she remained for six
months under the treatment of an eminent Physician
without any permanent benefit. She was induced to try
your medicine, and after a reasonable time commenced to
improve, and is now able to attend to her business, and
considers herself fully relieved.” [General Barringer is
the proprietor of the American Hotel, Winston, N.C.,

and is widely known. ]

 

pose philosophy should teach us to look upon such
fickleness as the result of an always fallible human
nature.”

Maggie in her turn now misunderstood him. She
imagined that he was trying to excuse himself, and
as she could not find anything in her philosophy
which would warrant a total forgetfulness of old
friendships, she heartily wished the interview at an
end, for she did not care to enter into a regnlar con-
troversy on the matter.

Their relative positions were extremely painful and
embarrassing, and neither was sorry when Edward
Wrexham returned, arin-in-arm with Gilbert Farmer,
whom he wished to introduce to Maggie, as a partner
for the next quadrille.

“T hope I have, not prematurely interrupted your
tete-a-tete,” he said, turning to Hollister, after the
ceremony of introduction was over.

“Oh, no, sir,’ returned Hollister, with forced calm-
ness, ‘our conversation has not been a very lengthy
one, but to me it has been quite satisfactory. Much
may be said in a very short space of time, occa
sionally ;’ and bowing coldly, he sauntered off to
another part of the room, and shortly afterward
made his escape from the company altogether and
retired to pass a night of bitter sorrow and unayail-
ing regrets.

It required all Maggie’s fortitude to enable her to
bear up under the trial, and she barely succeeded in
doing so at last, for Wrexham felt her arm tremble
as he led her. to a seat, and when he turned to look
at her, her face was very pale and expressive of the
deepest melancholy. He was not ignorant of the
reason. He was satisfied beyond a doubt, now, that
her distress arose from a love which she, as well as
himself, supposed to be hopeless. He offered no
objection, therefore, when she complained of illness
and expressed a wish to retire for the night. He
knew that her grief was too deep to be reached, even
by sympathy, and he did not attempt to offer any as
she bade him good-night and requested that he would
make her excuses to Gilbert Farmer.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

i

I& you want to be miserable, and don’t know how,
sarry maliee against humanity in general. Youll
find the load the heaviest you cver carried.

Saeag st Bey ir aa en Sah

Stupy is the support of youth, the ornament of
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wentsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2—

VOL, 42—No. 34,

 

 

ON THE STREET.

t
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Morning in the city. On the street
What a mixed humanity we meet!
Shop-girls in a flurry,
Laborers in a hurry,
Seek their toil—
Vagrant tramps and fighters,
Roystering “all-nighters,”’
And stranger “city-sighters”—
What a coil

Noonday in the city. On the street
What a mixed humanity we meet!
Tired-out bread winners
Eating frugal dinners
With a zest—
Boot-blacks loudly ealling
“Shine!” and newsboys bawling,
The strongest lungs forestalling
All the rest.

Evening in the city. On the street
What a mixed humanity we meet!
Ladies promenading,
Skirmishing, and raiding
On the beaus—
Adventurers, with more leisure
Than intellect or treasure—
Gay votaries of pleasure
In fine clothes.

Midnight in the city. On the street
What a mixed humanity we meet!
Waifs, who have no lodging,
Asking alms, and dodging
The police—
Wretched girls, sin-blighted,
Deceived, cast-off, and slighted,
Whose soul-filames, once ignited,
Never cease,

Forever in the city. On the street
What a mixed humanity we meet!
Joy, and grief, and sinning,
Never ending, still beginning,
O’er and o’er— .
Oh! is there not a dwelling
Where peace beyond our telling
From a bright fount is welling
For evermore !

A PRESUMIN’ VILLUN.

BY J. T. WOLLASTON.

 

Up at the Hall there was a general commotion.
Mr. Westley, the owner of Westley Grange, had come
pretty nearly to the end of his tether, He had but
lately succeeded to the estate, and it had come to
him very heavily incumbered ; andnow, with reduced
rents, irregularly paid, he found it impossible to go
on. He had, therefore, determined to spend a couple
of years on the Continent, during which time he
hoped that the agricultural depression would pass
away.

The establishment at the Hall was not a large one
by any means for a country bachelor squire, but it
was larger than he: could afford to keep up under
existing circumstances. So one evening he called
his servants together, and told them how matters
were with him, bidding them seek other situations
at once.

His personal servant, Ben Biggins. was notincluded
in the general dismissal, but was destined to accom-
pany his master abroad. Ben was one of those men

not unfrequently met within England—a man who
could turn his hand to most things, though he might
not be good atany. The position he held at Westley
Grange was a cross between a valet and a game-
keeper, but at odd times he had been known to cook
his master’s dinner and make his master’s bed. This
was during a grousing expedition on the Welsh hills,
but the rumor of it had traveled to Westley. Ben
was in high spirits when he was told of the journey
in store for him.

* “Y)i teach those foreigners a thing or two,” he said
to the cook one night; to which she replied, “You be
very careful, Mr. Ben, that they don’t teach you more
than you teach them.”

“Them !”’ he cried; “them teach me!
wallop the lot on ’em, if I wanted to.”

“Then you mind you don’t want to,” she answered.

There was a little ill-feeling on the part of the cook
toward Ben. She had claimed him for her own
originally, but Ben had fought shy; and latterly he
had been paying a good deal of attention to Anna,
the house-maid at the Rectory. Either “ault alone,
on Ben’s part, would have made the cook somewhat
aggrieved toward him, but the two combined were
more than culinary flesh and blood could stand. Thus
it happened that her tongue had an access of acerbity
when moving at Ben.

Down at the Rectory the commotion was nearly as
general. The servants discussed the situation from
morning till night, and Anna received many unplea-
sant jeers.

“Stick to you !’”’ said the coachman; “nothe. Them
sort never sticks to nothing but their tobacco. When
you say good-by to Ben, you say good-by forever, my

ass.”’

“He can please himself,’ she said; “but if he
thinks I shall die broken-hearted because he takes on
with some foreign girl, he’s very much mistaken.”

“That’s always the way with you women-folk.
You talk big, but when it comes to acting, you are
nowhere. There was that gal o’ Simmonds’—she as
kept company with that keeper fellow. Look how
she brazened it out when they found he’d left a wife
in Wales, and she died of consumption in less than a

year.
. ‘But Ben and me’s difterent,” said Anna. “If he’s
not in earnest, no more am I.” Which was, perhaps,
consolatory.

The time slipped rapidly by, and it wanted but a
day till Ben are his master should start for the Con-
tinent. That night Ben repaired to the Rectory, and
had a parting interview with Anna. His last words
were, ‘You'll not forget me, Anna, while I am parted
from you?. I’m coming back for you some day. Till
then, ho river!”

“Till what ?”

“That’s a bit of French, mydear. I’ve bin learning
the langwidge lately. It’s something like ‘Good-by,’
only moreso. Horiver?’ And so they parted.

In the course of afew weeks Ben and his master
were comfortably settled in a small German village
near Bonn. The house where they had made their
home was an old farm-house that had once belonged
to a noble family, but was now partly fallen to decay.
It was inhabited by the present owner, who carried
on the business of a small farmer and wine-grower.
He had neither wife nor child, the domestic functions
being superintended, and in a great measure per-
formed, by a sister. Naturally, therefore, it came
about that Ben and Fraulein Schmidt were often in
each other’s company, and, naturally also, Ben im-
proved the occasion. If the Fraulein, with womanly
curiosity, asked about Herr Westley, Ben was care-
ful to explain to her that Herr Westley was a great
baron at home, dwellingin a mansion with marble
halls and gilded ceilings; that he, Benjamin Biggins,
was the confidential companion of this said great bar-
on; and that, though he (Benjamin) now appeared in
theroleofaservant, hehadaremarkably good position
among the gentlemen of his native land. And the
Fraulein would listen with flushed cheeks and
sparkling eyes.

Sometimes, in the evening, before the farmer had
come home, as they sat together by the sitting-room
fire, Ben would delight his listener with stories of
the wonders of London. He had spent a few hours
there one day while attending upon his master, and
he therefore felt competent to describe its principal
sights, and where his knowledge failed his invention
came to the rescue.

True, he mixed thing up a trifle.
difference at all to his listener.
she drank in all his descriptions—

“But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She’d come again.”

All this was, I fear, on Ben’s part, a matter of cal-
culation rather than sentiment. That he wished to
stand well, for the standing’s sake, in the eyes of his
landlady goes without saying, but the standing well
brought. with it and after it some advantages that
were of infinitely more value to Ben. There were
many things dear to Ben’s heart, but none more dear
than poached eggs, hot buttered toast, and rare oid
wine, and though those were “notin the contract,”
they were almost daily incidents of Ben’s life. At
first, it is true, he had not got on so well with his
landlady, for notwithstanding the best intentions,
neither had been able to comprehend a word said by
the other. Time, however, which works wonders in
so many cases, brought amelioration in this, for Ben
got a smattering of German, and the Fraulein picked
up a few words of English, and from that time Ben
was, to use his own expression, ‘“‘a made man.”

Though not endowed with a large amount of wis-
dom, he knew “which side his bread was buttered,”
and he resolved to keep on good terms with the
Fraulein, no matter who else might be offended.
And the Fraulein herself grew really to like the big,
boastful Englishman, and did her bestto make both

why, I could

But this made no
Like Desdemona,

’

This was about the position of affairs when, some
eighteen months after they had left England Mr.
Westley told Ben he should soon be returning. This
was asad blow to Ben. No more poached eggs on
hot buttered toast, no more tempting Rhine wine, no
more idle days. He told the Fraulein what the Herr
had said, and she, too, grieved. No more stories
about London; no more leaves from the stately gen-
ealogical tree ; no more pleasant eveninge.

“And you must go?” she asked. ‘“‘And I shall never
you no more see?”

This set him thinking. Why should he go back?
And the thinking ended in resolution; he would not
go back. It came out in words at the first oppor-
tunity: “I do not mean to go back to England,
Fraulein, but settle down in Germany, near you, if I
ean get any work.”

“There is plenty of work on the farm,” said the
Fraulein.

This did not altogether chime in with Ben’s view
of life. Work was a thing to be endured, not courted.
Plenty to eat and to drink, and nothing to do, was
Ben’s domestic creed. Still, he could work, and not
work very hard; andif he married the Fraulein the
farm would be as good as his at once, and absolutely
his some day. He might do worse; he feared he could
not do better.

“T've had some news from home, Ben,” said his
master, one day, ‘that ought to please you. Your
old sweetheart atthe Rectory has had a couple of
thousand pounds left her by her uncle, the miller,”

“Two thousand pounds !” said Ben to himself. “Two
thousand pounds! Why, that’s a fortune. Things is
becoming extremely complicated. I think I shall go
back with master.”

Thatnight a letter was dispatched to England bear-
ing on the envelope the name of Miss Anna Robins-
son, at the Rectory, Westley, Shropshire. This was
the letter:

“My DEEREST ANNER,—I ope this will fine you in
good elth as it leeves me at present. My deerest
Anner, it his along time sense I rote to yew, but
their have been so much to do as Ihave notime. I
hop this will fine you ingood helth, my deerest Anner.
This is a very quiet plase, their is no sports no
nothink ITorphan sy for deer old Englan an the swete
fases, spechially one, I left behind, I ope to see, it
soon, so know more at present from your trew lover,

“BEN.”

What the Fraulein thought of it when she heard
that Ben had changed his mind, I hardly know, but
he made some plausible excuse, [have no doubt, and
promised (to soothe her wounded feelings) that he
would soon return. :

Once more at Westley! The first evening after his
arrival, Ben went down to the Reetory. Anna was
out—but the coachman was in!

“You back again, my lad! You’re just like a police-
man a turning up when you are not wanted.”

That was the coachman’s welcome, and Ben re-
sented it.

“Perhaps if you don’t want me, there’s some one
else as does.”

“Then perhaps there’s two on’em, for I see two on
’em together not five minutes ago.”

“Hey !” ejaculated Ben.

“As much hay as you like, my lad. We gives it to
the ’osses, and can spare a bit for a donkey.”

Clearly, there was no friendly feeling on the part
of the coachman for Ben.

Then the cook tackled him.
mess of it, Ben.
her ?”’

“Left her!” exclaimed Ben,

“Yes, left her—two thousand pounds; and she’s go-
ing for it Monday. It’ll make them comfortable.”

“Her and her mother,” suggested Ben.

“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” roared the coachman.

“Hi, hi, hi, hi!” laughed the cook.

_ “Hee, hee, hee, hee!” sang the kitchen-maid—all
in chorus.

“Her and her mother!” they all chimed together,
and then they laughed again.

“Tt’s very funny,” said the victim, “but I don’t see
where the fun comes in.”

“Don’t know? Then I’lltell ye. You've come back
to make up wi’ her beeause you’ve heard as she’s got
some money. But it’s bespoke already for—her and
her mother.”

Coachman, cook, and kitchen-maid repeat chorus.

“T’ll not take it,” said Ben, ‘‘from no one’s lips but
hers. She said she’d stick to me, and I’ve stuck to
her, and Lexpect she’ll stick to me, and that’s all
about it.”

“Then you can take it from her lips now, Mr. Ben-
jamin,” said Anna, coming in at that moment. “You
never wrote to me for more than twelve months,
though I wrote to you twice, and then, when I had
some money left me, you sent me a letter pretending
as how you was very fond of me. Before you went
away I said to the coachman, ‘If he’s not in earnest
then I’m not in earnest,’ and that’s all about it.’

“Never mind,” said Ben to himself that night. “If
one door shuts another door opens.”

Yes, the door was oper when Ben got back to Ger-
many, some six weeks after he had left. He entered
the house with the air of a master, pausing a moment
to look round on the vineyards which would soon be
his. He opened an inner door; there sat Fraulein
busy with her needle.

“Tam back again,” said he; ‘‘give me a welcome.”
“Then you can go back again,” she replied.

“But I have come to stay and work on the farm.”
“The farm does not want you, neither dol,” she
answered.

Then Benjamin waxed furious. He called her fickle
and unkind, told her that no good could come toa
double-dealing person, and left her with the some-
what double-edged remark that ‘A bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush!”

I think I ought to explain the Fraulein’s behavior.
The old cook at Westley wrote to her to warn her
against ‘‘that presumin’ villun.”

“You’ve made a fine
Have you heard what she’s had left

retending innocence.

Paragraphic Pleasantries.
BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

That Terrible Law.

The inter-State commerce law, which went into ef-
fect a few months ago, appears to be responsible for
a great deal of one thing and another. Whena barbed
wire manufactory fails, it is attributed to the inter-
State commerce law. When a rolling mill or an iron
furnace shuts down, the inter-State commerce law is
the cause of it. When a traveling theatrical com-
pany disbands, and the members walk home, the in-
ter-State commerce law is held responsible. The daily
papers have been full of such eases. Herewith ap-
pended are several more instances showing the de-
leterious effect of the new law. They now appear in
print for the first time: i

On Sunday last, while ayoungman fromthe city was
visiting a friend in the country, a playful bull of the
Holstein breed lifted him over a five-railed fence,
and frightfully mangled his best pantaloons. This
untoward accident is one of the damaging results of
the new inter-State commerce law.

William Q. Simonson, of Stubbletown, eloped last

 

week with a neighbor’s pretty daughter, leaving a
wife and four childred, the youngest cross-eyed. Wil-
liam had always been a faithful husband, and his
friends are confident that the inter-State commerce
law induced him to disgrace himself and his family.

Abner Z. Goodman, cashier of the Uptown National
Bank, disappeared on Tuesday last with $75,000 of the
bank’s funds. He is supposed to be in Canada.
Abner’s departure from the paths of rectitude is at-
tributed to the obnoxious inter-State commerce law.

Israel Greenbank, of Ruraltown, visited New York
city last week, and met a couple of very agreeable
young men who once lived in Ruraltown—according
to their own statement—but whose names Israel
failed to recall. It being after banking hours, the
young men induced Mr. Greenbank to cash a check
for $75. The fact that the check proved worthless 1s
another proof of the manner in which the new inter-
State commerce law is paralyzing the industries of
our country. f

A heavy sign fell from the second story of a build-
ing in this city yesterday, and struck a dude. The
crown of the young man’s head was driven sixteen
inches below the top of his shirt collar, but owing to
circumstances over which he had no control his
brain was not injured. We may expect to hear of
the recurrence of such accidents so long as the idiotic
inter-State commerce law stands on Uncle Sam’s
statute books.

Charity Begins Abroad.

‘“Here’s a letter from sister Matilda,” said the
fashionable Mrs. Doogood, in a tone of impatience,
opening a missive just delivered. “She says her
husband is out of work and in poor health, and she
would like me to send her a few dollars to keep her
children from starving. What a shiftless sort of a
fellow her husband is, anyway! She deserves to
suffer. I have only ten dollars to spare, and as I
have been elected president of the Woman’s Foreign
Missionary Society, I must do all in my power to
assist the unfortunate heathen.’ And the heathen
got the .ten dollars—minus the nine dollars and
twenty-seven cents for expenses incurred in getting
it to him.

An Improved Temperance Society.

There is a temperance society in California which
permits its members to drink ‘‘when depressed.” It
is said to be astonishing what a little thing will
create a cyclone of depression among its members.
When they learn of the violent death of a base-ball
umpire in Bulgaria, or of an accident to a relative of
the Ahkoond of Swat, they feel as sad and prostrated
as if they had lost their last nickle in a game of draw
poker.

Teach the Boys Agriculture.

A farm journal wants agriculture taught in Ameri-
ean colleges. The ideaisa good one. Agriculture
is taught in many of our state agricultural colleges,
and some of the graduates of these institutions have
become our most successful base-ball players, and
others have made their mark as book-agents. Boys

 

 

should be taught the difference between a cabbage-

q

of her lodgers contented with their temporary home.

 

head and a mammoth pumpkin, or they may some
day, in anunguarded moment, undertake to edit an
agricultural department in a city weekly journal.

A Bulky Book.

It is said the Czar of Russia has a photograph
album containing portraits of all the men who have
tried to kill him. It doesn’t seem possible to build
an album large enough to contain the pictures of
more than half of the adult male population of
Russia. An album containing the pictures of all the
men in that country who have not tried to kill him
would make a much smaller book, and the portraits
would be handsomer.

A Sure Cure.

“Farmer” wants to know how to prevent rabbits
from barking young orchard trees. The writer hereof
doesn’t know much about the healthy pursuit of
agriculture—never having been roused out of bed
at 2 A.M. and compelled to perform a day’s labor
before breakfast—but it strikes him that to either
kill the rabbits or cut down and burn the trees would
go right to the spot.

Patriotism.
Soon the “Glorious Fourth” will be here,
A day ’round which fond mem’ry lingers
When there’s an increased consumption of beer,
And the small boy shoots off his fingers.

A Musical Item.
_ Gounod, the composer, says that girls who do not
intend to become pianists should practice as little
as possible. This shows that Gounod has an excel-
lent ear for music. But while he was about it, he
should have advised young men who intend to become
trombonist, as well as those who do not, to practice
not at all. ;
Thistle Make You Weep.

A punster friend suggests that the American yacht
designed to sail with the “thistle” in the international
race next fall should be christened “Counterfeit.”
Then the foreign vessel couldn’t pass it.

THE POUCH OF GOLD.

BY GAFFER GREY.

We were down upon the craggy, rough shore of
Cape Ann, on a summer visit to that notably rude lo-
cality, where the residents were then mostly fisher-
men, or retired mariners, who had passed their pre-
vious years amid the storms of ocean, and who had
come here to pass their remaining days upon the
surf-lashed coast, within sight and sound of the noisy
sea that no longer periled or startled them with its
dangers or its ragings.

We had been rambling all day, miles away from
the excellent boarding-house at which we sojourned,
among the rocks, and ravines, and bowlders, and
pits that abound for a long distance above and
around ‘‘Pigeon Cove,” when we came across the
broken-down ruins of what had once been a small
building, or shanty, then desérted and rotten from
age and the effects of the storms that had beaten
upon it for years.

Our guide was an ‘old salt,” who had come to Cape
Ann, like others, to dwell among his retired mates,
after more than two score years at sea, who had
saved a little money, and with this moderate store of
shot in his locker, was living quietly and soberly, a
mile or two from this old ruin, which had its singular
legend.

“It’s on’y a hulk now,” said the ancient mariner,
‘but I allays bring the town folk to look atit, ’cause
I mind me o’ the ower-true tale ’at’s told of it.”

“Tt has a history then, cap’n?”’

“Ay, an’ a cur’ous one, lads,” the old man said,
with a mysterious shake of his head.

“Now for it then, old boy. It’s badly played out at
this present speaking, any way,” ventured one of
our party. é : :

“Ay, you're right there, lad. But it has its story,
nevertheless. And though it’s knocked to pieces
purty much. now, the shanty wusn’t abad’un fifty
year ago; and it wus so near the old road that it wus
then offen a stopping-place for stray travelers who
came and went hereabouts, when there weren’t an-
other house to be seen along here for a league.”

“Well, what is the story ?”’

“A melancholy one. It was all about a pouch of
gold, lads.”

After we had seated ourselves upon the rocks hard
by, in the shade of some sta%fe@ cedars, the old man
thus continued: ~ ,

“You see, lads, it must ha’ been half a cent’ry ago—
leastways so they tell the tale to me—that that
shanty, built mostly of stones gathered hereabout,
wus the habitation of a soured old man, who came
here to live after his sea-goin’ days wus over, and
wus known by the name of Sandy Crufts. He wus
broken-down with rhumatis’ an’ rum togither, for
he’d been a hard drinker all his days, and he wus not
a pleasant man to come ath’art when he wus sufferin’
from his fits of spleen, that offen attacked him in his
later years. ‘

“He had a boy, a big, stout, lazy landlubber, ’at
lived with him, and looked arter him; for young
Crufts had an idea that his dad had a horde of money
somewhere ’at’u’d fall to him some day, an’ so he
helped his father, and lounged about, waitin’ for the
old ’un to ‘step out,’ you see.

“But, when the old man died, there wus no money
found to speak of, for it had all been_spent to feed
’em during the time he lived here. But that wus
neyther here nor there; it sarv’d him right,” said
the speaker, wiping his mouth. 5

‘“*What I wus comin’ to was this,” he continued.
“The boy had got to be three-an’-twenty. The father
wus on his last legs. He’d been very sick for two
months, and wus a-dyin’. But he’d hung on so long,

.an’ peared to be so tough, ’at the boy didn’t know,

p’raps, he wus so ill. But that don’t matter. The
old un wus in his bed, very low an’ weak. There had
been a long storm, but that day the weather had
cleared agin. The seadashed up fearful through all
these guiches you see hereabouts, and washed over
part o’ the roadway where you may note the long
gulley yonder.

““«There wus no public coaches then in these parts.

“The mail stage run from Gloster to Salem once a

week and back, but mostly travel wus done afoot.
An’ that night, arter the long storm had cleared,
about an hour arter dusk, when old Crufts laid on
his death-bed, there come a knockin’ at the door 0’
this shanty which roused the boy up. He wus sleepin’
by the low fire, and kinder watchin’ arter his fashun
the sick man, when he started up to find a young
woman outside ’at had come along ways afoot, who
wus bound over to town, and had got benighted.

“ «How fur is it to Gloster?’ she asked.

“<Six good mile,” said young Crufts, eyin’ her
keerfully.

“<T can’t walk so fur to-night,’ says she.

‘You needn’t,’ says the boy.

“ «Can you give me shelter till mornin’ ?

“<*Yes,ma’am. Come inside, and let me take your
bag for you.’

“And in she went. It was very common, this sort
of travel, then, and the woman was very tired. She
was bound to Gloster, and then to Salem, arterward,
in the mail coach.

“The boy found the woman’s bag uncommon
heavy, but he said nothin’. He stirred up the fire;
the woman got a cup of hot stuff, and went to bed.

“Tn the mornin’ old Crufts wus worse. He called
faintly to his son, who didn’t answer. The old man
worried on till next night, and died there, in his
bed.

“A neighbor straggled over to inquire about his
health, for it was known’at he was purty bad, an’
he found old Sandy stiff and cold. Then he called
the boy, but he was gone. “The stranger thought
pr’aps it wus all right—he had gone for help. But
he didn’t come back. And he never came back !’”

“What became of him ?” we asked.

“In a moment I’ll come to that. The folk around
gathered, an’ buried old Crufts, for the boy wus
missin’. And when they looked arter him, in the
loft-chamber, there they found another dead ’un.
That wus the woman who’d come to the door two
nights afore, with the heavy travelin’-bag. But they
couldn’t find out anything about her, ’cause nobody
knowed her. She had no luggage, and they only
found the letters ‘A. M.S.’ on her linen. She wus
young, not over twenty-five, and very pretty.

“*Hello!’ says anold woman, who came over among
the rest to Cruft’s burial; ‘say, neighbors, this wo-
man isn’t dead, by no means, as you thought she
wus. Go for the doctor.’

“When the doctor came, he also said she wasn’t
dead, only stunned, and bruisedin the head. Sothey
took her away to the poor-house; for she had nothin’
but the clothes on her back, an’ a gold ring on her
finger, inside of which wus the letters ‘H. to A.’ She
didn’t die, lads. She lived in that almshouse five
years ; but she wus dazed—demented like.”

“Where was the boy all this time,” we inquired.

“Nobody knowed. The woman havin’ been robbed
and almost murdered, it wus supposed he’d run away
with whatever he’d got—to sea, perhaps. But
nothin’ wuz ever seen of him arter that night;
and the matter wus forgot. The hut wus deserted
and avoided from that time, for who’d dare go into
it arter such works had been earried on there? And
so it went to ruin at last.”

“And the woman ?”

“Well, five year arterward the woman come to her-
self one day, in the poor-house, and says she, all of a
sudden, to one o’ the nurses :

“What tavern’s this ?’

“The nuss looked at her, and said:

« «Wot do you mean?’

“<sArn’t this a tavern? inquired the woman.

“Soon arter this the selectman came, aud found she
had recovered her reason. Then she tild them how

 

she’d stopped to atavern, and inthe nightamancame
into her room, struck .her on the head with some
blunt weapon, and she forgot the rest.

““*Where is my money?’ says she. ‘How long have
I bin here? When does the coach go to Salem? and
a hundred other questions. But finally all wus ex-
plained to her.

“About a year before she came to herself, there
wus some men come down here from Boston, who
wus lookin’ round fur a granite quarry, an’ they went
all through hereabouts. And up in that guleh yon-
der that I pin’ted out afore, they discovered a mass
of oldrags in the bottom of a big hole there, in which
there wus found human bones! Alongside o’ that
they found a leather pouch filled with gold.

“This pouch wus marked with letters cut into the
brass plate on it ‘A. M.S.,’ same as the woman’s cloth-
ing wus. The money wus all there, safe and sound.
So wus the remains of old Crufts’ boy.

“He had robbed the woman, knocked her on the
head, ran off with the bag, supposin’ he’d killed her,
left his old father to die alone, and had stumbled
over the ledge that dark night, into the hole below,
where he’d broke his neck in his eagerness to escape
with the pouch of gold.

“The woman got well, recognized her money-bag
(which was left with the selectman), showed the let-
ters on her clothes correspondin’ with the marks
on the pouch, and left town, after all, by the mail
coach for Salem, as she intended to do five years be-
fore, in good health. This money had been left to
her, and she wus bound to Salem with it when she
halted that night at this hut.”

“A righteous retribution,’ ventured one of our
party, as the old mariner concluded this tale, which
had been current for years in that neighborhood.

“T think so, lads,” he continued. “But come; it’s
gettin’ dark. Let’s put back. I don’t mind tellin’
you this story, but we don’t none of us care to be
round in these parts arter dark.”

“*Why not, pray?”

“Tt arn’t pleasant, that’s all,’’ said our guide, su-
perstitiously, moving away toward the cove.

We turned, took a parting look at the dilapidated
old ruin where the above narrated events occurred,
and followed our old friend back to the village in si-
lence, busily thinking over the details of this strange
tradition of “‘The Pouch of Gold.”

A WITTY JEW.

Nine persons sailed from Basle downthe Rhine. A
Jew peddler who wished to go to Schalampi was
allowed to come on board and journey with them,
upon condition that he would conduct himself with
propriety, and give the captain eighteen kreutzers
for his passage.

Now, it is true something jingled in the Jew’s
pocket when he had struck his hand against it; but
the only money there was a twelve-kreutzer piece,
for the other was a brass button. Notwithstanding
this, he accepted the offer with gratitude; for he
thought to himself, “Something may be earned even
upon the water. Many aman has grown rich upon
the Rhine.”

During the first part of the voyage the passengers
were very talkative and merry, and the Jew, with
his pack under his arm, for he did not lay it aside,
was an object of much mirth and mockery, as, alas,
is often the case with those of his nation. But as

the vessel sailed onward, and passed Thuringen and
St. Velt, the passengers, one after another, grew silent,
and gaped and gazed listlessly down the river, until
one cried, ‘Come, Jew, do you know any pastime
that will amuse us? Your fathers must have con-
trived many a one during their journey in the wilder-
ness.

“Now is the time,” thought the Jew, ‘“‘to shear my
sheep !”

He proposed that they should sit round in a circle,
and he, with their permission, would sit with them.
Those who could notanswer the questions propounded
should pay the one who propounded them a twelve-
kreutzer piece. Those who answered them perti-
nently should receive a twelve-kreutzer piece. This
proposal pleased the company, and, hoping to divert
themselves with the Jew’s wit or stupidity, each one
asked at random whatever chanced to enter his head.
Thus, for example, the first asked :

“How many soft-boiled eggs could the giant Goliah
eat on an empty stomach ?”

All said it was impossible to answer that question ;
but the jew said, “One; for he who has eaten one
egg cannot put a second upon an empty stomach.”
The man who had propounded the riddle paid him
twelve-kreutzers.

“Wait Jew,” thought the second, “I will try you
out of the New Testament, and I think I shall win my
piece.” Then said he, ‘‘ Why did the Apostle Paul
write the Second Epistle to the Corinthians ?”’

“Because he was not in Corinth, said the Jew,
“otherwise he would have spoken to them.” So he
won another twelve-kreutzer piece.

When the third saw that the Jew was so well versed
in the Bible, he tried him in a different way.

“Who,” said he, “prolongs his work to as great
length as possible, and completes it in time ?”’

“The ropemaker, if heis industrious,” said the Jew.

In the meantime they drew near to a village, and
one said to the other, “Thatis Bamlach.” Then the
fourth asked:

‘In what month do the people of Bamlach eat the
least ?”’

“In February,”
twenty-eight days.”

“There are two natural brothers,” said the fifth,
‘and still only one of them is my unele.”’

“The uncle is your father’s brother,” said the Jew ;
“and your tather is not your uncle.”

A fish now leaped out of the water, and the sixth
asked :

“What fish have their eyes nearest together?’

“The smallest,” said the Jew.

The seventh asked, ‘‘How can a man ride from
Basle to Berne intheshade, in the summer time, when
the sun shines ?”’

“When he comes to a place where there is no shade
he must dismount and go on foot,” said the Jew.

The eighth asked, ‘‘When a man rides in the winter
time from Berne to Basle, and has forgotten his
gloves, how must he manage so that his hands ‘shall
not freeze ?”’

“He must make fists out of them,” said the Jew.

The ninth was the last. This one asked:

“How ean five persons divide five eggs so that
each man shall receive one, and still one remain in
the dish ?”

“The last man must take the dish with the egg,”
said the Jew, ‘“‘and he can let itlie there as long as
you please.”

But now it came to his turn, and he determined to
make a good sweep. After many preliminary com-
pliments, he asked, with an air of mischievous
friendliness :

“How can a man fry two trouts in three pans, so
that a trout may lie in each pan ?”’

No one could answer this, and one after the other
gave him a twelve-kreutzer piece; but when the
ninth desired that he should solve the riddle, he
rocked to and fro, shrugged his shoulders and rolled
his eyes.

“Tam a poor Jew,” he said at last.

“What has that to do with it?’
“Give us the answer.”

“You must not take it amiss,” said the Jew, ‘‘for I
am a poor Jew.”

At last, after much persuasion and many -promises
that they would do him no harm, he thrust his hand
into his pocket, took out one of the twelve-kreutzer
Lh that he had won, laid it upon the table, and
said:

“IT do not know the answer any more than you.
Here are my twelve-kreutzers.”

When the others heard this, they opened their eyes
and said that this was scarcely according to the agree-
ment. But as they could not control their laughter,
and were wealthy and good-natured men, and as the
Jew had helped them to while away the time from
Saint Velt to Schalampi, they let it pass; and the
Jew took with him from the vessel quite a snug sum
which he had won by his witty answers.

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by Mrs.

said the Jew; “for it has only

eried the rest.

Helen Wood.

“Sweet Sixteen,’’ Philadelphia, Pa.—ist. Soft fine nuns’
vailings and serges are very popular for graduating
dresses, though white tricot, basket cloth, flannel, home-
spun, convent cloth, cashmere, surahs, grenadines, and
crapes, are also used for the purpose, while very sheer
nainsook is a good material, when a thin dress is chosen,
trimmed with oriental or valenciennes lace, the most im-
portant essentials being great care, neatness, and simplic-
ity in the make and fit of the toilet. Itshould be almost se-
vere in its outlines, having loose, half-clinging per r ate
graceful and delicate touches, high neck and short sleeves,
and general girlish effects. A pretty white woolen gown
has ashort, full skirt, falling, without extra draperies,
straight from waist to hem. It is of albatross. cloth, and
the pointed basque has sleeves with long, but not too full,
puffs, gathered ina close cuff at the waist. While for use
after graduating day, it can be brightened up with broad,
gay ribbons, that hang in long loops at the back. Another
handsome dress, for a younger girl, is of white serge,
with a plaited vest anda cutaway jacket arrangement,
fastening at a point with a ribbon bow, the suit having a
broad belt of folds of the serge, anda very simple, grace-
ful drapery. 2d. The skirt of a graduating dress should
always be short enough to clear the ground.

“Mrs. Frances W.’’—Ladies’ walking suits are fashion-
able made of some plaid material combined with plain
goods to match, the underskirts being generally of the
plaid goods, and simply plaited or gathered onto a round

waistband. ‘The tunic is loosely draped in front, and
looped up on the left hip, the front part being of the self-

 

colored material, edged with a border of the plaid, cut on
the bias, while the back of the tunic has no trimming,
and falls in a square plaited piece over the plaid skirt.
The jacket-bodice, of the same material as the tunic,
opens, with plaid revers, over a plaited chemisette of
plain surah, and is finished with a band of the plaid to
form a collar.

“Lottie,” Stamford, Conn.—Yes, the ridiculous fashion of
wearing black patches on the face is again in vogue, and
a tiny bit of black velvet; with a little adhesive sub-
stance applied to it, is thought to be far more becoming
than the lusterless black of court-plaster. It is a very
foolish fancy, and one which no really refined woman
would follow, though scores of giddy girls will probably
indorse it because it is “‘all the rage.”

“KE. C. F.’—ist. We can furnish a practical guide to
marine and landscape painting in water colors for fifty
cents. 2d. A work on ‘“‘Scene Painting,” containing in-
structions for drawing for scene painting, stage settings,
and other information regarding stage appliances and
effects, will cost one dollar. 3d. The price of an acting
play is fifteen cents.

“Miss Mollie D.”—Thin summer dresses are made with
blouse waists and full sleeves, while some have pretty
ribbon belts and streamers at one side, or girdles and
chatelaines of hammered silver, set with Rhine stones.
Also, a dog collar is often added, laid over a band of vel-
vet, and matching the girdle or belt in design.

“Estelle.”—Vivid shades of red predominate in milli-
nery, and colored crape is popular for trimmings, and also
for entire bonnets, while plainer bonnets, in close princess

shape, with coronet fronts, are very fashionable for ele-
gant dress wear.

“Miss Martha M.,” Camden, N. J.—The plaits of silk
dresses are frequently divided, and the fronts ornamented
by plain strings of beads, which fall in long straight lines
from the waistband to the foot of the skirt.

“Fannie L.”—At the close of a fashionable meal, the

napkin should be laid unfolded on the table, but at a social
tea or breakfast, the guest follows the example of the
hostess in this respect.

“Addie,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—The price of the “Guide to
Authorship” is fifty cents, on receipt of which the NEW
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will mail it to you.

“Flossie,” Marietta, Texas.—‘Honeysuckle’ is the
name of a new color, which is pale pink in one light, and
pale yellow in another.

“Tngelow.”—Large boys wear the Princeton hat, with
soft gored crown and stitched brim, made of the same
material as their suits.

“Mrs. S. C.”—Many of the summer bonnets have no
nr and are filled in with flowers, vailed with delicate
lle.

_ ‘Bessie H.”’—We will mail you a book containing direc-
tions for canning fruits and vegetables for thirty cents.

“Essie S.,” Gardner, Tenn.—The polonaise is again
coming in favor, and bids fair to become quite popular.

“Mrs. Louisa T.”—Long black stockings and buttoned
boots with low heels are worn by little boys.

“Arabella.’’—It is not customary to acknowledge an in-
vitation to a church wedding. a iS

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

I advize all those who play the fool to get their
pay for it az they go along; for there are none whom
the world forget so quickly az those who have simply
amused them.

The more vagaries a man has the more he wants,
and the less he has of anything else.

Young man, listen. In this way you conceal your
own size, and get the other fellow’s.

There are sum men whose hair wont part in the
middle, and they ought to be proud of it.

_ There are lots of people who can’t see any humor
in what I write, only in the bad spelling. Iwill sa to
all such kritics, that there iz no more humor in badd
spelling than in being cross-eyed.

Wisdom is common sence boiled down, skimmed,
and well seasoned.

Fashion and custom can beat any thing eccept the
truth.

The more branes a man has the more mental strain
he can stand. Genius is never troubled with soften-
ing of the branes.

Idle curiosity is good for one thing; it teaches a
man at which end of his body the hornet carries his
stingger.

Thar ain’t a more loathsome being on the face of
the earth than the one who takes pride in being a
loaffer.

Fashion haz done az much to civilize the world as
any one of the virtues haz.

He who haz learned how to think haz acquired all
the elements ov a liberal education.

Woman’s power lays in her heart, man’s in hiz
head.

There are people who won't believe there iz any
punkins, because they can’t prove which was made
first, the punkin or the punkin seed. Let these peo-
ple skip; they wont’t pay for educating.

Youcan’t killa good thing by quoting it.
good it iz good forever.

After a man haz reached 85 or 90 years he can’t talk
about anything else but hiz age, to advantage.

Even a dog knows his friends.

It iz a very wize man who tells less than he knows.

It requires more branes to be a successful clown
than it does a Congressman.

Nature knows nothing about good luck, bad luck,
nor accident. Neither does she deal in the super-
natural.

If it iz

Items of Interest,

The maddest manin Maine, on arecent Monday
morning, was the editor, who, in a notiée of a local choir,
had written that ‘‘the well-trained and cultured voices of
the excellent choir showed to the best advantage in the
anthem, ‘When Morning Purples all the Sky.’ The mis-
chievous types, with the aid of a blundering compositor,
gave the choir’s masterpiece this very unique title,
“When Mourning Puppies Fill the Sky.”

A gentleman in Biddeford, Me., was annoyed by a
little sore which appeared on his forehead. Various
remedies were applied without effect, and it daily in-
creased in size. He has just discovered that it was caused
by a small green tag which the manufacturer had placed
upon the band of his hat. The sore was the result of
poisoning due to arsenic in the green tag.

Trained dogs will hereafter assist in the perform-
ance of outpost duty inthe German Army. With good
dogs on post, an enemy will find it difficult to penetrate a
hostile camp without arousing those quick-eared animals.
It is also said that the Germans are training hawks for
the capture of the French carrier pigeons.

A handy dress coat is coming into fashion among
the Parisians, and is a decided novelty. The waistcoat is
merely a continuation of the coat-front, and has no back;
a shirt-front is attached to the waistcoat; the shirt-cuffs
are attached to the coat-sleeves; and one set of buttons
fixes the entire garment in place.

There is arash young manin Barnwell, 8. C., into
whose cranium a ray of intelligence has been admitted by
the remark of an outspoken young lady. He threatened
to blow out his brains unless she consented to marry him.
She coolly told him that he would first have to blow some
brains into his head.

A sentimental lady in Omaha spends two hours a
day reading poetry. She used to read it aloud for the
benefit of her relatives. They are now all dead, with the
exception of a seventy-five-year-old son, who has been
deaf for many years. The poetry reader is still lively, at
the age of 101.

How queer it is that people who have rooms to let
never have any that are not nice, and large, and warm,
and pleasant, and sunny, and that people who go to hire
rooms almost never can manage to find any of that kind.

Lots of pretty girls in New York wear a nutmeg
around their neck asa charm against malaria. Young
men have it sprinkled on the top of a glass of milk and
things for the same purpose.

After a midnight lunch on a mince pie, a citizen of
Buffalo complained of having horrid dreams, in which he
was chased by pirates. ‘“‘Mince pirates, probably,” calmly
observed his wife.

A Brooklyn barber shows his appreciation of clean-
liness by displaying in his shop a sign bearing these
words: “CLENE TOWAL FOR EVERY CUSSTMER.”’

In the Paris theaters kid glove clippings are used
instead of paper to represent. snow. It flutters and falls
softly, and clings to the clothing of the actors.

“Sand-paper”’ is now made without sand or paper.
Glass is pulverized and sifted on muslin which has been
covered with a coating of glue.

A ten-year-old girl of Landsford, Pa., Miss Sadie
Mayer, weighs 195 pounds, and is still gaining flesh at the
rate of two pounds a week.

A version of the Bible in rhyme has just been com-
pleted by Senor Carulla, a Madrid scholar. It contains
250,000 verses.