TORN FROM HOME; Or, The Child-Stealers of New Haven,” by Burke Brentford, W eek After Next. ~- _ Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887. oy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. @. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Vol. 42. Office, P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 31 Rose St. THE LAST ANSWER. BY MARKHAM HOWARD, I’ve a word to say, my lord, as you stand Pleading again for my listless hand; I have borne your flattery many a time, I have heard my praises in limpid rhyme, But only to-day have you dared call Me “Fairest, and best, and dearest of all.” Listen, my lord: I have gold, and lands, And jewels thick on my idle hands ; Servants attend on my slightest sign, And a title old and proud is mine. I have let you praise my noble birth, (You knew so well what my rank was worth). I have let you praise my youth and my pride, In whispers low as you bent at my side. What did I care? In my languid life It has made me smile to see the strife Of love and ambition, of wrong and right, Which will end with your own false speech to-night. *‘Best, fairest, and dearest ofall!” Each word My sleeping honor and truth has stirred. I live in a vain and idle show, Yet you call me the “best,” So little you know What a true-souled woman’s life should be. Ah! she would blush to be classed with me. Iam not fair. From my earliest youth I, being a woman, have learned that truth Your own eyes tell me every day, In spite of the words your false lips say. You call me “‘dearest,” your dearest—I! Then what of that love of the years gone by, Which you try to bury beneath my gold, Though your heart is hard, and your life is cold Without it? Take back your untrue praise ; We will walk henceforth on our separate ways; And I’ll keep my title, my wealth, and all, For one who will simply and truthfully call Me “dearest’”’—only dearest—‘“‘of all.” a — {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM ] MAJOR JACK: OR A Luckless Marriage. By DORA LESTER, Auther of *‘An Evil Reputation,” ‘‘A Child’s Honor,” etc. CHAPTER I. THE SQUIRE’S TENANTS. north-east coast of house close to the cliffs On the rocky, storm-swept, Northumberland stands a which has an evil reputation. Yet there is nothing sinister, romantic, or striking in its aspect. modern house, built with white fire-bricks, and has | | i { | il am | ir Tn Itis a | large bay-windows looking toward the sea; a flower- | garden in front and around it,and at the back a small greenhouse and a stunted plantation. It was built on land, purchased from Mr. Everard Selby, the owner of nearly all the property in the neighborhood, and who is commonly called in this part of the world “the old squire.’ The plot of land on which it stands was bought bya lucky speculator in the first flush of his success, and he gave a good round sum to the squire to induce him to part with even afew acres of his ancestral estate. But the “good old gentlemanly vice” of avarice | was one ot Mr. Selby’s failings, and he could not re- sist the money dower, though the modern house, reared in the sight of his own old gray mansion, was an eye-sore and a constant vexation to him from the time it was built. But scarcely had one winter’s storm swept round the new white walls, and shaken the new win- dow sashes, and broken the glass of the greenhouse, when a tragedy happened at North Hall, for so the speculator had christened the dwelling he had raised. Eviltimes had overtaken him as quickly as good fortune had come, and in a commercial crash the un- happy man found himself ruined. He had not cour- age to face the world in disaster after his brief and sudden wealth, and one bleak February night, when the sea came moaning and dashing against the cliffs below, the spirit-broken speculator shot himself: and his wife heard the single death-cry above the din of the waters without. After this North Hall stood empty for some months. People, as a rule, do not care to go under the roof which has covered the last mortal anguish of a fellow- being. But ere the summer waned, a young couple— a bride and bridegroom—meandering together, hand in hand, along the romantic sea-coast before the house, were struck by its appearance, and took it, be- lieving no rift could come near their perfect happi- ness. They used to watch the fleet of herring boats from its windows together go out night after night from the neighboring fishing village to the deep sea, the stars twinkling overhead, and the fishermen’s lights twinkling on board, until they vanished_in the mist and darkness; and the bridegroom told the bride that some night, for the love of adventure, he would sail, too, and she was to watch the boat that her lover away from her. He went, and that August evening the sea lay like a sheet of glass, and the setting sun went down in a blaze of glory and golden light. Then the fishing fleet left the little bay, their white sails filling in the light wind, and she watched the boat where he was gradually disappearing, and as she did so a chill crept over her, and she shuddered, she knew not why. And she watched and watched through the long night hours, and as she did so, suddenly a flash rent the heavens, and a heavy peal of thunder burst on her startled ears. A storm-cloud had risen in the darkness, and the sky was soon a-light with flame, and the rain came bore - New York, July 9, 1887. eae Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. [ it ll I a HN: AE = mm 1/7 SZ 4; —— SK Ne = — Hi S He) HE Alipe: eS HY % : Z : = = er ) Ma NNT Sa RT Th POTITITETI Lt ees uit sees tec och THERE WAS A LOOK OF FEAR IN HER GRAY EYES AS SHE GLANCED AT THE GRINNING PIERRE, WHO WAS | dashing in torrents on the ground, and the wind be | gan to moan, and the waves to roar, and the bride | shuddered with fear, thinking of her dear one out at | sea. And when the morning came, ahd the sun shone | again over the now stormy ocean, ‘‘an exceeding bit- | ter ery” went from the fishing village to the Hall. Some of the boats had returned, but two were lost amid the wild waste of water in the black midnight | hours, and there was wailing and weeping in the humble homesteads for the bread-winners who would return no more., But the bitterest wail rose from the girl-widow at North Hall. The boat in which ) the bridegroom had sailed had been swamped, and | all on board perished, and they say her shrieks and | her agony were too pitiful even to speak of or listen |to. And by and by her friends came and took her away with her broken heart, and North Hall was shut up, and it got an evil name, and people shook their heads and said misfortune haunted the house, and that no one would be rash enough to inhabit it any more. But the old squire had cast a covetous eye on it, and used to go down each morning and stand looking at it, wondering how cheap he could getit, and at last he made a small offer for it, not a third of what the unfortunate speculator had paid him, but the cred- itors of the ruined man were only too glad to accept it, and so the squire got back his land with the new house that had been so unluckily standing upon it all ready for a tenant. Mr. Selby bought the furniture at a valuation, and determined to make money by his purchase. Not far distant from the squire’s property at Yarbrough, a somewhat fashionable bathing-place had sprung up of late years, and Mr. Selby determined to let North Hall furnished, and reckoned over with pleasure the profit he would make, even atalowrental. He ad- vertised it in the local papers at five guineas a week, and had “To Let’ fixed on the windows through which the luckless bride had gazed with her strained eyes into the darkling sea. But he never had asingle application. name the house had acquired prevented mothers with children who required air, or delicate invalids who required bracing, from even thinking of it; and Mr. Selby got along bill for advertising, and began to be exceedingly fidgety about his new possession. After it had stood unlet a whole year, he made up his mind to reduce his terms. He applied to a house- agent, and said he would take three pounds a week, “though it’s absurdly cheap,” he added; but the house-agent shook his head. “You see, sir,” he said, “the place hasn’t a very good name.” The evil sea It went into the market, and no one would buy itt | | “Not a good name!” echoed Mr. Selby, irately. | afternoon, Mr. Selby was standing, “What can they say against it? The air’s good, the prospect splendid, and the house is tight and well- | furnished throughout. What can one want more ?” any “Well, you know, that poor fellow shot himself | there. “What the with letting himself into a rage. “Yes, to the poor young gentleman who was drowned,” replied the house-agent, quietly. member the circumstance well, for it made a great talk at the time, and people said the house would not let again in a hurry.” “People are idiots then! Am my money by an insane, superstitious prejudice? I know J would not object to live in it myself—utter folly, mere childish folly.” “Well, ’ll try what I can do, Mr. Selby, but your chance is some stranger coming to the place, and there’s no doubt the situation is fine, and the air bracing, and the house is a nice one look at, so per- haps at three pounds, as the bathing season is coming on, we may be able to do something. But the bathing season came on and waned, and still the squire had no offer of a tenant for North Hall. It was not a quarter of a mile from his own place, and every day nearly he used to go and gaze disconsolately at the closed windows, and sigh im- patiently to think how much he was losing every week it stood unlet. September was drawing to a close, and already from the rough northern sea chill night mists blew inland, and the water sometimes looked dark and stormy, and broke with a sullen cadence on the great rocks below, telling with solemn warning of the wild storms to come. ” But these autumn days are beautiful on this coast, | and when the sky is blue, to watch the long rolling green-blue waves break white-crested, and sweep up majestically against the brown sea-worn walls, which year after year defy their power, is worth a walk along the dangerous narrow path which runs | here the whole length of the cliffs, close to the very verge of the sea. But Mr. Selby seldom looked at the waves except to groan inwardly when he saw they were getting more stormy, and his chance of a summer tenant fast diminishing. No one would come here in the winter, he thought, and what with the bad times and the expenses of his boy, who was a cavalry officer out in India, the squire grudged every penny he lost by his unlet house, and thought many a hard thing of the poor man whose mad act had givenit an evil reputation. But his chance came at last. One bright autumn duse has a fool shooting himself to do | the house?” eried Mr. Selby, working | “Tt’s two years since he shot } himself; besides, the house has been let since then.” | “T re- | I to be done out of | as he was wont to at times, thoughtfully, at his empty mansion, | when he saw a well-appointed carriage approaching | down the road, heading to North Hall, and as it | neared the house, the carriage stopped, and a lady and a gentleman who were sitting in it kept looking | at the house, and were evidently discussing it. The squire’s heart positively began to beat faster with expectation. He had been leaning on the iron gate when he first espied the carriage, and presently a@ man who was seated by the driver, dismounted, and after touching his hat, addressed the squire. “Will monsieur be good enough to tell me,” he said, | with a slight foreign accent, but in excellent Eng- lish, “if yonder house is the mansion to be let ‘named North Hall?’ “It is, sir,’ answered thesquire ; ‘‘it is to be let, and | is a most excellent house—no one who takes it will be disappointed.” “Ts monsieur then the owner?’ asked the man, while ever so faint a smile flickered round his lips. “T am, sir. I am Mr. Selby, of Yarbrough Hall, and this house was built on my property, and—fell into my hands.” “Ah, then, would monsieur be good enough to speak to the lady and gentlemen seated in yonder carriage ?—they are on the lookout for a mansion suitable to their requirements.” “T shall have great pleasure in speaking to the lady and gentleman; shall I do so now 2?” “Tf monsieur will have the goodness.” The squire accordingly approached the carriage, and politely raised his hat to the lady seated in it as he did so. “T have been requested to speak to you, madam,” he said, ‘‘concerning this house.” The lady bowed, and then the squire saw she was a beautiful woman, very richly dressed, and she an- swered him in a low, sweetly toned voice. “Perhaps you had better speak to this gentleman about it,’’ she said. Upon this Mr. Selby turned to the gentleman, who was a man about thirty-five years of age, with & dark, striking countenance, and of very gentlemanly appearance and address. “Ts it to be let?” he said, briefly. “Tt is, sir, and as I have just been telling—the per- son who asked me to speak to you-—” “That is my French cook.” “Then, as I have just been telling your French cook, it is a most excellent house, replete with every comfort; and the lady, I am sure, will be pleased with it.” And again the squire looked at the beautiful woman, for he was an old gentleman of taste, and liked a pretty face as well as his neighbors. “Tt seems quiet about here,” said the gentleman, STILL ON THE DOOR-STEP. looking around him; ‘‘this lady is delicate; we want a quiet place, where the air is good.” “Then this is the very place for you, sir. Please alight, and I shall have the pleasure of showing you and the lady overit; I happen to have the key in my pocket, by a fortunate chance.” There were few days, indeed, that this fortunate chance did not occur. Mr. Selby generally went out armed with the house doorkey of North Hall in his pocket, in the hitherto vain hope that he might re- quire it. But everything comes to him who waits long enough, and Mr. Selby’s turn of good luck, he thought, had come at last. “Allow me, madam,” he said, gallantly assisting the young lady to alight, who looked at her com- panion as he did so with a little pensive smile. The squire, indeed, was rather a remarkable-look- ing person, though he had no idea that it was so. He was a little nian, arrayed in a brown velveteen coat, and wore white gaiters, and a white straw hat, be- neath which appeared an unmistakable brown wig, while his whiskers were perfectly white, and his features very ordinary. But this ugly little man had no small opinion of himself, and he had moreover a great admiration for what he called ‘“‘fine.women.’” His own wife, who had been dead for many years, had deservedly come under this description. She had been a stout, tall, good-looking woman, and her only child, the cavalry major out in India, was tall and good-looking, too. After her death the squire looked out for a house- keeper to superintend his household, and this time he chose a tall and good-looking woman, too. This lady, who was called Mrs. Jenkins, was the widow of one of the squire’s tenant farmers, and from the day she entered Yarbrough Hall she had always in- tended to marry Mr. Selby. But the squire was as wary as the old pike in the pond at the foot of the garden, for which two genera- tions of Selbys had fished in vain. He was always most affable and agreeable to Mrs. Jenkins, except when her weekly bills ran too high, but in spite of his jokes, she never got an inch further with him; and though, with woman’s wit, she tried to save every penny that she could in the household ex- penses, knowing that this was the nearest way to his heart, the tough old heart held out still. But whether it was the knowledge of this lady’s in- tentions, or his own natural vanity, there is no doubt Mr. Selby was on very good terms with himself, and quite believed that the pretty woman he was soon proudly showing over his unlucky house would natu- rally regard him with favor. “You see, madam,” he said, acting as showman, “that the furniture is solid—really good—and I can answer for it being clean. Yes, my housekeeper, Mrs. Jenkins, who is a remarkably clean person, comes down here once a week with one of her under- house-maids, and the whole place is thoroughly dust- ed. You'll tind no cobwebs, madam. the drawing-room. I ¢all this a very good room.” The lady languidly assented, and went to one of the windows, and looked out on the wide blue sea beyond, crowned with its white crests. “Are you fond of a sea view, madam?’ says the squire, following her. “Now, there’s a splendid one.” “Tlove the sea,” she answered, and there was a far-away dreamy look in her large dark gray eyes as she spoke. She was, indeed, a beautiful woman this—tall, slender, and graceful, with low, broad brow, and dark eyebrows, and heavy dark lashes shadowing her gray eyes, until in some lights they seemed almost black. Her complexion was pale, and her features singularly regular and delicate, but she did not look very happy. “What do you say to it, Isabel?’ asked the gentle- man, now entering the drawing-room; for while the squire and the lady had been inspecting the front of the house, the gentleman and his French cook had been going over the back of it, and had come to the conclusion that the place would suit them. “It will suit me very well,” she answered, indiffer- ently. Riel I think it will do for us,” said the gentle- man. ‘So, perhaps, we can come to terms,” he added, looking at Mr. Selby. “JT shall have great pleasure in discussing them,” he replied. “T think the agent said three pounds a week ?’” asked the gentleman. “Guineas,” blandly suggested the squire. “The agent said pounds; but it’s no matter.” After this the affair was soon settled. The gentle- man agreed to take the house for a year at three guineas a week, and then quietly drew out his check- book. “T will draw you a check for the year’s rent,” he said, ‘‘on Barclay’s Bank—that will be all right, I suppose? I brought my check-book with me, as from what the agent said, [ thought the house would suit me, and I hate to be troubled with paying rent every three months.” _ “A very agreeable way of doing business,” said the squire, scarcely able to conceal his elation. Then the gentleman sat down and drew his check, and handed it to Mr. Selby. It was forthe year’s rent, and was signed, “J. Winton Brooke.” “Winton!” repeated the squire, after he had read the signature. ‘‘Any relation of Sir John Winton? Lused to know him well.” “Tam no relation to Sir John Winton,” answered Mr. Brooke, coldly; ‘“‘but if you are interested in my pedigree, my father was a barrister in town, and my mother the daughter of a Dutch diamond merchant; I conclude that information is enough ?”’ “Quite enough !” cried the squire. ‘‘Most satisfac- tory,in fact. Well, Mr. Brooke, allow me to shake hands with you over our bargain; and I heartily trust that you and this lady—Mrs. Brooke, I con- clude ?—will like the house.” “The lady is Mrs. Brooke,” said Mr. Brooke; “and now when can we bring our goods and chattels into the house ?”’ 7 For a momeut the squire hesitated. “Do you wish to see that the check is all right first?’ asked Mr. Brooke, sarcastically. “Oh, dear, no, sir! dear, no! Let me see—this is Monday—shall we say Thursday? The house will be all brushed out and ready by then.” “And you will have time to hear about the check,” said Mr. Brooke, with asneer. ‘Ah, well, you'll find itallright; on Thursday, then, we shall enter our new abode,” oer CHAPTER. II. BAD NEIGHBORS. The squire felt as though he were treading on air as he walked home after letting his house. He was so elated that he forgot his usual prudence of de- meanor, and hurried into his housekeeper’s room to tell her the news. “T’ve done a good morning’s work, Mrs. Jenkins—I’ve let North Hall.” The widow rose, smiling and simpering.” “[’m sure [hope you have got a satisfactory ten- ant, then, Mr. Selby ?’ “Most satisfactory. He’sa fine gentlemanly look- ing fellow, and the lady’s the prettiest woman I’ve set eyes on this many a long year.” Mrs. Jenkins’ color rose, and she ceased to simper. “T hope you’ve got good references ?” she inquired, “There is the reference—the best reference,” said the squire, producing his check; “a year’s rent on at any rate, one of the best banks in London; and besides,” he | added, “he told me all about his family; it’s a good family, and I know something about them.” Nevertheless (though the squire did not scruple thus to draw a little on his imagination) Mrs. Jen- kins did not feel quite satisfied about the new ten- ants. No woman likes to be told or the charms of another woman, if she has any designs on the heart orthe hand of the teller. She inquired regarding every particular, and when she heard of the French cook she thought it sounded “rather queer.” “That’s your country ways, my dear madam,” said the squire; ‘‘many of these swells never travel with- out their French cooks. Ihave no doubt they are rich people.” But when his new tenants did arrive, Mr. Selby himself could not quite make them out. Huge boxes and packages were left at the Hall, but these mostly came when darkness had settled down over the house on the cliffs. Mr. Selby. indeed, one night—his curiosity excited by the odd stories his housekeeper carried to his ear—took a stroll after dinner past the gates of North Hall, and, to his surprise, perceived Mr. Brooke him- self, only assisted by the French cook, apparently carrying ina very heavy box which had just been left by the railway van. Mr. Selby thought this odd, but still it might be all right. Some gentlemen have a fancy for felling trees, and so some may have a fancy for carrying in boxes, argued the squire, but he did not tell Mrs. Jenkins what he had seen, though that good lady was forever talking about the new tenants. Pierre, the French cook, had strolled down to the fishing village one evening, and entered the little inn there, and inquired of the landlord if he knew of a good, stout young girl that would be willing to assist in the housework at North Hall. “T want a substantial maiden,” said Pierre, with a grin; “one allarms and muscle; Ido not want the brains; I do all the brains.” “Then do you only want one lass in that big place?”’ inquired the sturdy landlord. “One is too much,” said Pierre, with ashrug. ‘TI _ hate the petticoats; they are always in the way; but I must have a scrub.” “A scrub” was accordingly provided for Monsieur Pierre, who chose a plain, stout young woman, with | a dull face, named Dorothy Johnson. But he of- fered Dorothy good wages, and Dorothy was soon installed at the Hall, and she had nothing to say against her situation when she visited her friends at the village. Monsieur Pierre, by her account, did everything | that Mr. and Mrs. Brooke required but “scrub.” He ee” he groomed the horse, and he waited at e. Mrs. Brooke sat nearly always alone, Dorothy said, and was very quiet. She sometimes walked in the garden, but her usual walk was always the wild sea- coast, where she would’ wander day after day look- ing wistfully at the great mass of blue-green water rd was forever tumbling and tossing beneath the cliffs. Sometimes Mr. Brooke went out with her, but not often. He drove her out sometimes, and on one occasion, when they were doing this, they passed Mr. Graham, the vicar of Yarbrough, who not un- naturally looked curiously at his new parishioners. The vicar had indeed been calling on his friend, the squire, that very day to make inquiries about them. his was some three weeks after the arrival of the Brookes at North Hall, and the squire was still full of satisfaction on the subject. “Charming people,” he said, in answer to the vicar’s questions. ‘Iam going to make a formal call upon thei to-morrow; I’ve not troubled them with my company yet, as I thought I would let them get thoroughly settled first.” “And the lady ?” inquired the viear. “Beautiful creature!” said the squire, jauntily. “Quite an addition to the neighborhood.” “And—you know something of them, I suppose ?’’ “Oh, yes—father was an eminent barrister—very nice people indeed.”’ “Very well, then; my wife and I shall call the day after to-morrow—as you are going to-morrow—we must not overwhelm them at first, you know,” added the vicar, with a smile. On the morrow, accordingly, the squire started to make his call of ceremony on his new tenants. He dis- carded the brown velveteen coat for the occasion, and wore a frock coat, and a high hat. He brushed his brown wig into its most becoming curls, and nodded good-naturedly to his housekeeper, who met him in the hall as he was leaving. “Yousee, ’ve made myself quite smart to call upon the lady,” he said, facetiously. “You look very well,” replied Mrs. Jenkins, with a little sigh, “Then it’s all right,” said the squire, very well pleased, waving his hand; and so he went out, and ten minutes later he was ringing at the front door-bell of North Hall. It was promptly opened by Pierre, who wore a cook’s white linen cap on his head. “Mrs. Brooke at home ?”’ inquired the squire, et is out,” said Pierre, with a little regretful shrug. “Mr, Brooke at home then?’ “Monsieur is also abroad,” replied Pierre, raising his bands with a gesture of despair. “Extremely sorry ; really very unfortunate—kindly give my compliments—Mr. Selby’s compliments—to Mr. and Mrs. Brooke, and say how I regret that I have missed them, and I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of seeing them at Yarbrough Hall.” Pierre made his best bow. He had black, humor- ous eyes, and a brown, swarthy skin, and a mustache of jetty black, except when the sun shone on it, Now, this is | ' and showeda peculiar purplish hue which pervaded it. “IT shall not fail to deliver monsieur’s message,” he said, and Mr. Selby left the house door feeling very much disappointed. And thesame ill fortune attended the visit of the vicar. Pierre, with his white cap, again opened the door, and again, with sorrowful grimaces, declared that both madame and inonsieur were abroad. And neither of these visits was ever returned. Both Mr. Selby and Mr. and Mrs Graham had left ecards, but no more notice was taken of them than if they had been waste paper.” “Tt’s extraordinary,’ said the vicar, speaking to Mr. Selby of his tenants, ‘‘and I don’t like the looks of that French fellow; he looks as if he were laugh- ing in his sleeve.” “Sly-looking dog enough,” responded the squire. But the vicar thought he would try again. This time, however, he went around with a little note, re- eretting that he had not yet had the pleasure of mak- ing the acquaintance of his new parishioners, and apologizing for calling again sosoon by informing Mr. Brooke that he was endeavoring to raise a small sum to present prizes to the scholars at the village school, and that he thought it but right to give a gen- tleman of Mr. Brooke’s position the opportunity of subscribing. Once’ more Pierre and his white cap presented themselves in answer to the viear’s summons, and he expressed the deepest regret that madame and mon- sieur were again abroad. The vicar then left his note, and Pierre brought down an auswer to this to the vicarage thé same evening. Mr. Brooke presented his compliments to the vicar and begged to inclose a check for ten pounds to be given in the parish in any manner the vicar thought best. Mr. Brooke also thanked the viear and Mrs. Graham for calling at North Hall, but regretted that neither his own health nor Mrs. Brooke’s permitted them to pay visits. And tothis rule they adhered. In vain did the the squite invite them to dine at the Hall. They in fact declined all intercouse with their neighbors, yet nothing worse could be said against them than this. They paid their way; the universal Pierre going round among tradespeople with whom they dealt, and settling everything oncea week. Dorothy Jobnson continued in their service, and excited envy in the bosom3 of many of her female acquaintances in the fishing village, by appearing in a handsome black silk gown elaborately trimmed with lace and jet, which Dorothy informed her friends was one of her mistress’ ‘‘cast-ofts.” “She dresses splendid,” she said, ‘‘and has a sight of grand things, and she gave this gown tome.” ~ And so the weeks and months passed away, and graduaily the gossip about the tenants at North Hall died out. flower-beds into disorder, scattering in all directions the petals of the fast-fading flowers. November sped on, dank and gray under the North- umbrian skies, and the wind came whistling bleak and cold from the northern sea. But still nearly every day a beautiful woman, at the head of the cliffs. Sometimes she would meet the coast-guard men, who would touch their hats to her, and sometimes she met the fisher-folk ; but she never spoke to any one, not even the children, and there was a look in her face as though her heart were ill at ease. CHAPTER III. A STRANGE SIGHT. December dawned very stormily, but in spite of the weather there was much excitement and pleas- ure at Yarbrough Hall, for unexpectedly Major Selby returned there on sick leave from India. He had had a sharp attack of fever, and the doctors had ordered him home, and both the squire and Mrs. Jenkins were delighted. “We must get up some little gayety to amuse him,” suggested the squire, on the morning of the day his son was expected, talking over the event with his comely housekeeper. ‘I suppose it will be no good asking our neighbors at North Hall? Most extraor- dinary people! Can’t make them out.” “T hope it’s all right about the lady,” said Mrs. Jenkins, demurely. “Oh, I dare say she’s all right. She’s a remarkably handsome woman anyhow—remarkably! I wonder what Jack will think of her?’ Thus when Major John Everard Selby, commonly called “Jack,” arrived, he had not been long at home before he heard all about the strange tenants of | North Hall. Major Jack Selby was a fine-looking young.man, bronzed and brown, and tall and stalwart, like his dead mother. The little fidgety squire looked dwarfed by the side of his big son, and ne two men -weré ever more dissimilar in character. : “And you mean to tell me,” he said, looking at his father with his bright, smiling blue eyes, and pulling the ends of his long, brown mustache, which was a trick of his, ‘‘that a beautiful woman is shut up there, and none of you ever see her or talk to her ?”’ “My dear boy, she is not shut up; she walks nearly every day, I’m told, along the cliffs. But I hate those white cliffs; it’s a frightfully dangerous place. I’ve always said it, and if it wasn’t for the confound- ed British public and the row there would be, I would rail that walk off.” “It’s very picturesque, you know, all along there.” “Picturesque! Very picturesque to have your back broken! One false step there would be certain death, for if you- weren’t drowned, the fall would ae you. I wonder Brooke allows his wife to walk there.” “Perhaps he wouldn't care if her broken.” “Jack! Jack! No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, [ hope,” misquoted the squire. ‘But Iam not joking, my dear fellow, about her looks. She’s a lovely wo- man. And it seems a most extraordinary thing that two young people of their age should so entirely | Seclude themselves, and not join in any of our little | Social gatherings. I was proposing to Mrs. Jenkins | to invite them when you were here, but Lam afraid | it would be no use.” | Jack gave a little laugh. | ““[suppose he’s jealous of her,’ he said. “But PU bet you ten pounds, father, that [ll make her ac- quaintance, and talk to her, and walk with her, be- fore the month’s out.” “My dear boy, don’t get into any trouble now,” said the squire, shaking his head. ‘*‘Women are all very well. I admire a pretty woman with the best of you; but to be prudent is the thing. One must be prudent.” And again the squire shook his head and smiled, thinking of the wiles from which he had escaped. “T’ll win my ten pounds,” said Jack; and his father affectionately patted his shoulder, and called him a “wild rogue.”’ s “Just such a fellow as [was at your age, Jack— just such a fellow; but you must take care.” Nevertheless, in spite of the parental warning, Major Jack Selby determined to stroll along the cliffs on the following afternoon, trusting that he might have a chance of meeting the ‘‘new beauty.” And he did meet her. It was a cold, clear, bright December day, the ground hard as iron, and the sky of a steely blue, and the sea blué;and steely tinted also. A sharp, bitter, north-east wind was driving full in Major Selby’s face as he walked quickly along the narrow, dangerous path at the head of the cliffs, and the major, accustomed to the glowing Indian | climate, shivered, aud drew his overcoat closer to | his throat. Y He had not gone a quarter of a mile, however, along the path, when he saw a lady approaching him that he felt sure must be the mysterious lady of North Hall. She glanced at him as they passed each other, for Major Selby moved a step nearer the dan- gerous edge of the cliff, as the way was so narrow he must otherwise have actually brushed against her, and as he did so their eyes met, and the next minute the young man told himself that he had never before looked on a woman’s face he thought so beautiful. He could talk of nothing else when he went home. Who could she be? Whata brute the man was to shut her up, and make a lovely creature like that lead such a wretched, lonely life. Jack said this to his father, and he said it to Mrs. Jenkins, who talked to him in a gentle, motherly way, and advised him to have nothing to say to her. But this was not Major John Everard Selby’s nature. He had a warm, impulsive heart, and he was determined to make Mrs. Broaoke’s acquaint- ance, and during the first week he was at Yar- brough Hall he had met her no less than three times along the lonely sea-walk where he had first seen her. But he had never spoken to her. A faint blush, he thought, rose to her clear, smooth skin on the third time he encountered her, but this time she did not raise her large, lovely eyes to his face. But fortune favors the brave, and on the following week a slight accident occurred, and Major Selby was able without rudeness to address the lady in whose ap- pearance he was so greatly interested. - It was a snow-storm. A fine, blinding, drifting shower of snow had suddenly commenced after the major had started on his usual walk; and as he went hastily on, he saw he was again about to meet Mrs. Brooke, who was in the very act of unrolling an Indian scarf to protect her throat from the unex- pected storm. i P And just as he neared her a sudden gust of wind from the sea swept this scarf out of her hand, and almost carried Mrs. Brooke herself off her feet. The scarf blew inland, and Major Selby at first made an ineffec- tual effort to recover it as it flew past him. But it was blown down at last into one of the deep gullies stretching behind the ¢liffs, and here he succeeded in getting hold of it, and eeicening to Mrs. Brooke’s side, who was eagerly watching the vagaries of her scarf, he smilingly presented it to her. “T thank you very much,” she said, smiling also. “It was a tremendous blast, wasn’t it?’ said Major Selby. ‘‘And,if you will pardon my saying so, would it not be wise for you not to walk quite so near the edge of the cliff? Allow me to go to this side, and perhaps I shall be able to protect you a little.” He moved as he spoke between Mrs. Brooke and the sea; and, after a moment’s hesitation, she walked on, llajor Selby being now by her side. back were “T think I must introduce myself,” he said, looking at her with his smiling, honest blue eyes, “for per- haps you do not know who I[ am.” “You are Mr. Selby’s son, are you not?’ answered Mrs. Brooke. ‘Mr. Selby is our landlord, and my maid told me Major Selby had returned from India, and when I met you I felt sure you were a soldier.” “Yes,” said Selby, with a little laugh; ‘and I felt sure, too, that you were the lady who lives at North Hall, and Lam very happy tomake your acquaint- ance, and [ hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you sometimes.” “We go nowhere.” “So my father told me; but what a pity itis! This is not a very lively part of the world, but it’s dread- fully dreary, isn’t it, to live without ever exchanging a word with our fellow-creatures ?”’ “Itis dreary.” “Then [hepe you will break through Will you permit me to call at North Hall? Mrs. Brooke blushed a sudden and violent blush. “You are very good,” she said, falteringly. ‘“I—I shall be glad.” “J shall do myself the honor,then. And now tell me what you think of this wild, bleak coast ?”’ “It was beautiful when we came in the early autumn, but it is very stormy now.” They exchanged afew more commonplace words, and then, when they neared the road-way that leads direct to North Hall, Mrs. Brooke paused. “T think our paths divide here,’”’ she ‘said, in her sweet, ringing voice. “Good-morning. I thank you for recovering my scarf. I would have lost it but for you.” your rule. : ' Thus they parted, Selby being half afraid to say | anything more about his calling at North Hall, lest the tardily given consent might be withdrawn. And, strange to relate, when he went home, he said noth- ing to the squire of having won his bet. spoken to Mrs. Brooke and walked with her before vicar implore them to appear at the school feast, or | the month was out, as he said he would, but now he did not teel inclined to boast of this. Neither did he mention to his father nor Mrs. Jenkins that he intended to call upon Mrs. Brooke. But he did this on the next afternoon, after he had spoken to her, and his ring at the bell of North Hall door was responded to as usual by the polite Pierre and his linen cap. “Ts Mrs. Brooke at home?” asked Selby, closely | scanning the keen face before him. “Madame is abroad,” answered Pierre, in regretful accents. Atthis moment, however, “‘madame” herself opened the garden gate before the house. and Selby, turning sharply round at the click of the latch, saw the lady whom he had intended to visit. He took off his hat, and at once approached her. Li October came, clothing the woods round | Yarbrough Hall in russet, and blowing Mrs. Brooke’s | “You see I have availed myself of your kind per- mission,”’ he said. b Again that sudden and vivid blush rose to Mrs. | Brooke’s face, and there was a look of almost fear in Then gloomy | her gray eyes as she glanced at the grinning Pierre 2 S > > | who was still standing gracefully on the door-step. Yet it seemed impossible to her not to ask Major Selby to go into the house. She hesitated a moment, L ; and then moved forward. wrapped in her sables, paced along the solitary path | “You will go in?’ she said, and led the way up | stairs to the drawing-room: and as she did so, Pierre’s dark face grew black as night. “You have a fine sea view here,’ said Selby, going to the window. ‘Do you often sit here and watch the old roarer there ?”’ “T always sit here—this is my room.” “There is a romantic story, you know,” said Selby, looking round aud smiling at her, ‘attached to these windows. A bride once lived here—a bridegroom and a bride—and he went out one night with the tishermen to sea, and he bade her watch for his re- turn, and she watched and waited all night in vain. And in the morning she learned the bitter truth—the boat he had sailed in was lost; and they say the poor girl’s heart was broken.” “It is asad story. Yetitis better, I think, to lose all at once, as she did—better than day by day, week by week, to see our best hopes die.”’ There was a strange pathos in Mrs. Brooke’s voice, as she said these words, and they went to Selby’s heart, for he understood she was speaking of her own sad fate. He staid about half an hour after this, and when he went away, he asked permission to call again, and this permission was tremulously granted. But scarcely had he left the house when Pierre, with scant ceremony and with a scowl upon his face, en- tered the drawing-room. “Tf conclude madame is prepared to explain to monsieur when he returns about this gentleman visitor ?” he said, insolently. “T shall explain,” she answered, coldly. leave the room and shufthe door.” A singularly vindieti¥e look shot into Pierre’s dark eyes at these words, : and obeyed her, closing the’doer behind him. But when, a few days later, Major Jack once more called at North Hall, Pierre, rather more curtly than was his wont, informed him ‘‘Madame was abroad ;” and when Major Jack went along the cliffs in hopes of meeting her, she was nowhere to be seen. And he never met her again. In vain Major Jack haunted the cliffs and the road past North Hall dur- ing the next fortnight. Mrs. Brooke had disappeared from her accustomed haunts, and Major Jack was afraid to call again to inquire for her, lest he should cause her trouble or annoyance. But on Christmas Eve something happened that greatly startled him. He had been dining at the barracks of the neigh- boring town, and was returning to Yarbrough Hall about eleven o’clock, on a wild, stormy winter’s night, and as he was passing down the road—he told himself to save time, but really from a romantic feel- ing of interest in the woman who led so lonely and secluded an existence—he crossed the fields at the back of North Hall, in which there were no lights “Will you visible, and as he did so, a single weird, wild shriek | fell upon his ears. He stopped to listen. Was it a sea-bird in its death agony, or what? The wind was howling and the sea roaring, and it was almost impossible in the din around te tell whence the cry proceeded. But it disturbed Jack. He could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of that wild wail which the night winds had borne to his ears. It might bea cry for help, his excited imagination told him; and early the next morning, before the squire, indeed, was down to breakfast, he again crossed the fields that lay be- tween the two halls, and, as he approached North Hall, he perceived a woman. violently ringing the bell at the back entrance gate, and erying as she did so. It was Dorothy Johnson, and when she saw Jack, she at once ran up to him and addressed him. “Oh, sir,” she said, her red, coarse face all wet with tears, “I’m sure something’s happened here! I’ve rang and rang, front and back. Oh, dear! I hope something mayn’t have happened to the mistress!” And the poor girl wrung her hands in genuine dis- tress. “What do youmean? Do you mean Mrs. Brooke? Who are you?” asked Selby, sharply, and in some agitation, for the weird cry that he had heard the night before instantly recurred to his mind. “Tm the general servant,’ said poor Dorothy, with asob; ‘and last night I had my outing, and Pierre said I needn’t go back till the morning. And when not even the dog—it’s just as if every one was dead in the house.” There was a low wall round the back yard, and after a moment’s hesitation Selby climbed this, and an exclamation broke from his lips as he reached the top. “Good heavens! the dog is lying with its throat cut!’ he eried to Dorothy, below. ‘‘Semething must have happened; we must search the house.” “Oh, my poor mistress! and she was that fond of the dog!’ shrieked Dorothy, with a dismal wail. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, sir! what shall we do?” “Are you afraid to come over the wall?’ asked Selby. ‘If you’re not, I can pull you up, and you can tell me how best to get into the house.” The sturdy Northumbrian girl was not afraid. She nut her big red hand into Selby’s, who easily pulled er over the wall, and then she ran up to the poor dog who lay stiff and stark, with a ghastly wound in its throat. “Oh, the murdering villains! to kill the poor, inno- cent beast!” cried Dorothy. ‘Oh! sir, my heart mis- gives me. I wish they mayn’t have killed the poor mistress, too !”” Selby’s face by this time was very pale, but there was a stern and resolute look in his eyes. - “How can we get into the house?” he said, briefly. They tried the doors back and front, but they were securely locked, and Selby shook them in vain. “Ts there a ladder in any of the outhouses?’ he asked. ae there was a ladder, and Dorothy soon fetched his. “Yon’s her room, poor thing,” she said, pointing to some windows on the second floor; but the ladder was not high enough to reach these windows, and Major Jack at last got into the kitchen window by ate the glass and forcing back the shutters in- side. Dorothy scrambled in after him, her anxiety for her mistress overcoming her fears.. The house looked dark and dismal within, but Dorothy soon opened all the kitchen window-shutters, and there were traces of disorder and packing to be seen around. “T will go up stairs now and search the house,” said Major Jack; and Dorothy, still following him, pointed out aroom at the back of the house, on the same floor as the drawing-room, the door of which was slightly ajar. “That’s the mistress’,’’ she said. Selby pushed open the door of this room at once, and through the chinks of the closed shutters, the gray winter morning’s light dimly penetrating, still showed some object lying on the floor. He entered the room, he unbarred the shutter, and then as he looked round a cry of horror broke from his firm lips. There was a blood-stain at his feet, and blood- stains all around; and a few yards distant from where he stood, stretched on the floor, apparently dead or dying, lay the beautiful woman whom he had met on the lonely sea-girt cliffs. {TO BE CONTINUED. ] Yet he had‘ but he made a grimace, bowed, | COMPENSATION. One woman, in furs and velvets, Another in squalid rags; One rolled by in her stately carriage, The other stood on the flags. One woman alone in her carriage, By the other a little child, Who, watching the prancing horse, Looked up in her face and smiled. She stooped to her boy and kissed him, And gave him a hoarded crust; The other had just left costly blooms, Where her one son lay in dust. Oné back to her darkened mansion— Wealth cannot hold death at bay! One back to the hut where labor Brought bread for the coming day. Perhaps, as over the sands of life Time’s great tide ebbs and flows, More fates among us are equal Than their outward seeming shows. ee oe emer ees int [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. } OLIVER THE OUTCAST. 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 XXX. HAW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED. y” ANCY was not likely to turn spale, even if she had been a\- frightened. Really, however, “yshe was not frightened, hay- i ing considerable nerve, “Is that you, Massa Fox ?”’ she replied, composedly, push- = zing the boat off at the same A “Where did you come —=~s from?” “Who have you got with you ?” demanded the doctor, in a peremptory tone. “Lor’, doctor, what’s the matter? It’s my sister Chloe from ’cross the river. She cum over to see me yes’day, and I’m agwine to take her home.” Dr. Fox suryeyed the pretended sister critically, and was inclined to believe the story. The dress, the stuffed form, and general appearance, certainly resembled Nancy. But he was not satisfied. “Are you sure that you haven’t got one of my run- aways in the boat with you?” he asked, suspiciously. Nancy’s fat sides shook with laughter. “One of them erazy critters!’ she exclaimed. “Chloe, he thinks you’re a crazy critter run away from his’sylum. Won't Dinah laugh when you tell her.” Mrs. Kenyon possessed an admirable talent for mimicry, though she had not exercised it much of late years. Now, however, the occasion seemed to tall for an effort in that direction, and she did not hesitate. She burst into a laugh, rich and hearty, so like Nancy’s that the latter was almost startled, as if she heard the echo of her own amusement. No one who heard it would have doubted that it was the laugh of a negro woman. The laugh convinced Dr. Fox. He no longer en- tertained any doubt that it was really Nancy’s sister. “It’s all right, Nancy,” he said, apologetically.. “I see I am mistaken. If you see either of the run- aways let me know,” and ‘he turned his horse from the bank. Not a word passed between Nancy and her passen- ger till they had got beyond ear-shot of the pursuer. Then Nancy began: “You did that well, Miss Kenyon. Ef I hadn’t knowed, I’d have thought it was old Chloe herself. Where did you learn that laugh ?”’ “J think I might make a pretty good actress, Nancy,” said Mrs. Kenyon, smiling. ‘I knew some- thing must be done, as Dr. Fox’s suspicions were aroused. Buti didyt dare to speak. I was notso sure of my voice.” “Lor’, how we fooled Massa Fox!’ exclaimed Nancy, bursting once more into a rollicking laugh. “So we did,” echoed Mrs. Kenyon, echoing the laugh as before. “You almost frighten me, Miss Kenyon,” said Nancy. “I didn’t think no one but a nigger could laugh like that. Are you sure you ain’t black blood ?” “T think not, Nancy,’ said Mrs. Kenyon. “I don’t look like it, do 1?” “No, Miss Kenyon; you’re as white as alily; but I can’t understand dat laugh nohow.” Presently they reached the other shore, and Nancy securely fastened the boat. “How far is it to the depot, Nancy?’ asked the runaway. “Only ’bout a mile, Miss Kenyon. Are you tired ?” “Oh, no; and if I were, I wouldn’t mind, so long as Tam escaping from that horrible asylum. I can’t help thinking of that poor Cleopatra. I wish she might be as fortunate as I, but Iam afraid she will be taken back.” “She an’ you’s different, Miss Kenyon. She’s crazy, an’ you ain’t.” “Then you think I can be trusted out of the doc- tor’s hands ?” “How came you there, any way, Miss Kenyon?” asked Nancy, curiously. “It is too long a story to tell, Nancy. Itis enough to say that Iwas put there by a cruel enemy, and | that since I have been confined Ihave met witha great loss.” “Did you lose your money, Miss Kenyon?’ asked Nancy, sympathetically. “It was worse that that, Nancy. dead.”’ “Dat’s awful; but brace up, Miss Kenyon. De Lor’ don’t let it blow so hard on de sheep dat’s lost his fleece.” “JT feel that I have very little left to live for, Nancy,” continued Mrs. Kenyon, in a tone of de- My only boy is I comed back I can’t get in, and I can hear nothing— | Pression. “Don’t you take it so much to heart, Miss Kenyon. I’ve had three chil’en myself, an’ I don’t know where they is.” “How does that happen, Nancy ?”’ “When we was all slaves, dey was sold away from me, down in Alabama, I reckon, and I never expec’ to see any of ’em agin.” “That is very hard, Nancy,” said Mrs. Kenyon, roused to sympathy. ; “So it is, Miss Kenyon,” said Nancy, wiping her eyes; “but I hope to see ’em in a better land.” Then Nancy, pausing in her rowing, began to sing in an untrained but rich voice, a rude plantation hymn— “ We’se all a-goin’, We'se all a-goin’, We’'se all a-goin’ To de Promised Land. “We shall see our faders, We shall see our moders, We shall see our chil’en, Dead and gone before us, In de Promised Land. “Don’t you cry, poor sinner, Don’t you cry, poor sinner, We’se all a-goin’ To de Promised Land.” “Tt makes me feel better to sing them words, Miss Kenyon,” said Nancy; ‘‘for it’s all true. De Lord will eare for us in de Promised Land.” : “Tam glad you have so much faith, Nancy,” said her companion. ‘Your words cheer me, in spite of myself. For the first time, I begin to hope.” “Dat’s right, Miss Kenyon,” said Nancy, heartily. “Dat’s de way to talk.” é They were walking while this conversation took place, and soon they reached the station—a small, rude hut, or little better. Aman with a flag stood in front of it, while a gen- tleman and lady were standing just in the door- way. Mrs. Kenyon had on the way disencumbered her- self of the gown and other disguises which she had worn in the boat, and appeared a quiet, lady-like figure, who might readily be taken for a Southern matron, with a colored attendant. “When will the next train start, sir?’ she asked. “Tn five or ten minutes,” he said. “Going South ?”’ “Yes, ma’am.”’ “Can I get a ticket of you?’ “The ticket-agent is away. You will have to buy one on board the train.” “Very well, sir.” : ] They went into the small depot and waited till the train rumbled by. Then Mrs. Kenyon bade a burried good-by to Nancy, pressed another piece of gold into her not unwilling hand, and was quickly on her way. As the train started she breathed a sigh of relief. “‘At last I feel that I am free!” she said to herself. “But where am I going, and what is to be my future life?” They were questions which she could not answer. | The future must decide. Nancy bent her steps toward her humble home, con- gratulating herself on the success with which their mutual plans had been carried out. “T wonder how Miss Clopatry is gettin’ along?” she reflected. : We can answer that question. Dr. Fox, on his way back, thought he would again visit Nancy’s cottage... The two refugees might pos- sibly be in the neighborhood, although he no longer suspected Nancy’s connivance with them. He was destined to be gratified, and at the same time disap- pointed. As he approached the house he Cleopatra looking out of the window. “Is that you, Antony ?” she called. Dr. Fox’s face lighted up with satisfaction. “There theyare! Vvegotthem!” he exclaimed, and quickened his horse’s pace. “Open the door, Cleopatra!” he ordered. She meekly obeyed. ag peered round for her companion, but saw no one else. “Where is Antony ?” asked Cleopatra. ‘“‘Where is Mrs. Kenyon ?” he demanded, sternly. “Gone away with Nancy,’ answered Cleopatra, simply. Dr. Fox swore fearfully. “Then it was she!” he exelaimed, ‘‘after all; ‘‘and I have been preciously fooled. I’d like to wring Nancy’s neck.” ‘Where is Antony ?” asked Cleopatra, anxiously. “He is at the asylum, waiting to see you,” said the doctor. “Come with me, and don’t keep him wait- ng!” That was enough. Poor Cleopatra put on her bon- net at once, and went back with the doctor, only to weep unavailing tears over the disappointment that awaited her. “T’d rather it was the other one!” muttered Doctor Fox. “Who would have thought she was so cunning? Where did she get that laugh? I’d swear it was a nigger !” For three months Nancy was not allowed any work from the asylum, but she contented herself with the er dollars in gold which Mrs. Kenyon had given er, caught sight of CHAPTER XXXI. MRS. KENYON FINDS FRIENDS. Mrs. Kenyon thought it best to put two hundred miles between herself and Doctor Fox. She left the cars the next morning at a town of about three thou- sand inhabitants, which we will call Crawford. “Is there a hotel here?” she inquired of the depot master. “Yes, ma’am.” “Ts it far off?” “About three-quarters of a mile up in the village.” “Can I get a carriage to convey me there ?” & “Certainly, ma’am,” answered the depot master, briskly. ‘‘My son drives the depot carriage. There it is, near the platform. c “Peter!” he called. ‘“Here’s a lady to go to the hotel. Have you a check for your trunk, ma’am % Mrs. Kenyon was rather embarrassed. She had no luggage except a small bundle which she carried in her hand, and this she feared might look suspicious. She had a trunk of clothing at the asylum, but of course it was out of the question to send for this. “My luggage has been delayed,” she said. ‘It will be sent me.” “Very well, ma’am.” Mrs. Kenyon got into the carriage, and was soon landed at the hotel. It might be called rather a boarding-house than a hotel, as it could hardly ac- commodate more than a dozen guests. It was by no means stylish, but looked tolerably comfortable. In Mrs. Kenyon’s state of mind she was not likely to oe. much for luxury, and she said to herself, wea- rily: “This will do as well as any other place.” She inquired the terms of board, and found them very reasonable. This was a relief, for she had but two hundred dollars with her, and a part of this must be expended for the replenishing of her ward- robe. This she attended to at once, and though she studied economy, it consumed about one-half of her seanty supply. Four weeks passed. Mrs. Kenyon found time hang- ing heavily upon her hands. She appeared to have no object left in life. Her boy was dead, or at least she supposed so. She had a husband, but he had proved himself her bitterest foe. She had abstained from making acquaintances, because acquaintances are apt to be curious, and she did not wish to talk of the past. There was one exception, however. One after-. noon when out walking, a pretty little girl, perhaps ~ four years of age, ran up to her, crying: “Take me tomamma. I’m so frightened.” She was always fond of children, and her heart opened to the little girl. j ees is the matter, my dear?” she asked, sooth- ingly. “V’ve lost my mamma,” sobbed the little girl. “How did it happen, my child ?”’ “T went out with nurse, and I can’t find her.” By inquiry Mrs. Kenyon ascertained that the little girl had run after some flowers, while the careless nurse, not observing her absence, had gone on, and so lost her. “What is your name, my little dear?’ she asked. “Florette.” “And what is your namma’s name 2?” ‘“‘Her name is mamma,” answered the child, rather surprised. ‘Don’t you know my inamma ?”’ Then it occurred to Mrs. Kenyon that the child was the daughter of a Mrs. Graham, a Northern visitor, who was spending some weeks with a family of rela- tives in the village. She had seen the little girl be- fore, and even recalled the house where her mother Was staying. “Don’t cry, Florette,” she said. “I know where mamma lives. We will go and find mamma.” The little girl put her hand confidingly in that of her new friend, and they walked together, chatting pleasantly, till suddenly Florette, espying the house, clapped her tiny hands, and exclaimed, joyfully : “There’s our house. There’s where mamma lives.” Mrs. Graham met them atthe door. Not having heard of the little girl’s loss, she was surprised to see her returning in the care of a stranger. “Mrs. Graham,” said Mrs. Kenyon, “I am glad to be the means of restoring your little girl to you.” ‘But where is Susan—where is the nurse?’ asked Mrs. Graham, bewildered. “T lost her,” said little Florette. “T found the little girl crying,’ continued Mrs. Kenyon, ‘and fortunately learned where you were staying. She was very anxious to find her mamma.” “T am very much indebted to you,” said Mrs. Graham, warmly. “Let me know who has been so kind to my little girl.” ‘My name is Conrad, and I am boarding at the hotel,” answered Mrs. Kenyon. She had resumed the name of her first husband, not being willing to acknowledge the tie that bound her toa ian whom she had reason to detest. Mrs. Graham pressed her so strongly to enter the house, that she at length yielded. In truth she was longing for human sympathy and companionship. Always fond of children, the little girl attracted her, and for her sake she wished to make acquaintance with the mother. This was the beginning of friendship between them. After Mrs. Kenyon, or Conrad, as we may now call her, called, and, assuming the nurse’s place, took Florotte to walk. She exerted herself to amuse the child, and was repaid by her attachment, “T wish you’d come and be my nurse,” she said, one day. “T hope you will excuse Florette,” said Mrs. Grahain, apologetically. ‘‘She is attached to you, and is too young to know of social distinctions.” “T am very much pleased to think that she cares for me,” said Mrs. Conrad, looking the pleasure she telt. ‘Do you really like me then, Florette?” The answer was a caress, Which was very grateful to the lonely woman. “It does me good,” she said, to Mrs. Graham. ‘T am quite alone in the world, and treasure more than you can imagine your little girl’s affection.” “T am sure she has suffered,” thought Mrs. Graham, who was of a kindly, sympathetic nature. ‘‘How pss py I should be if I too were alone in the world.” Mr. Graham was a merchant in Chicago, where business detained him, and prevented his joining his wife. She was only to stay a few weeks, and the time had nearly expired, when little Florette was taken sick with a contageous disease. The mer- cenary nurse fled. Mrs. Graham’s relations, also concerned for their safety, left the sorrow-stricken mother alone in the house, going to a neighboring town to remain till the danger was over. Human nature was unlovely in some of its phases, as Mrs. Graham was to find out. But she was not without a friend in the hour of her need. Mrs. Conrad presented herself, and said: “T have heard of Florette’s sickness, and I have come to help you.” “But do you know the danger?’ asked the poor mother. “Do you know that her disease is con- tagious, and that you run the risk of taking it ?”’ “T know all, but life is not very precious to me. I love your little daughter, and I am willing to risk my life for her. Mrs. Graham made no further opposition. In truth, she was glad and encouraged to find a friend who was willing to help her—more especially one whom the little girl loved nearly as much as herself. So these two faithful women watched by day and by night at the bedside of little Florette, relieving each other when nature’s demand for rest became imperative, and the result was that Florette was saved. The crisis was safely past, and neither con- tracted the disease. When Florette was well enough, Mrs, Graham pre- pared to set out for her northern home. “How lonely I shall feel without you,’ exclaimed Mrs. Conrad, with a sigh. “Then come with us,” said Mrs. Graham. ‘Florette loves you, and after what has passed, I look upon you as asister. I have a pleasant home in Chicago, and wish you to share it.” VOL. 42—No, 36. “But I am a stranger to you, Mrs. Graham. ‘How ~ do you know that I am w orthy ?” “The woman who has nursed my child back from death is worthy of all honor in my household.” “But your husband 2?” “He knows of you through me, and we both invite you.” Mrs. Conrad made no further opposition. She had found friends. Now she had something to live for. - By a strange coincidence, she and Oliver reached Chicago the same day. CHAPTER XXXII. A CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE, In due time, Nicholas Bundy and Oliver arrived at Chicago. They took up their residence at a small hotel, and Mr. ‘Bundy prepared to search for some trace of Rupert Jones. He couldn’t find the name in the directory, but after diligent search, ascertained that such a man had been in business in Chicago ten years before. Where he went, or what became of im, could not immediately be learned. Time was required, and it became necessary to prolong their stay in the city. Mr. Bundy did not care to make ac quaintances With Oliver he was not lonely. But one evening, while sitting in the public room, a stranger entered into conversation with him. “My dear sir,” he said to Mr. Bundy. “I perceive that yousmoke. Won't youoblige my by accepting one of my cigars? I flatter myself that you will tind it superior to the one you are smoking.” If there was one thing that Nicholas Bundy en- joyed it was a good cigar. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You are very obliging. “Oh, don’t mention it,” said the other. “The fact is, 1 am rather an enthusiast on the subject of cigars. IT would like your opinion of this one.” Nicholas took the proffered cigar and lighted it. He was sufficient_of a judge to see that it was really superior, and his manner became almost genial toward the stranger who had procured him this pleasure. “Tt - capital,” he said. like it On Tl undertake that,’ said the other. many would you like ?”’ “A hundred, to begin with.” “You shall have them. By the way, do you remain long in the city ?”’ “J cannot tell. It depends upon my business.” “Why.do you stay at a hotel? You would tind a} boarding-house more comfortable, and cheaper.’ “Do you know of a good one ?”’ “T can recommend the one where Iam myself liv- ing. vacant, if you would like to look at it.’ The proposal struck Nicholas favorably, and he agreed to accompany his new acquaintance the next morning to look at it. The house was one of fair appearance, with a toler- ably good location. The chamber referred to by Denton (this was the stranger’s name) was superior to the room in the hotel, while the terms were more | reasonable. “What do you say, Oliver?” asked Mr. “Shall we remove here ?” “Just as you like, sir. room.”’ The landlady was seen, and the arrangement made for an immediate removal. middle age, bland in her manners, something shifty and evasive in her eyes not calcu- jJated to inspire confidence. Neither Nicholas nor Oliver thought much of this at the time, though it occurred to them afterward. “You'll find her a good landlady,” said Denton, who seemed pleased at the success of the negotia- tions. ‘I’ve been here over a year, and KLhave never pote anything to complain of. The table is excel- ent.”’ “T am not likely to find fault with it,” said Nicholas. “T’ve roughed it a good dealin my time, and I ain’t much used to luxury. IfI get a comfortable bed, and good plain vic tuals, it’s enough for me.” “So you’ve been a rolling stone, Mr. Bundy,” said the stranger, inquiringly. : “Yes, I have wandered about the world more or ess.”’ “They say ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss,’”’ con- tinued Mr. Denton. ‘I hope it isn’t true in your case. I hope you have gathered enough to tetire upon.” “IT have got enough to Nicholas, quietly. “So have I,” said Denton. “Queer coincidence, isn’tit? W hen Twas fifteen years old [hadn’t a cent, and being without shoes I had to go barefoot. Now lve got enough to see me through. Do you see that ring?” immense colorless stone. “How Bundy, | ” see me through,” said “Where can I get more | | Author of | possible expedition ; | for she looked wistfully in her f There is a chamber next to my own that is F | : | i It seems a very pleasant | HOPELESS. BY T. M. Oh, darling, let your cool hand lie Upon my forehead as of yore ; I’m weary, and I shall not try To brave the current any more. Like fairest flowers my hopes are gone, And somehow friends are going, too. Stern glances fall my face upon, And from them all I turn to you. Your cool hand on my burning brow Brings rest and calm. In other days I did not feel, as I do now, The world’s keen scorn nor idle praise. Oh, take the wreath I sighed for then! Its withered leaves are all I bold. Don’t speak to me of hope again Just now; I feel so worn and old. [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. } RUBY'S REWARD. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, “The Forsaken Bride,” Triumph,” “That Dowdy,” *“Brownie’s etc. [“RUBY's REWARD” was commenced in No. number s can be obtained of all News ‘Agents. ] j 20. Back CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN EXCITING INTERVIEW. Mrs. Gordon hastened off to Harrisburg with all and, as she bade Ruby good- | by, something of remorse seemed to stir her heart, face and said : “Ruby, somehow I cannot bear to go away eave you. I wish you would come with me.” “T do not think it would be best. Besides, there would not be time now, unless you should wait over another train, and—I think I would rather go to Red- ville.” and “Yes, I imagine you will be better off there than anywhere else,” Mrs. Gordon answered, thought- fully. Then she threw her arms about her young sister | and kissed her with almost passionate tenderness. This sudden news which she had received, and | which seemed likely to result in the death of her She was a woman of} but there was | own favorite sister, had had a softening influence upon the proud woman, and she began to feel a good | deal of compunction for the part she had taken against the fair girl whom she ought to have pro- tected. Ruby accepted it as a goodomen, and accompanied her to the door to give Thomas the note that she had written to send to Mr. Ruggles, when who should drive up the avenue but that gentleman himself. Ruby was never more glad to see a friend than sne was to see him. Mrs. last farewell said, and then she drew him into the parlor with a sense of security and comfort such as | she had not felt before in a long time. f But she could not get a moment alone with him, for Edmund C ‘arpenter followed them and persist- ently remained in the room throughout his call—thus | she had no opportunity to tell him of her discovery. She was almost tempted once to braye every thing | a} scene, while there was a possibility that the young | and reveal it in his presence, but she dr eaded man might not know as much as she feared he did. She told him that she had concluded to go to Red- ville to stay with him for the present, and Mr. Rug- | gles appeared much pleased with her decision, only ; he s displaying at the same time a ring with an | “Tt’s worth a cool thou-| 8 sand—genuine di: umond in fact—and I am able to | wearit. Whenever I get hard up—though there’s no | fear of that—I have that to fall back upon.” Nicholas examined the ring briefly. “E-ever took a fancy to such things,” he said, quietly. looks go.’ “You're right,” said Denton. ness for diamonds. They are a good investment too. This ring is worth two hundred dollars more than I | gave for it. oi “Is it?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Well, all have their | tastes. I’d rather hav e what the ring cost in gold or | government bonds.” Denton laughed. | interposed, vd as sOOn have a piece of glass, as far as | | | as he arose “F see you area plain man with plain tastes,” he | said. ‘Well, world, and I don’t. mind confessing that I like show.” The same day they moved into the boarding-house. It was arranged that Oliver, as before, should occupy the same room with his new gnardian, and for his use a small extra bed was put in. “We are next-door neighbors,’ said Denton. hope you won't find me an unpleasant neighbor. The fact is, I sleep like a top all night. thing from the minute I lie down till it’s time to get up. Are you gentleme n good sleepers ?” “T sleep well,” said Nicholas. “It’s with me very much as it is with you. “Of course you sleep well, my young friend,” said the new acquaintance to Oliver. “Boys of your age ought not to wake up during the night.” “T believe I am a pretty good sleeper,” said Oliver. “Why is he so particular about inquiring whether we sleep well?” thought our hero. He was not particularly inclined to suspicion, but somehow he had never liked Mr. Denton. manner was hearty and cordial, but there was a sly searching, crafty look which Oliver had oce asionally detected, w Wie h set him to thinking. Not so with Nicholas. He had seen much of men’s treachery, he had suffered much ao it also, but-at heart he wi disposed to judge f cept where he had special reason to know that they were unreliable. “Our neighbor seems very obliging,” he said to Oliver, after Denton had lett the room. “Yes, sir,” answered Oliver. “I wonder why I don’t like hinn.”’. “Don’t like him !”’ repeated Nicholas, in surprise. “No. Iecan’t seem to trust him.” “He appears pleasant enough,” said Mr. Bundy. “A little vain, perhaps, or he wouldn’t wear a thou- sand dollars on his tinger. There wouldn’t be many diamonds sold if all were like me.” “T wonder what his business is ?” “He has never told me. From what he says, he probably lives upon his means.’ Oliver did not continue the conversation. Very likely his distrust was undeserved by the man who inspired it, and he did not feel justified in trying to prejudice Mr. Bundy against him. Finding Nicholas was tired in the evening, Oliver went out after supper by himself. He was naturally drawn to the more brilliantly lighted streets, which, even at ten o’clock in the evening, were gay with foot passengers. Sauntering along, he found himself walking behind two gentlemen, and could not avoid hearing their conversation. “Tho you see that man in front of us ?” asked one. “The one with the diamond ring?’ for the stone sparkled in the light. “Yes; he is the one I mean.” “What of him?’ “Heis one of the most notorious fidence men in Chicago.” “Indeed! What is his name?’ “He has several—Denton, Forbes, Cranmer, and half a dozen others.” Naturally, Oliver’s curiosity was excited by what he heard. Passing the speakers, he scanned the man of whom they had been conversing. It was Denton—the man who had been so friendly to Nicholas Bundy and himself. “T was right in distrusting him,” he thought. ‘He is a dangerous man. Now, what shall I do? - Oliver decided not to tell Mr. Bundy immedi: utely of what he had heard; but, for his own part, he de- cided to watch carefully, lest Denton might attempt in any way to injure them. (TO BE CONTINUED.) we gamblers and con- AN AMAZED CONGREGATION, Bishop Fowler of the Methodist Church once gave some advice to a conference congregation in this fashion: “Don't say anything against the man who is to come after you. A minister who didn't bear this in mind was asked by his parishioners what kind of a man his successor was. “*Oh, Brother Blank is a good man, but “*But what? If there’s anything wrong that is just what we want to know, Now tell us what’s the matter.’ ««*Well, Brother Blank is a good man, but the fact is, brethren, he parts his hair in the middle.’ “ Sk AEE Petrified lobsters, clams, turtles, and the like are found in great abundance in the Santa Catalina Moun- tain in Arizona, at a height of nearly 10,000 feet above the level of the sea. Very Wonderful Are the effects produced by the use of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. Sores, Scabs, Glandular Swellings, Boils, Carbuncles, and all kinds of Humors disappear, as if by magic, by the use of this Standard Blood-Purifier. F. C. James, of yond Greene Co., Tenn., writes: ‘* Ayer’ Sarsaparilla saved the life of my ale child. When three years old, her head was covered with Scrofulous Sores. She became almost helpless. Skillful physicians did all they could to relieve her, but failed. At last I purchased a bottle of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, gave it to her according to directions, and she immediately be- gan to improve. Encouraged by the result, I continued to give her this medi- cine until the cure was complete.’’ Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5. EWING i ADAMS’ a -FRUTTI Rati She tried to raise the window, but could not, for it , had been securely nailed down. She knew, without being told, that Edmund Car- penter had sprung this trap upon her. | He bad sent a carriage early, | Mr. Ruggles, and had Bet Sag break her spirit and make'her give up the | wi ; She wondered now that she had not suspected something of the kind. She might have known, she | thought, that, desperate as he was, he would not have left her so peaceably at Forestvale except to | his purpose. Doubtless he believed that she had the will coi- ‘ealed upon her person, and intended-to keep her there, a prisoner, until she would give it up, or pledge herself-to secrecy regarding it. She could but acknowledge that the whole thing had been very cleverly planned, and she felt a good deal relieved, and at the same time a little tri- umphant, that she had not the will with her after all. She believed it would be safe where it was, and she could thus defy Edmund Carpenter to the end. He would not find hera very submissive prisoner, and she would at least have the satisfaction of try- ing his patience to the utmost. Still her position was anything but agre she sat down and tried to think could do to ameliorate it. : She knew that Mr. Ruggles would be very much troubled by her mysterious disappearance. Still she reasoned that he would be likely to suspect Edmund Carpenter, and would leave no stone unturned to dis- cover her whereabouts. Yet everything had been conducted so skillfully she doubted if he would know where to look for her; she believed it would be difficult for even a detective to find her. Mr. Ruggles had promised to send a carriage for sable, and calmly what she Druggists and Confectioners. adopt stronger measures for the accomplishment of | in order to be before | brought her to this place to | The Tutti Frutti is delicious and healthful, and is rec- ommended by physicians. Try it and you will be con- vinced. Aids digestion, improves the appetite. 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He said “it wuz more fashionable amongst married men and wimmen, than the more single ones,” he said “it wuz dretful f ashionable amongst pardners.” says I, “I shall have nothin’ to do with it.” “Of course,” say : he fiercely, ‘You needn't have nothin’ to do with it. n’ you would want to foller up. And I would ruther see you the ground, or. be sunk myself, than to see you goin’ into it. 8 he say agely, “T'would tear a man lim from lim. if I see him flirt with, y ou.” (Josiah Allen worships me.) “But,"says he, ‘men have to do things sometimes, that they know But she wuz upper 10, and wuz as pretty 28 a picture, and I see Josiah had his eyes on her as bein’ a good oneto try his experiment with. ld see that she was one of the girls who would flirt with the town pump, or the meetin’ house steeple, if she couldn’t get nobody else to flirt with. osiah Allen would set and look at her by the hour—dretful amid the whirl of fashion at § ae it = off its follies, a dogs, the water craze, table mirth provoking ‘Opper” ane siust killin 7? People get it. Selling like hot cakes. Price $3; 23 TS WANTED. HUBBARD BROS., Pubs., “Pp 4 ADELPHIA, PA. in the author’s inim a SA Ie EN i ane NEW YORK, JULY 9, 1887. Deh A ek eB a ain ok Thea vin ig Aa eo annie ie Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 38 months - - - - - 75e.|2 copies - $5.00 4months - - - - - $1.00| 4 copies - 10.00 lyear --- -- - 3,00] 8 copies - - 20.00 Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or registered letter. We employ no traveling agents. All letters shonld be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P. 0. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y. THE OLDEST CHILD. BY HARKLEY HARKER. “Tt was my ill luck to be the first born!’ growled a fine-looking young fellow in my hearing, recently. Upon my asking what ill luck there was to that pri- macy of birth, he responded: “Look at the donkey team, silver harness, spangled eart, and all, which my little brother Timothy, yon- der, has just driven into the grounds. Why, whenI was small, my father was a poor man. Even Christ- mas hardly brought me two toys. We couldn’t afford it. We lived in two rooms down on —— street, instead of this fine suburban residence with velvet lawns. I am glad, of course, that father was smart enough to get rich; but I saw little of it when I was at home.” It was a hateful spirit thus exhibited. Yet the thought was new to me, I have since observed how frequent is this inequality of childhood in American families. America is the land of swift mutations of fortune. The eldest children of many a rich man dwelt with him in a poor man’s hut; the mother rocked the cradle with her foot as she plied the needle to help support the family. The younger chil- dren were born in a palace. The mother never rocked their cradle ; hired nurses cared for them. But, sir, your mother’s arms were your heritage; her breast was fonder for your care than any hired lap could be. Her lullaby was a sweeter song than any stranger voice could sing for wages. Your own young mother’s watch and ward above your slum- bering infancy was a more faithful vigil than your wealthy young brother ever had. Mother taught you how to walk. Mother fondled you when fretted, and attended you when sick. You, the child of your father’s youth, were the nerve of his youthful hands just beginning life’s bat- tle. For you he dreamed his dream. For you, the babe in the tenement-house, he gathered up his cour- age anew indark days that otherwise would have crushed him. Father came home at night to gather youin his honest and tired arms, and counted the kisses that you gave his sufficient and great reward. You, child of their poverty, was the recipient of their sacrifice. They never felt the gifts of wealth bestowed on your younger brothers and sisters, as they felt the deep and hallowed sacrifices by which alone the smallest comforts were bestowed on you. ‘The love which sacrifice alone enriches was yours; and is yours to-day, unless you forget it by ill be- havior. It may not be thata good parent will con- fess to loving one child better than another; surely he ought not. Yet it may well be doubted if any late born child can, in the nature of things, seem | quite so intimately associated with the very soul of | our souls as the child which shared our poverty and was with us in the days of small things. The child of our luxury is much more apt to be in- jured by our wealth than the child of our poverty. Observation bears out the statement. There is often to be seen a greater self-reliance, a greater mental and physical hardihood in the first-born, for the above reasons, thanin the latest born. Obedience, industry, habits ofthrift and frugality, are ingrained in the eldest. They were the staple of his daily teach- ing. But with the advent of luxury into the house the} parents themselves have relaxed that healthy praec- | tice and teaching. They take their ease; the younger children are observant of the example; no precept can take the place of example. Itis the oldest son who enters business, most frequently with the father, and is to-day carrying the burden. Itis the oldest sister who shows the most character, very often; she becomes the mainstay of the other children, for she was taught to be courageous and strong; her hus- band’s home is often the refuge of her younger sis- ters and brothers after they have scattered the por- tion of goods that fell to them. How frequently is this line of teaching inculcated in the second blood of children, born of a second marriage to an old and now wealthy gentleman! I am not impudent; I am only asking my bright-mind- ed readers to peruse the page of daily life about them. The sons of the dead woman are strong, in dustrious, taking each a man’s place in the world’s great workshop. The little sons of the present wife sport donkey-carts and costly splendors, indulged and pampered by the feeble old dotard in his ripe and generous love, but are in danger of growing up to be scatterers rather than gatherers. The only es- | cape is when the young mother is a genuine woman, of sterling common sense, with a wise eye to foresee the danger to her darlings. I can see, too, that very frequently the shrewd old children of the first mother are wickedly willing that the pampered innocents, children of the second mother, shall be allowed to destroy themselves. They forget to love, and warn, | and shield them as they ought; there is an estrange- | ment which often would not protect these young- | lings if it could. After all, there is something proud and noble in | the position of the eldest born, if he be indeed of | good stuff. It is not difficult for him to early win | and always keep a beautiful authority. If he be of } affectionate disposition, he is tenderly loved and : } | | | loves tenderly the little ones. They take pride in the unfolding of his character; they cheer loudest when he graduates; they boast of his strength and valor, often exercised in their behalf; they admire | évery good thing about him, from his young beard | to his name on a new business sign. It is possible for the eldest to preserve and enlarge this respect- ful love into an influence for the young ones’ wel- fare that is hardly second to father’s or mother’s. And the peril of a bad example is equally great. | Alas, for that young man who must confess that he | lead his younger brother astray! What a memory | of horror will that yet prove. To have first put the eup to his brother’s lips ; to have first whispered the foul secrets ofthe sinful street; to have been the companion of the boy in his first excursions down to resorts of shame! If there be a judgment day to come what smarting lash will fall on that older brother’s back! In the family, as elsewhere, honors and primacy carry grave responsibilities in their hands. Heaven forbid that fratricide should ever be charged to any reader of these lines. FISH STORIES, BY KATE THORN. There are subjects about which it is almost im- possible for a man to be moral enough to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. A man who could stick to the exact truth in a horse trade would be a greater curiosity than the sea-ser- pent, and he is not ‘‘seen” half as often. But it is in the matter of the weight of the fish he has caught that it is the most difficult for the sports- man to tell the exact truth. There seems to be some- thing about catching fish which gives elasticity to the morals. It will change an old cast iron orthodox or Baptist deacon, with a conscience about ordinary | things as unyielding as seasoned oak, into a man of | India rubber, so far as his morals are concerned. If the immortal George Washington had caught a | fish, instead of having cut down a cherry tree, his character for veracity would never have passed into a proverb. Nobody would ever have heard of him as ‘“‘the boy who could not tell a lie.” Fishing is undoubtedly a delightful pastime. It is even more fascinating than base-ball, where a young man can exhibit himself to an admiring crowd, in tights with stripes up and down the legs; and his eyes knocked askew, as a trophy from a previous hard fought battle. Fishing is favorable to thought. You. go off by yourself in some deep wood through which flows a pellucid stream, and you stand a cople of hours with the sun broiling your brains, asit pours down through a break in the foliage, and you hold your pole with every muscle strained to the utmost, and your mouth open with expectation, and your heart beats like that of a young girl with her first beau, and you want to feel him pull. And you expect, yes, fully expect, that you are about to catch the biggest fish that ever was hooked in these waters. It is the noble ambition of every man to catch the largest fish that ever was caught. And he fully expects that he shall live to do it. The black flies may pepper him, the musquitoes may bore into him, the red ants may swarm up his trousers’ legs, and the bull over the fence in the far- mer’s pasture may bellow defiance at him, and still his faith and patience hold out. He stands firm. His courage never fails. His heart is undaunted. He has come a-fishing! What a story he will have to tell when he sees Joe and Fred, and the rest of the boys! He thinks it out, and arranges it in his mind as he wriggles his pole, and flops his wriggling worm seductively through the water, and tickles the nose of a mud-turtle which has come to.the surface to see something of the world, and how he braces himself for a desperate pull at the slightest symptom of a bite! He may catch something, and he may not; but when he tells the story, it is of the fish he expected to catch, only he will tell you that he caught it. Imagination is strong, and by the time he has told the story of “that ten-pound pickerel, you know,” he believes that he really did catch it, and you couldn’t convince him to the contrary. These large fish which figure in stories are never brought home—they are always given away or lost off the hook; most of them are lost off the hook, and then some other fellow catches them and loses them off, and so on. Big fish are slippery fellows, and their slipperiness increases in the ratio of their size. The bigger they are the more slippery they are, and that is why you never see any of them. Humor and Philosophy. BY GEORGE RUSSELL JACKSON, Love’s Young Dream. HIS QUESTION. Sweet love, good-night, the rising moon Proclaims the night is near its noon, And I must part from thee. When gentle sleep has closed thine eyes— Those orbs as blue as summer skies— Oh, wilt thou dream of me? HER ANSWER. Oh, yes, when I my couch have sought, Thou wilt be uppermost in thought, For it is my delight To think of thee. And now, good-by ; And do thou dream of me, for I Will dream of thee to-night. THE RESULT. Now eyes look love to loving eyes, Lips meet and part, sighs answer sighs— He homeward takes his way. She hurries to the pantry, where She eats a pie—and has nightmare Until the break of day. It Became a Boomerang. “T see you have got a black eye, Robinson. splitting wood, [suppose? Ha, ha!’ “No. My wife threw a stone ata dog inthe back yard this morning, and hit me.” ue must have been standing pretty near the dog, then? “No, I wasn’t. Iwas atthe top of the house look- ing out of the attic window.” lt rejoices the heart of a true man to see how proud and happy a young mother feels when she has completed her first pair of pants for her growing boy; buthis pleasure quickly passes away when he observes how miserable and mortitied the boy ap- pears after trying them on. Got it A Humorist’s Epitaph. His work on earth is o’er; The joker jokes no more; From earthly cares and trials he has passed to brighter scenes ; Much fun he wrote and spoke, But he never made a joke Concerning Boston ‘“‘culchaw” or the dish of pork and beans ; Nor about the mule or goat, Or the glossy seal-skin coat, Or the treacherous banana peel that lies upon the street; Or the tall theater hats, Or the flats who live in flats, Or St. Louis maidens’ ears, or Chicago women’s feet. His Liking Was Qualified. She gazed over the golden-starred meadow with all her soul in her eyes, and, drawing a deep sigh of pleasure, exclaimed, impulsively : “Oh! George, ain’t the dandelions beautiful. Don’t you love them ?” “They go first-rate with corned shoulder,” answer- ed George, “but I don’t care much for ’em with fresh meat.’ When the pastor goes off on his. summer vacation, and the church is closed, the choir getto be on speak- | ing terms again. Pity the Impecunious Lover. When the roses and the lilies are a-blooming, are a-blooming, And strawberries bring fifty cents a quart, cents a quart, When the ice-cream dealer’s business is a-booming, is a booming, And peaches are appearing in the mart, . in the mart, When we're reveling in the jolly picnic season, »icnic season, And hops at beach and mountains have begun, have begun, Then the maiden to rejoice has ample reason, ample reason, But her lover’s lot is not a happy one, happy one, Her lover’s lot is not a happy one. The Fat Man’s Longing and Solace. When the sun glows like a ball of fire on high, And we’re sweltering in our thinnest flannel suit, For a lodging on an iceberg fat men sigh, Or an hour or two on the toboggan chute. As neither is available just now, They bid the druggist foaming soda draw, Or in some place sequestered cool the brow By drawing “‘consolation” through a straw. The Modern Way. MIsTRESS.—‘‘Well, Mary, if you must go, you’ll have to go; so good-by.” SERVANT GIRL.—‘Good-by, mum.” M.—‘Where do you intend to go?” 8. G.—“‘I’m going to the intelligence office to en- gage another employer.” Picnic Joy. On the sea-shore to spoon, ’neath the light of the moon, Is all very well, but the place to make love To a beautiful maid is under the shade Of the trees, while the robin is singing above, And sweet are the odors and balmy the air, While your rival is seeking her everywhere. The Concord School of Philosophy will be in ses- sion shortly, and among the abstruse questions that come before it for settlement the following should be given a place: Why is it that after a youth has told the maiden of his choice that he loves her madly, | devotedly, tenderly, passionately, and that he will never, never, no, never leve another, she asks: “Are you sure that you love me, Hennery ?”’ Labor and Luck. That man is very proud to-day, And smilingly goes on his way. Now, why doth pride his bosom fill? Why, he’s just earned a dollar bill. But here is one that’s happier far, The one who just got off the car. Behold him smile: his joy’s complete, He’s found a quarter in the street. It is a question whether the small boy feels more pleasure into getting into a circus by crawling under the canvas, or in being allowed the privilege of tak- ing his turn in peering through a knot-hole of the fence to watch a league game of base ball. A correspondent of an agricultural paper asks the question: ‘How can [tell the age of a hog?’ We think an easy way would be to ask the man who takes up two seats in a car the day and year on which he was born. That Would be Enough. ‘What title would you like to wear, If I could give you one?’ asked he; Then redly blushed the maiden fair : “Why, that of wife, of course,” said she. An enthusiastic summer tourist, writing from Cape Cod, says the girls there are sweet enough to eat. Very likely, as they are sand witches. A Weather Prediction—When a baby is born at sea, look out for squalls. “Good wine is a good familiar creature,” said Iago; and it will be noticed thatit makes the man who takes too much of it familiar, too, and sometimes dis- agreeably so. There is no humorous literature printed for the reading of the blind. So it would seem that the blind are not altogether without their advantages. In a daily paper a “daisy farm” is advertised for sale. Who would want to buy a daisy farm? What profit would there be in raising daisies ? It is often said that policemen are in the habit of sleeping on their beats. This isalibel. Hasn’t Gil- bert, the librettist, told us that the policeman’s lot is not a nappy one? When an angler has to walk to the fishing ground, he is in favor of a three-mile limit. CITY CHARACTERS, No. 22.—THE MAN WHO “OPERATES.” Zep y x i i Y | th on a Se RN SX RAN Oe AW Among the city characters whom no rural judge of human nature could possibly place with accuracy, the man who “operates” is unpleasantly prominent. He particularly infests that part of New York in which are the Stock Exchange, Produce Exchange, and other places where great transactions are made at short notice. es In other cities he is to be found at corresponding places. His outward appearance differs somewhat, according to locality, but nothing can change the stamp impressed upon him by his business—or pre- tense of business. Any one who has once become fully acquainted-with a member of this class, can never be mistaken about another. “Operate” is an honest enough word, but in larger cities it has come to mean gambling in stocks, pro- visions, petroleum, and whatever else is put through the motions of being bought and sold, always on a margin! There are ‘‘operators” in railroad stocks, who know nothing whatever about the resources of the companies on whose securities they risk more or less money ; operators in grain who would not know the difference between wheat and oats if they saw samples of both lying side by side; operators in cot- ton who cannot distinguish between Sea Island cot- ton and Texas wool. All they know is to watch quotations, buy at the first sign of arise, and sell at the first indication of a decline. They call this busi- ness, as itis, to the extent that the operators make their living out of it. An operator sometimes pretends to be a broker, but he never deceives an expert. Brokers may sometimes do a little gambling on their own ac- count, but they have to learn and maintain business habits, and these give them some traits of counte- nance that the operator is sure to lack. Some operators dress well, some shabbily, but it seems impossible for dress to conceal their identity, or even confuse it. [have often amused myself by pointing out operators to country acquaintances and asking a guess as to the person’s business. Almost invariably the answer was ‘“‘gambler.” When I tried to explain the difference, I generally was told that it was too little to speak of. A strange fact about the operators is that nearly all of them dress “loudly.”” Whether their clothes are new or old, they never are of the same cut as business men’s garments. The short coat is an inch shorter than any other man’s; the check trousers are laid out in larger squares, the rolling collar is more pronounced in roll, the watch guard is heavier, and the hat tipped mor® to one side than any other man’s. The operator’s pocket-book may sometimes be small, but his imagination is always immense. If he would turn this faculty toward literature, all the other writers of fiction would hayt to take back seats at once. He prefers, however, to make up stories about whatever property he.is gambling on for the time being, jand the tales he -concocts are sometimes so. powerful’ that they &tually influence the market It does not always follow that because a man has a single vice he is a deeply dyed villain.’ The operator sometimes has good impulses and a warm heart, but he is so entirely the slave of chance that he does not seem to have clear and firm convictions about any- thing. He changes his friends as often as he changes his stocks or other investments; indeed, be is often given to the reprehensible habit of changing wives on account of some mere impulse. As to what ap- pear to him the minor influences of life—questions of art, science, politics, and religion—his favorite method of deciding them is that of tossing.a cent, or a dollar, and no matter what the result, he cheer- fully accepts it as long as he remembers it. The operator is on some accounts a proper object of pity. He may be very fond of the society of ladies, but it is impossible for him to hide his nature, even in a parlor. He may leave the language of ‘the street”? behind him, but his habits remain, and he cannot devote himself patiently, persistently, loyally to one topic or one lady, any more than he could to a single line of stocks. Consequently he feels most at home in off-color places of resort. He is not longing for. crime or sin, but to be absolutely free todo and say whatever he oleases, and be as changeable as he likes, is his only idea of perfect happiness. He can always be seen, indoors, at what are misecalled the ‘‘French balls; the noise, confusion, glare, and general recklessness are all in sweet harmony with his own nature. But he never gets far away from “business.” Late at night, when the hard-worked day laborer is fast asleep and the tired sewing woman has dropped her needle, the operator is almost sure to be lounging somewhere—usually a hotel lobby, where prices of what will not be really bought or sold are talked up or down as a basis for gambling at “the exchange” in the morning. Not all the operators are found around the ex- changes. are several, who imagine that no one ‘‘take a fiyer.” Deluded wretches! They give them- selves away every time they go out to lunch or drink, for they always go to places where quotations are among the inducements, and to these they first pay attention. Sooner or later their employer distin- guishes them from his other employees, and they never are selected for promotion. A man given up to the fascinations of “operating” is indeed a deplorable spectacle ; but what can be said of the feminine operator. She exists; she is becoming alarmingly numerous, and home blessings take their flight as she becomes absorbed by the whirl. There are rooms, in some brokers’ offices, specially set apart for feminine operators, who would be very much offended could they hear something that brokers’ clerks say about them. Women who really buy and sell stocks are not to be confounded with the feminine operator who, like a man in the same business, merely gambles on the chances of prices rising and falling—gambles as literally as if her money was placed on cards or dice. How all the operators live is a mystery to some people, for what one man gains another must lose, and out of each sale or purchase some broker takes a commission. Inquiry among operators’ families and acquaintances, however, sheds a great deal of light on the subject. The operator is a perpetual borrower; if he knows any one with money, he will trust himself to devise a story plausible enough to get it—asaloan. Private incomes, business capital, old homesteads have been slowly but surely sacri- ficed by scores to assist operators who at the end were generally as poor as when they began. It may be that some operators have reformed, but if so they have been very quiet about it. Sometimes they retire for a little while, but only because they have no money. Of a score of them whom I have known, only one permanently abandoned the habit; he did it by dying and being buried. There are some city characters whom country people should be grateful for not meeting; the operator is one of them. A NEW YORK WEEKLY HERO. Seventeen years ago, when Buffalo Bill’s fame as a scout was little known east of the Missouri, no one ever dreamed that, through the medium of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, his exploits would be narrated all over the world. Until the stories recounting his brave deeds appeared in the NEW YORK WEEKLY, WILLIAM F. Coby was a local hero, his fame limited to the immediate scenes wherein he figured. Whatis he to-day? In London, royalty unbendsits dignity to make him the lion of the town; his society is courted by dukes and princes; and even the Queen herself, after a private interview with the great scout, grace- fully expressed her thanks for the pleasure she de- rived from an informal conversation with him. All this shows that the hero introduced to the In almost every large business house there | but their | brokers and themselves know that they occasionally | d | under hiz arm. | find worth saying. ' world by the NEw YORK WEEKLY, was and is just what our stories represented him—a brave and fear- less man—one of the noblest scouts on the plains. STRANGE DUELS. There is a story told of Perpignan, a literary Bo- hemian, having a duel with Charles Maurice at five paces. The former fired and missed. The other, taking deliberate aim, said to his antagonist : “Well, now, before I send you into the other world, tell me what you are thinking of?’ “T am thinking that if I were in your place, I would not fire,” said Perpignan; and to this cool re- joinder he owed his life. There is an anecdote related of an encounter be- tween a French dramatic author and his critic, the latter of whom was a first-rate shot. After the author had fired and missed, the journalist accurately aimed at his adversary’s hat, and pierced it with the utmost precision ; whereupon the dramatist flew into a violent rage, protested that it was unfair, and ex- claimed: “If you had told me what you were going to do, I would have put on anold hat.” That aman should lose his life through mispro- nunciation of a vowel seems hard; but such really was the fact. Inthe year 1718, Williams—a Welsh actor—and Quin were playing together at the Lin- coln’s Inn Fields Theater, London, in the tragedy of Cato, Williams playing Decius to Quin’s Cato. The former entered with, ‘‘Cessar sends health to Cato ;” but he mincingly pranounced the name of Cato, Kee- to. Quin who gave a broad classical enunciation to to the letter a in the word, was offended, and instead of replying, ‘‘Could he send it to Cato’s slaughtered friends, it would be welcome,” he exclaimed, ‘‘Would he had sent a better messenger.” The Welshman was boiling with rage, and when Cato resumed with ‘Are not your orders to address the Senate?’ he could hardly help replying, ‘‘My business is with Keeto.” ’ Jn the short scene, he had to repeat the name ten times, and each time it would come Keefo. Quin had to repeat it as often, but delivered it with a broad sound and significant look, which nearly took the Welshman off his feet, and brought laughter from all sides of the house. When they met in the greenroom, Williams assailed Quin for rendering him ridiculous in the eyes of the audience. Quin said, it wasin the ears, and would have laughed off the matter; but the spirit of the Welshman was aroused, and would not brook such treatment, and so he lay in wait for Cato beneath the piazza of Covent Garden. Quin laughed as Williams drew his sword and bade him defend himself, and would have sustained his defense with his cane; but the Welshman thrust so fiercely, that the other was obliged to draw his sword, which, without intention on the part of the wielder, passed through the body of Decius, and stretched him dead upon the pave- ment. Coming within our own day is the strange duel fought by the celebrated tragedian Signor Rossi. The latter, during a farewell performance of Hamlet at Casale, Italy, was considerably interrupted by the talking of the court society present. In the middle of a sentence, the tragedian stopped, and turning toward afront box from which the greatest noise proceeded, he bowed, and quietly said: ‘I shall not proceed so long as you do not hush.’ The public applauded; the interruption ceased, and the play wenton. But afterward, Rossi was met atthe stage- door by a young gentleman, who felt called upon to ask for satisfaction. The tragedian made rather a long face, for he was expected on the morrow at Milan; so he explained his position to his adversary, and suggested that in order that the little affair might be settled as speedily as possible, they should go to his (Rossi’s) rooms at the hotel and quietly-shoot at one another there. This proposition having been accepted, they went to Rossi’s rooms, and had just placed themselves at either end of the salon, to ex- change three shots, when the innkeeper, over- anxious as to his guest’s health and hours, knocked at the door, which, tinding locked, he anxiously in- quired if the signor was ill, as his light burned un- usually late. “No,” replied Rossi. Good-night.”’ “You are deceiving me,” persisted the innkeeper, perhaps enlightened as to the scene at the theater. “You are certainly ill.” “Goto bed,’ returned Rossi; “I am putting out the light; and ix a lower tone he added to his antag- onist: “This is the only way out of it—blow out the candles.” “What! Are we to fight with pistols in the dark ?”’ “Not quite. We will each smoke a cigarette, and that will serve to guide our aim.” “All right!’ And so the duel was fought; and Rossi wounded slightly his adversary. “Tam going tobed. Thanks. The ways of the widows, when matrimonial thoughts control the actions, are amusingly pictured in the story of “Mavgor JACK.” which we begin this week. The reader will be very much entertained with the rather suspicious ‘attentions’ which kind- hearted Mrs. JENKINS paid to SQUIRE SELBY. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. The difference between humor and jest iz this: Humor makes a man think first and laugh afterward; while a jest makes him laugh first, and think after- ward that he ought not to have laughed at all. Tgnorance iz not so much the want of learning az it iz the rong application ov it. There iz no man so hard to beat in an argument az a good listener. Beauty iz a rare gift, and, at the same time, a most dangerous one. Epithaphs, az a whole, are the thinnest literature | we have. There are many oy them that a good sharp | shower iz liable any time to wash off from a tomb- | stone. With all our pretended knowledge, there ain’t a | many other white flowers. man living but what would make a good trade if he could swap off what he knows for what he don’t | know. Young man, listen evry chance youcan git. You ean learn more listening one hour than yew can in talking three. Revenge iz a short-lived yietory. When the rekording axgel comes down here, by and by, he will pick ové¢ with dainty fingers, perhaps. a volume of paragraphs, and fly away with them Fhis will be all the literature he will Branes Hav no pedigree; they won’t transmit worth a cepts. Grab iz a pretty good dog, but Grip iz a far better one. Learning iz often apt to make a man vain and pedantic ; wisdom never does. The very best religion a man kan hav iza firm faith; itiz worth all the kreeds in existence. Evolution iz not a science; it iz simply an effort on | the part ov some people who hay more time and branes than they hav common sense, to prove what they kant understand. Condensation iz the great power. An idea well put in a sentence willlive and glitter, while if put in a page, it would be smothered to death. When a man gits so lazy that he kant sit down in a chair without falling the last six inches, hiz days ov usefulness are over. There iz nothing in all creation more detestable than a vicious old man or woman. There iz nothing so plenty and cheap az advice; and, az a whole, nothing more worthless. T hav seen some wonderful things in spiritualism, but I never hav seen anything init that a smart sleight-of-hand man could not equal or surpass. Mi Rd i dls allah al idsech ay WHY SHE BLUSHED. A Boston young lady went to a prominent jeweler, and told him that her father was going to buy her apair of diamond ear-rings, and that she would liké to look at some. The jeweler knew her father by reputation, and he spread out his choicest gems be- fore her. She looked them over, and choosing the handsomest pair, asked if she might take them home | and examine them more at her leisure. He granted the permission. The next day she brought them back, and said that she was not quite satisfied with them, and she thought that after all it might be some time before her father would indulge her taste for diamonds. “That’s a great pity,” replied the jeweler; ‘‘I was at Mrs. Blank’s reception last night, and I thought them very becoming to you.” The young lady blushed to the roots of her hair. a Our New Story of English Life. The story we begin this week, by our new contrib- utor, DORA LESTER, is a powerful and entrancingly interesting story. We therefore hope that “MAJoRr JACK” will secure the wide perusal it deserves. 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. W.S. M., Isleton, Cal.—ist. During the civil war the sev- eral seceded States used at first distinctive State flags. In March, 1861, the Confederate Congress adopted the so- called “stars and bars,’ composed of three horizontal bars of equal width, the middle one white, the others red, with a blue union containing nine white stars ar- ranged ina circle. The resemblance of this to the“stars and stripes” led to confusion and mistake in the field; and in September, 1861, a battle flag was adopted, a red field charged with a blue saltier (a cross in the form of an X), with a narrow border of white, on which were dis- played thirteen white stars. _In 1863 the “‘stars and bars” was supplanted by a flag with a white field having the battle flag for a union. The flag of 1863 was found deficient in service, it being liable to be mistaken for a flag of truce; and on Feb. 4, 1865, the outer half of the field be- yond the union was covered with a vertical red bar. This was the last flag of the Confederacy. 2d. In nearly all Christian countries the custom of coloring eggs has long been observed. They were often, also, elaborately orna- mented. 3d. Lunar caustic will remove warts. E. C., Wellston, Ohio.—ist. Easter Sunday in 1855, 1856, and 1857 fell on April 8, March 23, and April 12. 2d. The first named died in April, the latter in February. 3d. Five miles in four minutes fifty seconds; three miles in two minutes thirty-six anda quarter seconds; and one mile in fifty anda quarter seconds was made between West Philadelphia and Jersey City on Sept. 4, 1879. A special train conveying newspaper correspondents from Washington Junction to Washington, D. C., made forty- four miles in forty-three minutes thirty seconds. The last sixteen and three-quarter miles were made in four- teen minutes. Date, June 10, 1884. The locomotive Hamilton Davis, with six cars, on the New York Cen- tral Railroad, made fourteen miles in eleven minutes. In Canada, on Sept. 13, 1877, one hundred and eleven miles were made in ninety-eight minutes. 4th. March 31, 1855, March 31, 1856, and March 31, 1857, fell on Saturday, Mon- day, and Tuesday. Leslie L., Portland, Me.—ist. The difference between green tea and black lies in the fact that in the former fer- mentation has been arrested by “firing” or drying quick- ly, which is done by women turning the leaves over and over and round and round in large basins built overa charcoal fire. The coloring or “painting” is also done at this time by means, usually, of a spoonful of indigo and powdered soapstone put into each basin, and thus dissem- inated through its contents. When the leaves are al- lowed to dry slowly, so that they ferment or work a little, they turn black. The Chinese and Japanese do not dye the teas they use themselves, and these domestic teas are probably the only samples of unadulterated teas to be found. 2d. The tea plant is an evergreen shrub which when. wild grows as high as twenty-five or thirty feet, but when cultivated itis kept pruned, and its height is reduced to about five feet. Mary Jane, Rich Hill, Mo.—To make pepper sauce, take two dozen peppers, and cut them up fine, with double the quantity of cabbage; one root of horseradish grated; one handful of salt; one tablespoonful of mustard seed; one tablespoonful of allspice: one dessertspoonful of cloves; two tablespoontuls of sugar, and a little mace. Boil the spice and sugar in two quarts of the best cider vinegar, which, as soon as removed from the fire, and while yet boiling, pour over the other ingredients. When cool, put it in jars, cover close, and keep in a cool place. To make pepper vinegar, get one dozen pods of pepper when ripe; take out the stems, and cut the pods in two; put them into a kettle with three pints of vinegar; boil it away toa quart, and strain it through a sieve. Put into half pint bottles, and keep tightly corked. Constant Reader, Des Moines, Ia.—The asylum or home for the relief of respectable indigent females in Tenth ave- nue, corner of 104th street, this city, admits any one over sixty years of age who can furnish satisfactory testimo- ~ nials; but an admission fee of $150 is required. The Bap- tist Home, in Sixty-eighth street, near Fourth avenue, is for members of the Baptist churches, to whom it supplies board, clothing, and medical attendance, The Chapin Home, 151 East.Sixty-sixth street, admits applicants of 65 years of age, on paying a fee of $300. The Presbyterian Home for aged women, Seventy-third street, near Madi- son avenue, is for members of the Presbyterian churches, who have resided in the city for three years. Board, $3 a week. Letters addressed to the institutions named will meet with attention. N. L. T., Eastport.—ist. A good hair curling liquid is made as follows: Take borax, two ounces; gum-arabic, one dram ; add hot water (not boiling), one quart; stir, and as soon as the ingredients are dissolved, add three tablespoonfuls of strong spirits of camphor. On retiring to rest wet the hair with the liquid, and roll it in twists of paper as usual. A less elaborate recipe is the, follow- ing: Pour boiling water on a tablespoonful ol flaxseed, and when the liqttid covuts, watts the fingers moisten the hair with it, and put it up in papers. It is said that flax- seed water will keep the hair in curlas long, if not longer, than anything else. If the liquid prove not thick enough give it one boiling. 2d. Fair. Albanian, New York.—The first English patent fora fire-resisting safe was to Richard Scott in 1801. It con- sisted of an inner and an outer casing of metal, the space between being filled with charcoal or wood treated with an alkaline salt. The first American safes that attained any celebrity were those constructed under the patent of C. J. Gayler, issued in 1833. They were double chests, with spaces between them for air, or other good non-con- ductors of heat. In 1835 the great fire in New York oc- curred, and inventions for the improvement of fire safes rapidly multiplied. Among the most prominent at that time were those of B. @. Wilder, of New York. Georgie, Springfield, Mass.—ist..To turn white hya- cinths red, sprinkle upon them the juice of the Virginia pokeweed. The same effect is said to be produced on 2d. Yes. Soot water is recom- mended to strengthen the growth of roses. Put the soot obtained from the pipe or chimney of a wood fire intoa pitcher, and pour hot water upon it. When cool, use the liquid occasionally to water the plants. B., Wilmington, Del.—ist. Thomas Crawford, the sculp- tor, was born in New York on March 22, 1814. He died in London on Oct. 10, 1857. 2d. His death was caused by a cancerous tumor on the brain. He suffered a most pain- ful iliness, and was successively removed to Paris and London for medical treatment. 3d. The work which first brought him into notice in this country was “Orpheus,” now in the Boston Atheneum. M. C. A., Thomaston, Conn.—Rainy Lake is on the bor- der of Minnesota and British America. It is fifty miles long and of irregular width. It discharges through Rainy Lake River (about one hundred miles loug) into the Lake of the Woods. It contains numerous islands. Near its outlet are the Falls of St. Francis, twenty feet high. The lake and river below the falls are navigable by steamers. Constant Reader, New York.—ist. The names of several kings of the Shepherd dynasties have been preserved. These are Solatis, Beon, Apachnas, Jonias, and Assa. Un- der the last of these Joseph was made ruler. But other Shepherd kings ruled many years subsequently. They were overthrown by the rulers of the period of Moses. 2d. Gum-arabic slowly dissolved in the mouth will help you. X, X. X., Boston, Mass.—The seventh season of the New York Trade School will open next October. The school buildings.are on First avenue, at Sixty-seventh and Sixty- eighth streets. The terms for instruction are from $10 to $25 a course, according to the trade selected, and the class- es are reserved for young men at about the apprentice age. A Constant Reader, New Orleans.—ist. We do not give business addresses in this department. 2d. She must sign her own Christian name. 3d. Daily practice will soon make your handwriting a very fair one. Your let- ters are well rounded. John H. W., San Francisco.—‘‘Stella Rosevelt,”’ by Mrs- Georgie Sheldon, the story you refer to, is in book-form. Price $1.50. If you wish it, write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. Alex. S., Denteen, Texas.—ist. We can furnish you with magnets for 50 cents and upward. 2d. No record of the largest. 8d. An electric battery to run a sewing-machine will cost $25. R. Y. G., Philadelphia.—Various railroads in the Penn- sylvania coal region were begun in 1830, In 1882, it is stated, sixty-seven were in operation throughout the State. Foreigner.—We will send you “The New Ready Reck- oner” for 25 cents. It contains all the information you de- sire respecting the calculation of interest, etc. A Friend, Atlanta, Ga.—Both are difficult to learn with- out a teacher ; but you are not too old to become proficient in them if you take instructions at once. Richard L.—As stated before to other correspondents, the members of the New York Legislature receive $1,500 for the regular session, be it long or short. A. G@., Stockton, Cal., and Lida M., Alvin, Ill.—The longest verse in the Bible is the ninth verse of the eighth chapter of Esther. A Veteran’s Son.—A letter addressed to Department Commander George H. Treadwell, this city, will receive attention. M. N. N.—The seating capacity of the Roman Catholi¢ Cathedral on Fifth avenue is 2,500; standing capacity 8,000. Mrs. D. J. E. G.—1st. The address is not known to us. 2d. Daily practice will improve your handwriting. E. E. E., Chockton, N. Y.—‘“*‘Westward Ho,” in paper cover, will be sent to you for 50 cents. Tda Bell, Fair Haven, N. Y.—All such things are mere or less injurious. Let them alone. S. P. H., Wilton, Ia.—The book of peems named is out of print. oe VOL. 42—No, 36. LOVE’S THERMOMETER. BY GRIFFITH ALEXANDER. My love’s a thermometer locked in my breast, And the weather’s a changeable fairy. Who gives my poor weather-glass never a rest— And that fairy’s yourself, sweetest Mary. One evening we walked to the town. you and I, While holding sweet converse together, And I looked in your eyes, quite as blue as the sky, And “set fair’? was the state of the weather ; But you also remember (alas and alack !) With my tongue I was rather unwary ; And I found that all nature looked horribly black, For you looked black yourself, sweetest Mary. I mentioned the fact that you flirted with Ned, For to me it was very displeasing ; “But you’d do what you liked,” you most chillingly said (My thermometer registered freezing). But I coaxed and I flattered you much for a while, And a thaw came the season to vary, And nature once more wore her usual smile— You were smiling yourself, sweetest Mary. And now what I wish for I'll just let you know (Not at all! I ne’er once thought of meney) ; I wish for all pleasure and joy here below, And all that is cheerful and sunny. I wish for all things I have hitherto lacked— For all that is lightsome and airy— For all that was ever worth loving—in fact, I wish for yourself, sweetest Mary. ror [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ] ANOTHER MAN'S 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 XLITI. “THE WOMAN IS DEAD!” It was a warm late April day, and the windows and doors of the front room of a small house in the outskirts of Clapham were open that the balmy air, sweet with the breath of primroses and hawthorn, might come in. Here lay one who fought wearily for every breath as for untold treasure. With gleaming eyes and hollow cheeks, where burned a red flame, Sara Hunter tossed on her death- bed. A little group entered. the doctor, and a notary. “My lady, you have hunted me down at last,” said Sara, with a voice full of bitterness. “Sara, itis from no enmity to you. I do not hate you, poor creature, though your deed was dreadful. I only want you now, before you go out of the world, to repent, and undo what little you can of that great | sin.” Beryl, in her deep mourning robes, her heavy black vail falling all about her dainty young face, bent over Sara Hunter. “Poor creature, how much you must have suffer- ed!” she cried, compassionately. ‘Your face shows it. You have had a hard life hiding and flying. Why did you go, Sara?” : “You asked over much of human nature to bid me put my head in a rope, to save a dead man’s name,” said Sara, grimly; “but I am_ going now, the law has naught to do with me, and Id as lief speak. Is the lawyer there to take itdown? Then write it plain. I killed Mrs. Jerome Sothron.” A little shudder ran the group at the hard, unre- lenting tone of these words. “T did it for her money. The lady knows why I wanted it. There was one who said he’d marry me if L got that much. He robbed me, he deceived me, and here I leave him my curse!” : “Tell your story, woman,” said the notary, briefly. This fierce, bad nature had stilled the voice of syin- pathy. : : ERE “Sir Jerome had never lived with his wife, but he gave her income enough, and I was her maid. She had quite a box full of jewelry of different kinds. I fancied it was worth a good sum, but I’ve never been ableto get much forit. She was very pretty, and men teok a deal of notice of her living alone so, and it frightened her, for she was a good woman enough ; very difierent from her sister. There was one man pursted her, so she could not stand it, and so she said she sheuld send for Sir Jerome, and tell him he must take her out to Sothron Abbey to live, to keep her from being persecuted and_ getting talked about. And then Satan set me on, for I said, ‘If he won’t do that the way will be for you to get a thousand pound ; Lord Ravlin, Lady Beryl, that will keep you three years, and we can gotoa little place I know ofin France, and you can learn French, and wusic, and drawing, and get accom- plisned ; for, after all is said, he must take you some time, you being his lawful wife, and he’ll want an | heir forthe Abbey.’ And I said, ‘Just you write him the choice, and he will rather take you to the abbey than to have you go off with the thousand pounds.’ “She was a foolish young thing, and believed all I said to her. But I say, solemn, here about to die, all my thougst then was to start on a journey with her, and rob he of the money and the jewelry, and a trunk full of he: things, for we were much the same size, and I planned to wear her things in America. I knew well he’d gwe her the money and let her go; _for, however it wa: Mrs. Sothron always acted her very worst, most forlish, and unlady-like, when her husband was around. \T suppose she was born to bad luck, poor thing! “Well, he came; and I,listening by the door, for I was in the chamber, soon found he laid it all to her ‘loud manners’ and ‘comm, ways’ that she attracted attentions; and he had brwight the money. She | cried and went on. Then, I xolemnly swear, temp- tation first took me to kill her. To keep it out of my head I ran out to do an errand, ant staid some time. When I came back, the landlady sait he hadn’t gone et; but I, looking from the bedchanher door, found ehad. He must have been gone som, fifteen min- utes atleast, for she had had time to ¢hange her dress, and put on one with blue flowers Tiadn’t seen on her for a good month. I noticed it someway, and ever since, day and night, waking or sleepin;, sitting or walking, Mrs. Jerome Sothron has been beijde me in that blue-flowered dress. “T never stopped to think; it came on mey]] at once, like a hot blast burning up all my senses. “hat little dagger lay near my hand. Itookit. Shenerer heard nor stirred, standing there, with that big, clean note in her hand, and, just as you told me, my lady, as if you’d been there, I—I killed her. She fell with- out a cry. “T hid the note and the jewels in a place under the closet floor, and then I gave the alarm. It was all laid on him from the first. made anything by it, but an awful life—and death.” Sara Hunter had spoken with many a lengthenei pause. The day seemed to grow dark, and all the aiy poisoned, as she told the horrible tale. She flung uy | hae crossed arms over her face, as if to shut out sight! of humanity forever. The notary dipped his pen in ink. “Woman, you must sign this confession.” The doctor raised her up, and the trembling, bony hand scrawled the name, ‘SARA HUNTER.” Beryl went and stood outside the door. Before her seemed to stand a vision of Jerome’s hastily, madly taken wife. Young, pretty, foolish, always showing her worst to the fastidious, unloving man to whom she should have showed the best. See seemed to see her, standing by the mantel, in the blue-flowered gown, holding the note in her hand, musing on her lonely state, her hopeless future! Oh, how wrong, how very wrong Jerome had been! From all the guilt of murder he might be freed, but from this wrong toward the simple young girl, who had been wife and no wife—never! never! And Beryl felt that she had driven him to this madness; she had brought down her fate on this unknown girl! ; How wide are the harvests of evil! She had dropped her vail about her, and stood in the sunshine waiting. Lord Ravlin came out from the room she had just left. His hat was crushed down over his face. He seemed much agitated. “The woman is dead!” he said, hoarsely. At that minute a basket phaeton came along the road, whirled by a pretty pair of ponies; a pavilion of scarlet and orange, fringed with gilt, flashed in the sun, while the white and blue harness, and the swiftly revolving red wheels made a gorgeous ka- leidoscopic vision, in the tremulous light and misty warmth of April. In the phaeton sat a brilliant lady, in a wide hat trimmed with corn-flowers and poppies; a dress of _ pongee silk, all puffs where it was not frills, and frills - where it was not puffs; the hands cased in distract- ing little gauntlets handled well the blue silk reins. Beside the phaeton rode a large, florid, fast-looking man on a high-stepping roan. “It is Laura!’ cried Beryl, following with her dimmed eyes this glittering vision. But I did it; and I never | “Yes,” said Lord Ravlin. ‘I suppose you have not ? a 7 heard the latest bit of news. Mrs. Ranleigh has been very brilliant this winter. Her toilets have been, they say, ravishing, but to the last excess in tight- ness and lack of neck and sleeves. She wore, the other night, a changeable satin trimmed with the eyes of peacocks’ feathers, all about the shoulders, and about the pointed bodice and around the train. And old Lady Ranleigh had been persuaded to loan her the Ranleigh emeralds. She took all eyes, and is supposed to have made an important capture—Sir Francis Westholm Sothron, Sir Jerome’s far-away cousin and heir. He is at the abbey. That gentle- man on horseback is Sir Francis. They tell bad stories of him at home and abroad; but since he in- herited he has settled down and ceased plunging, and shaken off his squad of low hangers-on. Mrs. Ranleigh, it seems, is likely to be lady of Sothron Abbey.” “Tam sorry Sir Francis is such a man,” said Beryl, ‘for I must see him.” “What have you planned to do now, Lady Beryl?” “As Sir Francis is next of kin, I think he should be at once informed of this confession, and be the one to make it public. He should also at once set up for Jerome that memorial tablet that is wanting among the Sothron records inthe Abbey church. [ had thought that I would go and see him about this. This notary who has taken the confession aud Lady Heath could accompany me.” ; “Probably that would be a good way to do. I am sure Sir Francis would receive you with all kindness and courtesy; and it should be a great comfort to him to have such a blot removed from the name of his predecessor.” CHAPTER XLIV. “TF HE LIVES, LET HIM APPEAR.” Lord Alfred Heath, with his wife and daughter and their three servants, had taken apartments at Clariges’ Hotel for their short stay in London. It was the day after Sara’s confession, and Lord Alfred and his ladies were seated at the breakfast- table. Lady Heath, with a gown of the stiffest watered purple silk, and a large lace collar, with her rubicund face and light, frizzed hair, made a glow- ing center of color for the whole apartment, in or Beryl was lost, as a shadow is absorbed in ight. “My adored Alfred,” said Lady Heath. ‘I have an engagement for the morning with our daughter. I shall regret to leave you alone.” “Tt makes no difference,’ said the quenched Al- he reviving to a little hope. “I’ll drop in at the club.’ “You will remember not to gamble any, my dear,” said his lady, removing a German paper from close proximity to her short-sighted eyes. Lord Alfred shrugged his shoulders. “And you will remember, not to allow your cheer- ful disposition to lead you astray—to bets, for in- stance,” added his domestic monarch, giving orders | as to a small boy on a holiday. “Can a man never amuse himself?” cried Lord | Alfred. “Not in such away, my idol,” said Lady Heath, | serenely. ‘‘And you are to drink no brandy.” “T believe it is more tolerable back in Vienna!”’ “So it is,” returned his lady, heartily; ‘‘this Eng- | land is a villainous land. My lovely Beryl, if you take my advice, you will leave England and its sad | memories, and travel upon the Continent.” “T do not know why I should not,’ said Beryl; ‘‘my | work in England is done, and I have here many sad memories.” “To travel I abhor, being too stout,’ said Lady | Heath; ‘but I will take my little Alfred back to Vienna, and you shall visit us there.” The placidity with which Lady Heath disposed of | Beryl’s life-long tyrant caused her to break into a | ripple of silvery laughter. “Why you laugh Ido not know,” said her step- | mother; ‘but [rejoice that you have not forgotten how.” : Lord Alfred had gone to his club, when the car- riage was brought round, and Lady Heath, in all her | splendors, and Beryl, in her weeds, were driven out | to Sothron Abbey. Beryl remembered how the last time she came | along that rgad she had been riding at fierce speed, | | clinging close to the arm of Jerome Sothron. She ae — ZB = . we OES Sst eee is Ge Se ee ce “YOU WILL REMEMBER NOT TO ALLOW YOUR CHEER- FUL DISPOSITION TO LEAD YOU ASfRAY.’’ ' remembered the terror, the agony of that hour, the bitterness which it had been to her noble husband, and how few more hours of life had followed it for Jerome, the eager, thoughtless, generous, loving, handsome Jerome! They drove under the high-arched gate of the abbey. She had been here but once. On this nobly shaded lawn she had stood with Jerome that fatal evening when night had fallen darkly about her life. There was now a festive look on this lawn. It was the first day of May. A tall May-pole, trimmed with garlands and ribbons, had been reared. A pavilion, in gayly striped canvas, a decorated band-stand, all told of some scene of mirth. Sending in their cards, and requesting to see Sir Francis in private on business, he came out to meet them, in gala dress of blue broadcloth, with a white velvet waistcoat, and a rose in his button-hole. riding by Mrs. Ranleigh’s phaeton. Beryl presented Lady Heath and the lawyer. Sir Francis Westholm Sothron was Here, no doubt, was a world-worn spirit with no place for sentiment—she would unfold the other side of the story. “Last autumn, as I visited among the poor on my | late husband’s estates, I found a woman ill and | | gotten. $ i ! low! Lowe him something for dropping off in his | sarly prime, and leaving a poor devil living on his | This | The | same curled, florid, stout, bold man Beryl had seen | 4 , P . | about, have the sunshine, and music, and stir of This | not a man to | whom she could lay bare any of her heart history. snow-drops. What could she want with you, Sir Francis?’ and Laura looked at him over the top of her peacock’s feather fan. “Come into the library and I will show you,” said Sir Francis. The coquettish tires in those great black eyes shin- ing above the brilliant feathers had carried by assault the last outworks of his—fancy. Laura, with her fan against her smiling mouth, her head a little on one side, her poinegranate bloom | heightened by expectation, the folds of her brown- gold silk trailing along the floors she hoped soon to brary. She expected a declaration. fortune would be at her feet, and she meant to set no distant wedding-day. For his part, Sir Francis was ready to propose. This was why he intended to confice in her, and make the declaration of Jerome’s innocence the prelude to his own declaration of love. ‘Fancy how glad I am to know,” he said, “that the name of Sothron is not smirched with stain of mur- der! Lady Medford has brought me this signed and Kes. SSS sen “IT MAY ROB YOU OF YOUR FORTUNE! BEG YOU TO CONCEAL IT!” FRANCIS, I duly witnessed confession, which clears my cousin’s memory.” Laura almost snatched it from his hand. “Bery. brought you this!” she cried. “Yes. As head—indeed, the only representative of the house—it is my right to make it known to the world.” “You will never, never do that!” she exclaimed. “Not! Why, of course, and at once. I like a clean family name as well as any,if I have been a little reed | fast.” “Do not—do not meddle with it. “What can you mean? Such things are never for- I bear my predecessor no grudge. Poor fel- wits one of the neatest fortunes in England. goes to the papers!” “It may rob you of this fortune—may set you back | in that poverty you hate. ceal it.” ‘What do you—what can you mean? tune !”’ Francis, I beg you, con- | ‘Tt mean that Jerome has never been seen dead by | | one who knew his face. They think they are sure; but may he not | | be in hiding from this charge, to reappear as soon as | Are you sure he is dead? Is any one? he is fully vindicated? Beryl Medford brings you this. Beryl loved him. Beryl possibly knows he lives, and takes this way of calling him from hiding. Oh, think what you do!” “Think! Laura, if this man lives, he will surely return some day, even if I keep silent. If he is alive, I want to know it. I want to sit in no other man’s chair. Now. I will test this. If he lives, heis cleared; let him return.” CHAPTER XLV. “TI DEMAND OF YOU MY SISTER.” That offer which Laura expected died on the lips of Sir Francis Westholm Sothron. Her own hasty words had filled him with a fear, an uneasiness, which for the time drove matrimony far from his thoughts. IfJerome were living and should return, then Sir Francis, with only his wits to main- tain him, would be far better off as a bachelor, with all Europe for his happy hunting grounds, than in- ecumbered with an extravagant wife, and a possible brood of children. Children, as heirs of the Abbey fortune, might be very well, children, heirs of noth- ing, had better remain unknown quantities. So Sir Francis’ brow darkened, and he made no offer to Laura, and Laura felt that she had erred vehemently, and for those two the fete day passed heavily. were dregs in the wine, thorns on the roses, adders among the lilies of life. But Sir Francis’ steward went to the city, sowed copies of Sara Hunter’s confession broadcast among the leading journals, with requests for papers on the Continent, and in all the queen’s empire, and the United States, to copy this confession. Not that Sir Francis wanted Jerome to reappear. Even an heir close in love and kin may feel as Tenny- son says: “Twas well indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear ; But if they came, who passed away, Behold their brides in other hands ; The hard heir stalks about their lands, And will not yield them for a day.” But Sir Francis was not a man to cower in a cor- ner and wait a blow; he would come out in the face of day and meet it like a man. He wanted to know where he stood. Beryl’s work in London was done, and she went home from the city. Her step-mother was homesick for Vienna, and Lord Alfred, finding his leading | strings drawn very tightly, concluded that he would be better off, back at his nominal duties at the Lega- | tion, and in the midst of such small indulgences as did not meet madam’s disapprobation, in her native city. - “You will come and see us, my cherub,” said Lady Heath, to her step-daughter. “Do not stay here in england; it is dreary. Go to the Continent, travel foreign cities. Do not sit and eat your heart out, my star!” “T think I shall take Lelia, North, and Fanny, and go abroad for a year,” said Beryl. : 5 “Here is a handsome young man coming im your gate, said Lady Heath.” ‘aving with fever, who confessed in her, delirium | - that she had been Mrs. Jerome Sothron’s maid, and | she, and not your cousin. had murdered Mrs. Soth- ron.”’ “Then why, inthe name of all that is reasonable, | did he fly from investigation?’ cried Sir Francis. “T think that is not now in question. the affair to Lord Ravlin, your cousin Jerome’s friend. The woman made her escape before she fully recovered. We have brought you. day.” : Sir Francis read the paper with interest. } “T shall see to making this everywhere public | You may fancy, Lady Heath, it | through the press. is none too pleasant for a man to have. a murder charge lying against his predecessor. light at once.” “And,” said Beryl, softly, “you know that Sir | Terome’s death has been ignored among the monu- | nents of his house. You will see that his memorial Siands with the rest.” Sir Francis looked curiously at her. litle of the story that might lie behind the sad, violet eys and the widow’s vail. §& two—not one. “Twill write about the tablet this very hour,” he : said. “Weéleave allin your hands,” said Beryl, rising. He arcompanied them into the hall, but théir way was barred by a laughing, rainbow-robed bevy, headed vy Laura Ranleigh, trooping in at the front entrance. Laura Ranleigh stopped in amazement as she saw Beryl’s black-robed figure moving beside Sir Francis. But it was never Laura’s policy to quarrel, or even have a coolness, with any one. She argued that everybody might, at some time, be useful. Besides, she had lived months and months with Lady Beryl Medford. She ranup to Beryl with effusion. “My sweet one! have you come to join us to-day ? Not Are you showing the abbey to—to—tfriends ?’ and she looked curiously at Lady Heath and the lawyer. “No; I came on business; it is finished. very well and gay, Laura.” “Oh, charming! Sir Francis is good enough to ive me a birthday fete. What a superb day itis! Ve are to have old English games, songs, and dances.” ‘What an exquisite creature that little Lady Med- ford is!” said Sir Francis, as he returned to Mrs. Ran- leigh’s side, after escorting Beryl to her carriage. “Do you think so? Lalways found her too pale, and too tame in character. I’m not an, adorer of Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria. You look I confided | Lord Ravlin pursued her traces, | | found her, and secured the signed confession, which | The woman died yester- This shall see | He guessed a | She might be mourning | BARRIER IS INSUPERABLE WHERE TWO YOUNG, AND LOVING, AND BEAUTIFUL,” “NO ARE Beryl and Lelia both raised their heads, and Lelia fiushed crimson. Then, saying she must see to one of the birds, the latter swiftly left the room, and a moment after North announced Lawrence. It was his first visit since her widowhood. “Ts it a lover for our daughter?’ whispered Lady Heath, to Lord Alfred, as she remarked the warmth of Berly’s greeting. “Tf I know anything he is in love with Lelia,” said Lord Alfred. “Lelia is a seraph,” said Lady Heath, who rejoiced greatly in love stories. ‘‘Thisis a beautiful young man. If Lelia is in love with him I shall buy her a trousseau.” “T wish you’d be as liberal to me, by Jove,” said Heath. : “My Alfred, you will consider that to buy a trous- seau is the joy of my life. I have bought two for myself, and it is impossible tell if I may have that pleasure again. So I buy for others.” “By jove, I should say so!” cried Lord Heath. “At All is forgotten.” | Lose my for- | There | . and all events, I’m glad to see Lawrence; he knocks about billiard balls fairly as any man I know.” “fT have so looked forward to visiting you,” Lawrence to Beryl. ‘‘May I stay ?’ i “Indeed you may. Ten whole days, until my father and his wife leave,” said Beryl, joyfully. He asked no questions about Lelia. He hadalready seen her work-basket on a lacquered table by the window. Although Lelia was skillfulin keeping away from Lawrence, and Lord Alfred was selfish to excess in said . *e p o | demanding Lawrence’s society, by grace of Lady tread as mistress, entered with Sir Francis the li- | This immense Heath, Lawrence found himself with Lelia more than he dared to hope. “My good young friend,” said Lady Heath, one day, taking him aside, ‘‘you love this enchanting Lelia. Shall I speak to her for you?” “Thank you,” said Lawrence, with a smile and a sigh ; “it would be useless, for there is an insuper- able bar to our marriage. But my love and devotion are hers, and [I could not deny myself this opportu- nity of seeing her lovely face and hearing her voice.” “No barrier is insuperable, where two are young, and loving, and beautiful,” cried Lady Heath, eagerly. In her zeal in the cause of Cupid and trousseaus, she next spoke to Lelia. “My charmer, every young girl should marry. Surely, you cannot be indifferent to this beautiful young man. He adores you. Whatis this folly about insuperable barriers? I never heard of such things. What do you mean by them, eh ?’ 5: “It means, dear Lady Heath, that I cannot marry.” “Cannot marry! Thatis wild heresy. You are not anhun, surely? You have made no vow? Nonsense! you shall marry this admirable young man, and I tet you a trousseau. Four silk dresses shall be in it. Lelia went to Beryl. “Dear Lady Medford, will you let me go back to Anna for a few days? I am sorry Lawrence came here, for, though I am sure he is very good, he makes his feeling for me very plain. Your step-mother has spoken tome. You know my sad state—a wife and no wife. I must keep a faith promised to a man who hates the tie that binds us.” “Forgive me for letting Lawrence stay,” said Beryl. “He shall not visit where you are again. He must “yes appease his heart hunger at your expense, my elia.’ Lelia knelt down, and hid her face against Beryl’s arm. “Dear Lady Beryl, for my own sake,I must go. When it has come to this, that I wish I were free for his sake. When I recognize in him one whom I could really love, and see in what I might feel for him, if I dared—that my feeling for the one I married in fool- ish haste, was only vanity, ambition, a silly madness for my own way, and to prove the power of my pret- tiness. Oh, then, dear Lady Beryl, I know myself in danger, and I fly from temptation.” Beryl clasped Lelia’s bowed head in her arms, and her tears fell with those of her innocent and unhappy friend. “You shall go,” she said. ‘‘My father has taken Lawrence out to stay until two o’clock. I will order your lunch, and the carriage can take you to Doctor Marvel’s before dark. Fanny shall pack your basket. You will be an hour on your way before the gentle- menreturn. Oh, Lelia, I bid you fly. My own sad story has taught me how little we can trust ourselves when our hearts are won away from us; how easy it | is in temptation to yield to folly, which in our own } and other lives shall do the work of crime. Ah, Lelia. there is no sorrow like remorse.” “Why did you let that sweet thing go?” cried Lady Heath to Beryl, as she entered the lunch-room to wait for the two gentlemen. “Dear Lady Heath, she thought it her duty and safety, and so did I. I felt so badly to lose her, that I was crying so [ could not come to see her off.” “My flower, you will spoil your eyes! Never, never ery. That poor girl did not wish to go, I assure you. As the carriage drove up I rushed into the morning room to embrace her. She was standing with the book I study your Peerage in. enchanting Burke! She let it fall—she reel—she cry ‘Oh !’—she turn white as a lily, and I had to aid her | to the carriage as one dizzy ina dream. Poor girl!” =o “FRANCIS WESTHOLM, I DEMAND OF YOU MY SISTER!” It was the fourth day after this that Sir Francis Westholm-Sothron strolled into the Abbey parish church, to see the memorial tablet that had been let | into the wall recording the name and death of Sir Jerome Sothron. As he went down the aisle of the silent church he saw a woman leaning on the chan- eel rail and looking at the tablet. This person, draped in a long gray circular cloak, her face closely covered with a thick gray vail, had entered the church from the village. She stood now, her cloak fallen from her shoulders and her vail thrown back. Sir Francis looked at her with an eager start; then dashed down the aisle, crying: “Delia! Delia!’ The young woman wheeled about. A pallor as of death invaded her face. Then a flush of crimson dyed her from throat to brow; fire leaped from her tear-wet eyes. She gathered her cloak about her with one hand, and stepping forward with an im- perious gesture, said, in a voice vibrant with scorn and hate: “Francis Westholm! I demand of you my sister!” [TO BE CONTINUED. ] Words of Wisdom. HE is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances. THE good that is done in a pleasant way accom- plishes most and is most lasting. Good advice given kindly is worth a dozen reproofs accompanied by scowls. SPARE moments are like the gold-dust of time. Of all portions of our life, spare moments are the most fruitful in good or evil. They are the gaps through | which temptations find the easiest access to the gar- dens of the soul. TAKE all the sorrows out of life, and you take away all richness, and depth, and tenderness. Sorrow is the furnace that melts selfish hearts together in love. TRUE success means the development of a char- | acter that is worthy of example—a character that is honest to every duty, faithful to every trust, and | that is unselfish enough to find time for kindly acts | that are not forced. NONE are so fond of secrets as those who don’t mean to keep them; such persons covet secrets, as | spendthrifts covet money, for the purpose of circu- | lation. THERE are never too many flowers in this world, and not one kind word too many has ever yet been | spoken. To know how to be silent is more difficult and more | profitable than to know how to speak. THE basis of friendship is the forgetting of self through that sympathy which must always exist be- tween real friends. With such a starting-point, friendship—true friendship—must lead to a better, nobler life, to higher ideas, and to purer desires. CONTENTMENT produces in some measure all those effects which the alchemist usually ascribes to what he calls the philosopher’s stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing by banishing the desire of them. To make the most of the good and the least of the evil of life is the best philosophy of existence. You find yourself refreshed hy the presence of cheerful ae Why not make earnest effort to confer that pleasure on others ? GIVE your tongue more holiday than your hands or eyes. THERE can be no excess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty, when these attributes are considered in the purest sense. THE man who has the most friends is he who uses them least. Our sufferings have much to do with our faults. Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria, It is—yes, Burke, the | | Grace—quite like a ‘thief in the night.’ | know the old saying—‘listeners never hear any good SCARF, THE SEA BREEZE AND THE BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Hung on the casement that looked o’er the main, Fluttered a scarf of blue ; And a gay bold breeze paused to flatter and tease This trifle of delicate hue; “You are lovelier far than the proud skies are,” He said, with a voice that sighed; “You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea; Oh, why do you stay here and hide? “You are wasting your life in this dull, dark room ;’ And he fondled her silken folds. “O’er the casement lean but a little, my queen, And see what the great world holds; How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue Cheapens both sea and sky. You are far too bright to be hidden from sight, Come, fly with me, darling, fly !” Tender his whisper and sweet his caress, Flattered and pleased was she. The arms of her lover lifted her over The casement out to sea; Close to his breast she was fondly pressed, Kissed once by his laughing mouth, Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave, While the wind went whistling south. sy sa [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. | Marrying for a 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 XXIII. RUIN. The women were holding one of those chats on dress in which their souls delight. It was a snowy,‘ blustering day, about the middle of January; but the rough weather outside only made the luxurious library, with its bountiful fire of cannel coal, seem the more inviting. Mrs. Brooks satin her favorite easy-chair in her favorite attitude of toasting her slippers on the fender. Miss Effie was engaged at the table in the agreeable task of making out a list of the things she most wanted. The mother, puffed up with the importance of another wedding in pros- pect, was fussily dictating what the bride did and did not need. From the airs of this lady when she was under the Brooks roof—which was the greater part of the time —a stranger would have inferred that she was ‘‘mon- arch of all she surveyed.” “T say four table-cloths, four dozen napkins, and four dozen towls; half te be double damask. A dozen sheets, six pairs pillow-cases, three pairs shams, three sheet-shams—got that down, Effie ?” “T say, ma, don’t you go in too deep,” drawled the lady at the fender. ‘The old tool’s being losing his money lately, he says; does nothing nowadays but preach economy until ’'m sick of hearing of it. I don’t half believe him; but I made a lot of bills just before New Year’s myself, and Eff mustn’t draw it too strong, you know.” “Oh, bother, Lill, don’t go to spoiling the wedding,” whined her sister. ‘‘He’ll get along some way. It’s probably his meanness.” “Now, girls, do be fair,” spoke up the mother, with wonderful magnanimity. “There’s nothing mean about him, if he has his faults. He’s been pretty liberal, take him allin all. Plenty of men wouldn't have done for their wives’ families what Brooks has. Where did I leave off!—oh, yes, shams—six counter- panes. Where’s Miss Longtace, Lillie dear?” “In herroom, I suppose. She stays there the most of the time. Ifit wasn’t such a satisfaction to watch her break her heart for my John, I wouldn’t have the patience to put up with her.” “Tf [ did not see all too plainly how much my dear father needs me you could not keep me here,” said a calm, silvery voice so near that Lillie gave a little jump. “What aquiet way you have of coming into a room, Well, you of themselves.’’ “I thought papa had come home, or I should not have intruded.” “Tt’s not time for your father for an hour. Whata fuss you do make over him, Grace. One would think he was an infant in arms, or in his second child- hood,” with a sneer. “Papa is very busy and very anxioas. tired. I like tosee for myself how he is when he comesin. You know, of course, that his business is giving him great anxiety.” “I s’pose men’s business always gives ’em some trouble,’ was the flippant answer. ‘‘Well, Eff, have you decided whether you will have the garnet or the plum-colored silk ?”’ “Can’t I have both?” “No, you can’t.” “Tll take the garnet, then, with plenty of velvet.” “Anda hatto match,” suggested the mother, rudely oblivious of the presence of the daughter of the house. “Do call that girl to put some more coal on here, Lillie; its getting cold; an’ ring for Jupiter Ammon to bring in my overshoes to warm and put them on for me. I must be getting home before Brooks comes; but Effie needn’t hurry. She can stay the evening. You need some one for company, my poor child; an’ I’ll be over inthe morning.” “T guess I’ go, too, said the sister. ‘I've got to stop in and see Miss Smith about that sewing.” “Tf you'll give me a bottle of something good, I'll take it home to pa, to save his going out this blus- tering day. You needn't trouble to get up, daughter ; I know where you keep it, an’ I can get it myself; and the morning papers for him to read over. Here, you, Jupiter Ammon, you hurry up an’ get those overshoes on to my feet. Isn’t he slow, girls? but he’s awful cute.” Grace retreated into the parlor to watch for her father. Her heart was sorely troubled about hin; altogether it seemed as if there were heavy burdens for her to bear, poor child! After half an hour’s busy preparations the visitors got away, well laden with the spoils most congenial to their tastes. Grace saw them go down the steps, and then she opened her piano, seeking some con- solation in her beloved music. Meantime the young wife, the picture of indolent comfort, remained in her stuffed chair by the fire, her feet on the polished brass fender, the fading, drowsy, snow-dimmed light of a large window fall- ing on the page of the thrilling novel in which she was becoming lost. The drunken cook was getting up a rich dinner down stairs; the second girl was laying the table; “Buttons” was lounging by the hall-register ready to open the door; the young mistress of all had not a care on her mind to distract her from the thorough enjoyment of her story. Not an anxiety disturbed her about the husband who was cominghome through the storm after a day of exhausting business. When finally she heard his steps in the hall, and, after getting rid of his wraps, he came in and up to the fire, where she stood, shivering slightly, and looking very tired and pale, she just glanced up a moment, to say, carelessly : “Appears to me you’re home early, Brooks,” and went on with her reading. He took from his pocket a package of bills, which he threw in her lap, saying: “See if those are right. making.” She just glanced at them long enough to recognize the bill for the New Year’s toilet, the New Year’s table, the new set of china, some of the things she had ordered for her sister, etc. “Dear me!’ she said, pettishly. ‘‘Don’t bother me! What do I know about such things? I dare say they are right.” “Yet I begged you to economize,” he said, gravely. She made a mouth at him, and began to look sullen. “They only amount to sixteen hundred dollars, Mrs. Brooks, but they have proven to be ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back.’ ” There was something in his voice which compelled her attention, despite the absorbingly interesting situation into which Maud Lillian, of the story, had gotten herself. “What do you mean, Brooks ? a person !’” “T mean just what I have said. Having already more than I could stagger under, those unexpected bills crushed me.” “You don’t look crushed.” “You have no very kindly interest in me, madam. Still, as your own prospects are affected by it, it may be of some concern to you to learn that Iam ruined.” “What do you mean by ruined 2?” “T had hoped and expected to struggle through and come out all right; but, somehow or another, my ereditors heard the whisper that I was in a tight place, and came down on me ‘like the wolf on the He gets so They are bills of your How you do pester