Pe ai

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

, Vol. 42.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Office

 

THE DISABLED SAILOR.

 

BY JAMES HORDON ASKEW.

ome, bear me, friends, where I may see
The breakers curling on the shore,
And hear the haunting harmony
They make for evermore ;
Where I may see the stately ships
Sail proudly o’er the foam-fiecked tide,
And feel upon my quivering lips
The breath of ocean wide.

For fifty years I sailed the sea,
And grew to manhood on its breast—
-Twas like a tender nurse to me,
And cradled me to rest ;
But now I linger out my days
Amid the city’s ceaseless roar,
Like a caged bird that dreams of ways
Where it may never soar.

I, who have roved the world around,
Free as the winds that bore me on,

How can I brook this narrow bound,
With all of freedom gone ?

My soul grows straitened by the streets,
Their very shadows on me weigh,

Oh, bear me, then, where ocean beats
Upon the shore to-day.

e
,  Forl am fain once more to feel
\ Upon my cheeks the salty foam,
To watch the restless sea-gulls wheel
Around their rocky home ;
And could I see, before f die,
The sunset glory gild the wave,
its calm will soothe me when I lie
At last within the grave.

te

NONE WILL MISS THEE,

 

Few wiil miss thee, friend, when thou
For a month in dust hast lain.

Skillful hand, and anxious brow,
Tongue of wisdom, busy brain—

All thou wert shall be forgot,

And thy place shall know thee not.

Shadows from the bending trees
. O’er thy lowiy head may pass,
Sighs from every wandering breeze
Stains? long, thick churehyard grass. +
Wirt tit. nesu them ?” No; thy sleep
Shiail be dreaimless, caim, and deen.

Some sweet bird may sit and sing
On the marble of thy tomb,
Soon to flit on joyous wing
From that place of death and gipom,
On some bough to warble clear ;
But these songs thou shalt not hear,

Some kind voice may sing thy praise,
Passing near thy place of rest,
Fondly talk of ‘‘other days”—
But no throb within thy breast
Shall respond to words of praise,
Or old thoughts of ‘other days.”

Since so fleeting is thy name,
Talent, beanty, power, and wit, °
It were well that without shame
Thou in God’s great book wert writ,
There in golden words to be
Graven for eternity.

++Q>4+—

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.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

A Hearts Bitterness,

By BERTHA M. CLA F,

AUTHOR OF
“For Another’s Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc.

 

 

(“A Heart’s Bitterness” was commenced in No. 45. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXV.
“NO; TEN TIMES NO!”

A white fury came into Norman Leigh’s face at his
wife’s emphatic words. Until now he had been merely
indifferent to her, at intervals feebly grateful ; though
intense selfishness, taking all things as its due, has
small capacity for gratitude. But at thismoment Violet
came between him and his desire, between him and the
woman whom he loved, and for the instant he hated
her.

‘‘What do you mean ?” he cried, “for what reason do
you refuse to entertain my guest ?”

Violet looked down. She could not, she would not
give the realreason. She said, coldly :

“T will not entertain strangers. There are enough
guests whom I know.”

“But it is your duty to receive and entertain my
friends, in my house.”

Violet looked at him fixedly.

‘In this case, no; ten times no,” she said, with in-
dignation.

“But, I tell you, Miss Ambrose shall be invited by
you.”

‘Never! If you invite her, and she is so lost to good

breeding as to come unasked by the lady of the house,
I shall leave the house, and visit elsewhere.”

“I will not permit it!” cried Leigh, stamping in fury.

“At least, you cannot make me leave my room, and
I warn you I will stay there.’

They looked furiously at each other. Violet turned
and ran up to her boudoir, where she locked herself in,

_ and flung herself on a sofa, and began to cry piteously.

Leigh dashed out of the library window, and be-
took himself to the woods, in a heat of rage, muttering
bitter words.

It was just seven weeks since these two had stood
bon God's ultar, with vows to love, honor, cherish,
obey.

The tempest of her tears passed away; Violet began
to review her conduct; she reproached herself for her
methods, but believed she was right in principle. In-
stinctively she felt that all these invitations were a
cover to that to Miss Ainbrose, and that Leigh asked
Miss Ambrose because he loved her, preferred her to
his wife. Rashly, perhaps not unnaturally, Violet be-4
lieved that Miss Ambrose shared this love and favored
his intercourse, In such a case the invitation was a
cruel insult to herself, and the jealous, love-craving
child—spoiled perhaps by a life-long observance of her
lightest, wish—felt all the bitterest grief and indigna-
tion of 4 wronged wife.

Never,\never, never, would she have anything to do
with this fatal Miss Ambrose!

But, inmethod, oh, how wrong she had been.

Meanwhile, Leigh, in the excess of his rage at Violet’s
defiance tore blindly through the wood, yet by some in-
stinct took paths that led him from his park to a little

Entered According to Act of Congress, in

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

31 Rose St.

   
 

  
 

 

n of Congress, Washington, D.C.

Three Dollars

 

Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

Per Year,

No. 1.

—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SSS

 

 

   

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= ANN
Aves SN

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**EDNA, WHY DID

 

| hazel coppice, through which rippled a silver stream, a
| quiet nook belonging to Miss Whateley’s small property,

and lying just outside her humble rose garden.

His heart had not misled him; through the opening
| in the coppice lay exposed a sweep ol the Sussex Weal-
: den, wide and bare, yet glowing in the tints of summer,
' and under the trees sat Edna, a block of paper on her
| knee, her color box lying by her side, making a sketch

of that fair perspective.

Leigh, hot and breathless, dashed through the green
shelter, and flinging himself on the turf near her feet,
hid his face against the folds of her soft draperies, and
cried, passionately :

“Edna, Edna, why did I leave you ?”

She started with a troubled look, but dropping her
brush, laid her gentle hand on his head, saying :

“Lord Leigh, what troubles you? What is it ?”

Lord Leigh reached up and seized the soft hand.

“Tam rewarded for my villainy. I married for for-
tune—I hate my wife and she hates me! Oh, why did I
not face exposure and loss, and be a good man in the
heaven of your guardianship ?”

‘Norman,” said Edna, firmly, ‘if you speak such words
I shall leave you and never see you again. My wish is
to help you, if I may. But I cannot listen to such words
about the wife you married less than two months ago.
She can have done nothing to deserve them.”

She has—she defies me—she flatly refused to invite
you to our house, or make your acquaintance.”

“And since when,” said Edna, coolly resuming her
oe ‘shas a lady lost the right to choose her own so-
ciety ?”

‘ — itis a wife’s duty to obey and please her hus-

and.”

“ASI read life,” said Edna, ‘marriage should be a
field of mutual concessions. There should be a recipro-
cal study of each other's tastes, and the husband, as
oldest and strongest, should set this good example. Will
you not tell me how my name came up, and this diffi-
culty occurred ?”

Her tranquil voice calmed Leigh’s storm; he related,
with only a few accidental changes, the recent discus-
sion with Violet, Edna looked him in the eyes and
smiled.

“Foolish man, cannot you see what all that means ?
This poor little girl has heard somehow my name in con-
nection with yours—some garbled account. She is jeai-
ous, and you are angry at what is really a compliment
to you, an earnest of her care for you. Let her alone
about me. Do not vex her—in some way we two shall
get acquainted, and I will love her and make her love
me, and I will see that she abandons this jealousy, hav-
ing no cause, as you and I are but friends.”

“Jealousy ?” cried Leigh, “‘ifshe only knew how far
pole, you her petty airs and contradictions make her
00k !’

“If you think to please me by condemning your wife,”
said Edna, with coldness, ‘‘you are mistaken. You will
only cause me to bless heaven that 1 did not get a hus-
band capable of forgetting his altar vows, and uncon-
scious of what he owes to a woman who is one with him
in his flesh and his interests.”

‘‘Edna, if you speak so coldly to me, look so coldly, you
will drive me mad:”

“Norman, I remember our past with kindness. I de-
sire to be your friend, sister, helper. 1 cannot easily
forsake old attachments, Iam faithful by nature. But

if you use such language to me I shall simply cease to
see you.”

“I know,” cried Leigh, ‘that you must think such
words ill fitted to a man, who having protested love and
offered you marriage, left you suddenly, and after two
letters, gave no further sign of remembrance, and in a
year reappears before you married. Only let me speak
this once.
my soul. To marry you was my one desire; but I came
home here at the call of my bustness man, and he showed
me that I had unhappily reduced my affairs to complete
wreck ; that my estates were abominably incumbered ;

less I repaired matters with a prodigioussum. Marriage
with a great heiress was my one refuge. Such a mar-
riage [ made; no doubt I sinned irretrievably.”

‘Not irretrievably if you make a good, faithful, tender

 

My vows of love were the real language of '

 

and that open disgrace was inevitable within a year un- |

\ WW NN iS

Dey \ oe

 

is open to you to repair the past.and be a worthy man.
We are speaking plainly, Norman: After you left me I
learned that when, two years ago, you wished to secure
my acquaintance, and thought you had fallen in love at
first sight with me, you obtained your end by pretend-
ing tomake love to Helen Hope, my governess. You
played with her for your own ends, and wrecked her
life in doing so; forshe really loved you. She showed
me your notes and gifts, and it was that that proved to
me you were not the man I could love and honor as my
husband. What you tell me now deepens that assur-
ance, because by no good means van a man ruin.such a
fortune as you did.”

“No, it was by evil means; but you, angel of an Edna,
could have saved me.”

«And I can save you still,” shesaid, bending her heav-
enly face toward him, and lajing her hand on his
shoulder. Whatever the faults and follies of the past,
let me help you toforsake them; and, believe me, the
first step on the way of return,istolove and cherish
this fair young bride, who has no shelter but your
heart.”

Norman Leigh kissed her hind; she thought in ac-
quiescence. It was acquiescence compelled only by the
assurance thatif he did not seem to take the path of
bonor he must no more look op, Edna Ambrose. And
his whole soul cried out thaf could not live away
from her blessed presence—that rather than part from
her he would die at her feet.

‘Make peace with your wife, drop me from your dis-
cussions, and leave me to meet, and know, and win the
love of Lady Leigh in my own fashion.”

Under bonds of this instruction, Leigh met Violet at
dinner. She was pale and subdued, resolved but re-
morseful. He took the initiative.

‘‘Have you written those invitations, Violet ?”

‘No; I did not know they were concluded on.”

“Let us write them after dinner, in the library ?”

“I know I spoke too hastily this morning. I should
have refused in some better Way. I was very una-
miable.”

«So it appeared to me.
govern your invitations.
or stays away.”

Violet felt intensely ashamed This remark set her
clearly in the wrong. She blushed and faltered :

‘TJ have been spoiled, I fear, Norman. I speak too
hastily.”

“Well, never mind. I dare say we are not of natures
to live like two.doves. Most majches have such differ-
ences in them. People, I fancy, don’t usually marry the
ones best suited to them. We’l rub on as easily as we
can.”

The invitations were written; but heavily on Violet’s
soul lay Lord Leigh’s estimate of marriage, and the
assurance of her own irreparable mistake; and her own
forlorn condition.

But, of course, I don’t wish to
I don’tcare a rush who comes

CHAPTER XXVI.
“YOU ARE THE HAPPIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD.”

A gray, elderly man, bowed’ as much with care as
with age, was walking along a lane of the village of
Leigh, when he heard the sound of astep on the turf
behind him, and turned to see a gracious figure in blue
cambric, a wide faille hat, trimmed with grass and
aries, and carrying alittle basket. Recognition was
mutual,

“Why, Adam!” cried the girl,

‘‘Miss Ambrose !” faltered the old man,

‘You seemed in a brown study, Adam.
ing is wrong with you ?”

“It is the old story, Miss Ambrose—worry for my mas-

I hope noth-

ter. You know how it wasin Cornwall. I had the care
ot a father rather than aservant. I’ve watched all his
life.”

“Yes ; I saw him the other day, Adam.”

“Did you, madam ?” cried Adam, eagerly.

«And told him how happy I hoped he would be.”

Adam saw no shadow of regtet on the lovely, tran-
quil face. Sweet peace looked out of the sunny blue
eyes, framed in the wreath of golden hair.

“But he is not happy: Miss Ambrose,” said Adam. “I
speak out to you, because of the old time. I hoped

 

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I LEAVE YOU! I HATE MY WIFE, AND SHE HATES ME!’

 

some one tosave him. But it is not my lady’s fault; a
sweeter, more innocent, forgiving young creature never
lived. He has gone to London alone for two days, he
says, and to bring back her aunt and cousins to see her.
But I have no peace tillI see him again. Itis like old
times to meet you, tripping about with your little bas-
ket of good things to sick or poor, as you did in your
father’s parish.”

So Lord Leigh was absent! This, then, was a time
when Edna might venture in his grounds and try to
meet the lonely little wife. If they could only meet, she
trusted to their mutual youth and tastes in common to
bring them together. Edna Ambrose had never met
any one who turned coldly from her lovely face and
sweet, earnest manner.

That very afternoon she set out for a walk in Leigh
Woods. Nearer and nearer the house’she would draw—
perhaps she would find the deserted mistress ‘of the es-
tablishment. Turning about a little wooded knoll
where a cluster of beech trees cast a goodly shade, Ed-
na saw ascarlet hammock swinging low between two
trees, and beside it, sitting stiffly erect, a great mastiff—
one of the famous dogs of Leigh; he held himself im-
movable, like a cast iron dog set up in a garden in some
excess of ill taste; but as Edna came softly near he
wagged his tail a few times, by way of recognition. All
dogs loved Miss Ambrose.

In the hammock lay a slender figure, dressed in white
pique trimmed with Irish point and scarlet knots of rib-
bon. Violet was asleep. Her long, dark lashes swept
her flushed, dimpled cheek; the brown rings of her hair
were damp with the dews of slumber; her pretty, pa-
thetic mouth, curved now in a smile, now for a sigh.

Edna, looking at her child-like beauty, longed to gather
her to her heart and implore her to be happy. She felt
singularly drawn to this helpless, lovely creature. Surely
they could be friends, and she could help her in her per-
ilous, thorny way.

But a cloud moved across the face of the dreaming
Violet; her red lips quivered.

“You don’t love me,” she sobbed; ‘‘you never loved
me!”

Edna drew back. She could not, a stranger, intrude
on these unconscious revelations. Then Violet’s hands
were held out, as if searching for help, and she cried:

“T dare not see you—I love you too well, my——”

But Edna had stepped hastily beyond hearing of those
murmurs. She did not wish to know of Violet more than
the girl-wife voluntarily told her. As she withdrew into
the wood, Kate, who had been for work, or a book, has-
tily returned, and her rushing step roused her mistress.

Miss Ambrose, feeling that Kate’s presence would dis-
turb the freedom of the interview she desired with Violet,
withdrew, determined to find the little countess next

day.

But not the next day, nor for months after, did those
two meet. During those months Edna carried in her
heart a memory of the pretty young creature, tossing,
and murmuring of her troubles, in her sleep.

In spite of the fears of Violet, and of old Adam, Lord
Leigh returned home safely, after two days, bringing
with him Mrs. Ainslie and four of.her girls, their plans
for a lengthened stay on the Continent having been
abandoned in fear of an epidemic in Italy.

Violet had feared that vexation at her refusal to re-
ceive Miss Ambrose might’ drive Norman back to his
gaming-table, and she received him in the relief of her
feelings with considerable affection.

“TI knew you would be a model couple,” said Mrs.
Ainslie, beaming her joy, as Violet ran to embrace Lord
Leigh.

Neither of them guessed that a fair face in a glory of
golden hair, the hope of hearing the melodious tones of
a voice that had once spoken in love to him, of clasping
a hand which voluntarily he had resigned, had brought
Lord Leigh home. The very coolness of Edna, and the
frankness with which she condemned him, were added
charms in the eyes of the young peer, whose love ad-
vances had never been before coldly met by any
one.

The first real satisfaction of her married life came to
Violet when she acted the part of hostess to her aunt
and cousins, who arrived afew days before the other
guests. Their unbounded admiration of her splendid

 

home, Mrs. Ainslie’s awed rapture in the portrait gal-

lery, where many generations of, Leighs looke:, arom

the walls, wiled Violet from her sadness.

“But where is your portrait, Violet?” «¢d Mrs.
Ainslie ; “‘it should be here, next to your! ,>and’s.”

“There has not been time for that yet,” “aid Violet.

“Tt shajl be done, when we are in * »adon, next
season,” said Lord Leigh, with asigh “+ that blonde
face that might have been next his 0

The parks, the conservatories, t! ancient colum-

« banium, or dome-tower, with its ‘undreds of iris-
plumaged doves, and stables with ¢shoice horses, the
pheasants, peacocks, and other fancy birds, the silver,
and tapestries, and furniture, modern and ancient,
alike enchanted the Ainslies. They spent two or
three days in looking at everythiag and exclaiming
in admiration. ;

“Violet,” cried Anna Ainslie, “yu are the happiest
woman in the world! When I come out next winter I
shall look out for an earl. 1 should be perfectly satis-
fied with this life.”

Then Kate spent hours in taking from antique
presses and great carved chests, heir-looms of Leigh
garments that had clad the counitesses of the. past.
Purple, and blue, and crimson. and) white Geneva vel-
vets; Flanders lace; Venetian gold \and silver tissues;
oriental scarfs and shawis; fans and jeweled combs,
and lace mantiilas from Spain; robes of muslins,
fine as cobwebs from India; shot arid embroidered
silks from China, all diffusing rare odors of sandal-
wood, ambergris, and ottar of roses.. Then there
were the Leigh jewels—diamonds. opals, rubies,
pearls, a shivered rainbow of choice delights, heaped
on the table in Violet’s boudoir, while over them bent
the heads of the elder Ainslie girls and their mother,
and Mrs. Ainslie turned now and again to embrace
her niece, and suid, over and over:

“Oh, Violet, I am so glad, we fairly insisted on your
marrying Lord Leigh !”

None of them thought that, possessed of such splen-
dors, she could be otherwise than happy.

‘ “I could have bought all this for myself,” said

Violet.

“But not the title, and the ancestors, and the
estates, and the heir-looms,” said her aunt. ‘‘You are
one of the first peeressesin England. If I could match
even one of my daughters as well as you were mar-
ried, 1 think I should die content.”

“Don’t marry them for anything but love,” said Vio-
let. ‘They will find all else wearisome. They will
soon care no more for these trinkets than I do.”

‘‘Not care for them!” cried Mabel Ainsiie, a little
romp. - “Oh, then, Violet, do please give me this
little silver man, with a basket on his back, that
stands on your toilet-table.”

“Certainly,” said Violet, carelessly, ‘‘whatever you
like.”

*“So\? Oh, then, do give me this porcelain cup and
saucer——” ;

“M4mma,” interruptedy Anna, “di make Mabel be
Ryivehuerseii Ste now Ge is tars. We vl

acted that way when we Were little; we were not al

lowed.” . .

“No 2” said Mrs. -Ainske, régarding her youngest
progeny, through her eye-glasses, with Considerable
interest.

“T shall ask Lord Leigh for a pouy,” Said Mabe;
‘Tl tell him Violet says she does not care for any
such things.” ;

“If you do that, miss,” said Anna, “Ill give you a
sound whipping, whether mamma rouses herself up to
it or not.”

Mrs. Ainslie now turned her admiration to her
eldest.

«Violet, what a spirit the girl has! what authority!
She should be over a large household.” ‘Then drop-
ping her voice: ‘‘My dear, your friend Lady Burton’s
son, is not an earl, but he isarare good match, an
old family, great fortune, and such a fine, good
young man—he would make my Annaso happy. Do,
my love, ask them here, and help me make a match
between them.”

Violet shuddered; it had never entered her mind
before what she should do if Kenneth, her one friend
and refuge, married.

“TI cannot ask them here; they are engaged ; they
could not come. You must wait until next season.”

“The freedom and charm of a place like this is so
conducive to love-making,” sighed Mrs. Ainslie.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
LOST TO HIM FOREVER MORE.

“Oh, my Amy, tender hearted,
Oh, my Amy, mine no more.

One by one the visitors gathered at Leigh Towers.
Grace Fanshaw came, all eagerness to see her favorite
friend, and to find that the omens of the wedding-day
had proved false. Tom Churchill came, Grace being his
lode-star, resolved to lay his heart and hand,and all that
was his, at her feet before they left the romantic envi-
rons of the Towers. Colonel Hartington came, for the
first time in years. In fact, the first time since he had
quarreled with the late Lord Leigh, Hartington accusing
young Norman of cheating at billiards, and thrashing
him therefor.

“Hullo, Hartington, glad to see you,” said Leigh, giv-
him his hand, on the terrace. ‘Glad you accepted my
invitation.”

“I suppose this means truce,” said Hartington, ‘‘and
my laying down my arms, for with a young countess at
Leigh, 1 foresee a long troop of future Leighs, and an
end of my expectations.”

“Pshaw! you don’t need expectations—you’re rich,”
said Leigh. ‘It means not only truce, but more. I want
to marry you, man. What do you say to an earl’s daugh-
ter? We have asked Lady Clare Montressor, and mean
to make a match between you.”

But before many days the keen eyes of Colonel Hart-
ington and the motherly orbs of Mrs. Ainslie saw that
all was not right between the young couple. So did
others.

“If I thought Tom Churchill would care no more for
me than Leigh does for Violet, I would say ‘no’ the min-
ute he asked me,” said Grace to her mamma.

“Tom Churchill is a different man—more free heart-
ed. Leigh always was rather sour,” said Lady Fan-
shaw. ‘No doubt he has his peculiar disposition from
his mother, but the Leighs have always been a very hon-
ored line.”

“And what about his mother ?” urged Grace.

“Oh, I fear she was little better than an adventuress.
Had been married before, I believe, and her father was
a retired officer, living mostly on his wits. Lord Leigh
pensioned him. She gambled, so they said. She only
lived five years after marrying Leigh, and the affair has
been hushed up. She wasin London the season I came
out—a tall, dark, handsome woman, with black eyes,
too near together, like her son’s, and features like his.
You wiil see her portrait in the gallery. This Lord Leigh
has done wellfor himself, marrying a sweet creature
like Violet.”

Colonel Hartington noticed the coolness of the mar-
ried pair—the shy sorrow of Violet, the indifference of
Leigh—and hugged himself with the thought that he
might be Earl of Leigh yet.

“If this little lady dies of chagrin, or falls in love and
elopes, or my cousin of Leigh dies without heirs—and
what with late hours and brandy, he is wearing himself
out in a ghastly fashion—my turn may come.”

But Mrs. Ainslie, direct of nature, went straight to
Leigh.

“You and Violet are not so happy asI thought you
were. I’m afraid you don’t understand the dear child.
She looks sad and lonely. No one can make up to a
young woman for her husband. I fear you don’t pet her
enough. She is used to being made much of,”

“Yes, I see she is a deal spoiled, and fond of her own
way. She set herself against some visitors I wanted, for
one thing. AndI1 don’t like these martyr airs, for my
part. Ifalady has dislikes, she should keep them to
herself. Perhaps you had better speak to her, to have a
little more aplomb or dash—something beside those sud-
den starts and blushes, and wet eyes and longing
looks,”

“Do you mean I am to find fault with Violet ? I would
not, for the world. I never did in my life.”

‘Not if she deserved it ?”

“Certainly not. To begin, I would not believe she de-
served it,” said the loyal aunt.

‘A man must be master in his own home,” said Leigh.
“T wanted to ask a Miss Ambrose, and Violet flatly re-
fused to have her.”

“Why, that’s odd. Is she afraid of too many guests?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

2

ata THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==>

 

VOL. 42—No.

s

 

 

 

Now I wanted Lady Burton and Keith, and she refused
me. too. I wanted to bring Keith and Anna together.
You see the entire responsibility of these girls ison my
hands. Mr. Ainslie says he cannot take care of girls’ af-
fairs: he only knows ledgers and the markets.”

“See, now,” said Leigh, always tond of intriguing for
what he wanted, ‘I’ll try and manage to bring Keith
and his mother here, and you must do as much for Miss
Ambrose. She’s in the neighborhood. and you'll make
her acquaintance. I suppose the only trouble is a little
jealousy.”

“Violet's mother was rather sensitive and queer, but
J laid it to her blue blood, and I supposed. youw’d know
how to manage such notions in Violet,” said poor Mrs.
Ainslie.

But while these two were negotiating to betray her
into receiving undesired guests, Violet, surrounded by
the bright faces ofvher friends, her lately lonely home
filled with laughter and song, returned herself to the
smiles and cheer of six months before. Each morning
she came into the breakfast-room fresh as arose. Now
dipped in Paphian wells of sleep, her bloom returned,
brightness lay in the brown eyes as sunbeams gleaming
on dew ; and Violet’s voice led the rest in proposing some
new sylvan pleasure. Yet now and then the. realization
that Leigh did not care for her, that she was not the one
dearest to any one of those about her, that she had no
strong heart on which to lean, overcame her, and drove
her from the gay group, and brought the ready tears.

\f Grace Fanshaw found her thus, in the conservatory,

* standing in the tropic warmth of the orchid house, the

marvelous manhy-colored fiowers blooming about her,
jendid but scentless, and forced as her own life.

Grace clasped her about the waist.

“Darling Violet, why ‘are these tears in your eyes ?”

Violet broke from her, and ran into the next compart-

1ent. Grace followed her, and knelt before her, clasp-
ag her arms about her again.

“Violet; tell me—are you not happy?”

But Violet caught great clusters of Jacqueminot and

Rothschild roses and showered the vivid, fragrant petals ,

overher kneeling friend, with a burst of laughter: then
ran into-the music-room, and played Strauss’ waltzes in
@ dashing, w) d yey, very different from the dreamy
sweetness of ver v tal playing. And all that day she
was very merr / and bright among her friends.

Grace Fanshaw fo got her fears, and was the liveliest
eye group. After 4'nner she went out into the garden
te t lilies with dew on them, ‘‘to improve her beauty,”
she . Md; “she was sich alate sleeper, it was hopeless
for Lér ‘othink of ; :tting morning dews.” When she
game ict, her charm! ¢ little Psyche head, with its rings
‘OL yellow »4ir, was: \ining with dew.

Oh, ni: gaa,” sb» cried, ‘feel my head!” and bend-
Ing gracivi. y, she ‘xtended the pretty pate to the ma-
ternal towci ~ #Vi et, feel my head, how wet it is.
Mrs. Ainsli: cai 20t leave you out of such a treat.”

She was j-ass g/ ord Leigh, and, full of mischief, she
bowed the }Jumc ti zed crown before him. ‘You, toe,
my lord”

With & laugh. be laid his fingers on the wet locks.
His simile « as tul’ 6! admiration—as who could help ad
miring this fantas tic, charming.creature ?

Mrs. Ainslie su: \denly awoke to a foolish fear. She
went (© Violet’s re dr that night, and said, anxiously :

“Way €O you ha ve that pretty, gay Grace here? I be-
lieve | Je is trying ‘e ‘dirt with your husband.”

«Nopsense, aunt: She is almost engaged to Tom
Churchilk”

“Pye been wateidng bim,” said foolish Mrs. Ainslie, in
distress. “You must look more to him, Violet. I’m sure
he is getting in love with some one.”

“Not cetting!” said Violet, turning white; ‘it is done,
but it is not Graee Fanshaw. There, aunt, never speak
of this again. 4 can bear my own burden till it kills
me.” s

Poor Mrs. Ainslie cried heartily most of the night, and
left her room late nextday. Instead of finding Violet
and her »ouSehold shrouded in gloom, the good woman
in the c »rvidor met a “rabble rout” nearly as motley as
that in Comus. The entire party were dressed in those
ancient treasures of the Towers—court and wedding-
suits of Lords and Dames of Leigh. ,

“Violet's hair was done «a la Pompadour, and she
wore a short-waisted, pillow-sieeved, long-trained robe
of purple velvet, trimmed in gold lace. Grace Fanshaw
was in the dimmed glories of a maid of honor of Eliza-
beth. Lord Leigh wore the black velvet suit.in which
one of his line went to welcome William of Orange. And
Tom Churchill strutted about in the guise of a Leigh
who went to France to convey over the luckless Hen-
rietta. Others had come out in garments of different
ages, and a troop of butterflies could not be brighter
than they, as the sunshine poured over them when they
rushed out on the terraces.

A week of this maquerading and other entertainment,
and one day Violet chanced to wander off alone toward
the grand entrance gates.

Along that very walk came swinging with great, eagcr
strides Kenneth Keith. i

Violet's eyes were downcast, her heart absorbed in
musing. Kenneth saw hér from “afar in the flecking
sunshine. This slender shape, silken and slippered,

the trailing irts robe held up in one delicate hand, the-

head drooping alittle on one side as a flower on its
Sten, soft perfunfes stealing about, her as shie.came—
fhis was she, his, Violet: ;bat-noe, pot his; gypne into
aR

fore.
, (TO BE CONTINUED.)
5 ee ee, Se ag
EXCITING SHAM BATTLE.

A good story is told of Col. Daggett, who led the
““«Greasers” in the sham battle at Grand Island, Neb.

When the fight was getting tolerably warm, Gen. Mor-
row ordered a retreat, fearing somebody would get hurt.
The programme had it settled that the Mexicans would
be whipped, but the doughty Daggett threw regulations
to the winds, and determined to fight it out.

Morrow rushed up to the colonel, shouting at the top
of his voice :

“You're licked, and the batte is over; why in thunder
don’t you stop firing ?”

“We're not licked !” yelled the colonel, fairly livid with
excitement. ‘I'll be blankety blanked if we’re licked !”
and, gathering himself for the bloody encounter, his
face assumed an expression which meant victory or
death.

Gon. Morrow and two or three other officers, seeing
the predicament, rushed in and headed him off, and
after a desperate effort succeeded in explaining to him
that it was all a sham battle, and that he must submit
gracefully to the licking on the programme. He realized
the situation, but too late. The Americans, terrified by
his earnest demeanor, had fied from the field, leaving
the Mexicans in full possession.

AN

> o~<
A MOTHER LOSES HER TWO SONS.

A shocking case of drowning recently occurred in Pu-
laski County, Ark. While the twelve-year-old son of Mr.
Joseph Morse was bathing in a pond near his residence,
he was suddenly taken with cramps and called to his

brother Henry, who was standing upon the bank, to
save him. Henry sprang into the water to save his
brother, but the latter’s weight in addition to that of
his own clothing proved too great, and they both sank
never to arise again. Mrs. Morse had run from the
house when the first warning was given and witnessed
the death of her two sons. She fainted at the sight, and
when restered to consciousness it was found that she
had become a raving maniac.

——_—__+ @<—___———
A CUTE OLD MASTER. »°

A venerable looking old man applied for a pint of Cal-
ifornia brandy last week at a Providence drug store,
stating that he wanted it to revive the color of a work of
art.

«Ah, that is for a mechanical purpose,” said the clerk,
and here it is.”

The old man signed for the liquor according to the re-
quirements of the law, and paying for it, started toward
the door. Before departing, however, he faced about,
and with a droll expression on his countenance, Said:

«It is to revive one of the old masters.”

Too late the clerk realized that the old man regarded
himself as an old master.

———-—_ > e+.

THE TEMPL'. OF SERPENTS.

The small town of Werda, in the kingdom of Daho-
mey, is celebrated for its Temple of Serpents, a long
building in which the priests keep upwards of a thou-
sand serpents. These serpents, many of them of enor-

mous size, may be seen hanging from the beams across
the ceiling, with their heads downwards, and in all
sorts of strange contortions. It often happens that some
of these serpents make their way out of the temple into
the town, and the priests have the greatest difficulty in
coaxing them back. To kill aserpent intentionally is a
crime punished with death; and ifa foreigner were to
kill one, the authority of the king himself would scarce-
ly suffice to save his life.

—

TuHaT which we acquire with most difficulty we retain
the longest; as those who have earned a fortune are
usually more careful of it than those who have inherited
one.

DELIBERATE With caution, but act with decision; and
yield with grace, or oppose with firmness.

SrronG reasons make strong actions.

LET no man presume to give advice to others who has
not first given good counsel to himself.

THE More any one speaks of himself, the less he likes
to hear another talked of.

Economy is of itself a great revenue.

Oe

The American Homeopathic Observer says: ‘The Liebig
Co’s preparations should not be confounded with patent nos-
trums. Its Coca Beef Tonicis a legitimate pharmaceutical
product, and worthy of the recommendations bestowed upon
it by both homeopathic and allopathic journals. Invaluable
to all who arerun down, nervous, dyspeptic, or bilious.”

und such wasvorthy Beepiny. . host to bis peers)
; we 4

FORGIVEN.
BY H, W. C.

In days to come, should thoughts of me

Across thy tranquil memory rise,
Like foam upon a summer sea,

Or clouds that fioat in azure skies,
Think not of me as left to mourn

The blighted hopes of early years ;
Think not of me as one forlorn,

A Niobe of sighs and tears.

The past I may not quite forget,
But though it brings a thrill of pain,
1 think of thee without regret.
But with a smile of calm disdain.
For perjured lips are naught to me,
Nor vows those perjured lips have sworn,.
Nor hearts that throb with perfidy,
Urnworthy e’en of righteous scorn.

And yet I sometimes dream of thee,
When stars have lit the tranquil skies,
And peaceful memories come to me
As thoughts of happier days arise.
But dreams like this bring heaven so near,
J feel resentment may not last ;
And kind forgiveness claims one tear,
Memorial of the hallowed past!

>~e~—

(THIS STORY WILL NOT. BE, PUBIMSHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

Ulfalo BIS Best Shot;

OR, THE

HEART OF SPOTTED TAIL,

By NED BUNTLINE,
AUTHOR OF

“RED DICK,” “ROVER WILD,” “NAVIGATOR
NED,” etc.

{“BuFFraLo BILL’s Best SHOT” was commenced in No, 47
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXIV.
A TERRIBLE DUEL ON HORSEBACK.

The sight which caused General Custer to draw rein
can better be described if we leave him and go to the
spot where the preparations for the terrible duel be-
tween Klamat, tne Comanche Tiger, and Dave Estes
commenced. For it was the sight of this duel at its
commencement which made the general draw rein, and
also halt his column.

The sun was a little over an hour high when Spotted
Tail told the two intended combatants to get ready, for
it was time.

«Take care of these, gal, and if Ishould go under in
this fight, keep them for my sake !” d

That was what Dave said, as he took off his fringed
hunting shirt, his bullet pouch and powder horn, and
his belt with its pistols and knife scabbard. He gave
her his rifle also to hold, and if he fell to keep. The
knife which he was about to use—a long, straight-
bladed hunting knite—required no scabbard now. But
with careful forethought, the little scout took a slender

thong of buckskin and attaching it to the buck-horn
handle of the knife, fastened the same to his wrist.
Now, naked to his waist, the knotted muscles of his
white arms showing a tremendous strength for one so
slight, his broad shoulders and full chest free from all
incumbrance, with his buckskin trousers tight about
his slender waist, and loose about his strong lower limbs,
the young hero looked as he was, a LITTLE GIANT, ready
to do successful battle with his brawny and gigantic an-

i a!

Dave looked at him as he 72°
fearless, and though he was at %% merey. ie could not
slay him. Tossing his Inite toward tue mortified chiet,
he cried : R ;

“Take better care of your tools, Tiger of the Comanches,
Mount and try your mek again.”

“Klamat is not a dog, to accept life from a pale-face !”
shouted the maddened chief, for he heard the derisive
laugh of Dove Eye. “He has made his life a shame, and
he will throwitaway.”

He snatched the knife from ‘he ground as he said this,

‘ bling horse.
the ground, and then
‘ied the keen, reeking
weapon in his own
He tell upon his h
Spotted Tail and 1)

aro * duel was over.
6 Sign | Jorward to greet the
s UX chief gaw the cavalry
Ought, ready to charge.
TS frona the big forts are

bar Whlo Sigertr head his band in
vas 4 Climnce; but the little scout

“They are my fric and there shall be nofight. I
will ride to meet their@hiet, and you shall see the white
flag of.peace raised in their front!”

“The Little Brave isright. There shal’ be peace, be-
cause T promised Long Rifle 'f should be so!” said Spot-
ted Tail. ‘‘But he must go (0 the pale-fazes quickly, or
they will come to us!” ‘

“T will ride at once, Ama :
your people move, the
fight, and charge yy ‘them |"

And while Spott ‘Pall | Re &
Comanches to keep baek, fo
forward to take up the bod
away to meet those whom
eral Custer and his officers
fornia Joe and his fellow s¢
Sat upon their horses, ¢
what they had seen,

upon us!” he cried.

And he would ha)
battle, or fly, if the
cried out :

_

am; but do not let one of
lers tink they mean to
cried Dave.
up bis hand to warn the
hey were about to ride
their chief, Dave darted
at onee recognized—Gen-
mdy mort least, if last, Cali-
Little Buckshot, for all
ently wonder-stricken at

’ by sight, and services as
= now, half naked, bare-
mi Several gashes in his face
mt, the brave young general

Dave Estes was well. ku.
well, to General Custer ;4
headed, blood streaming |
and arms, it is no wonde™y
did not know him. '

“Who are you, antwiy
we have just witnessed 9
halted in front of him ang

“You used to call me ii
said Estes. ‘I’m not in
busy a butcherin’!”

“Dave Estes, the Scougy
terrible fight yon have i

“The bulliest fight an
ever drew a knife!’ shoug
jest let me sail in and lay
ed, before you wipe ‘em @

“The neatest bit:
added Little Buekshot. @

“General, will - “Es
them Indians he'@
report,” cried Dave, gee:

mee scene mean which
the general, as Dave

rs

ed.

ve ve, tk¥# Scout, general,”
Parlor rig just now; I’ve been
S

cried the general. ‘What a
We saw it all.”
‘the pbulliest little cuss that
California Joe. ‘Gen’ral,
$ another one, single-hand-
mm

erin’ I ever saw—it was!”

6 raise a white flag to keep
ey are tiiiI can make a full
how uneasy Spotted Tail sat

on his horse w me wHat wasgoingon. ‘They'll not
stir till I tell ‘ein to, ‘er the fiag is seen. Buffalo Bill
and me promised Peete

«Tll show the flag,” said the general. ‘That can do
no harm, while I hear who they are and what Buffalo
Bill and you have taken upon yourselves to promise.”

And instantly a white handkerchief, raised on a drawn
saber, told the Indians that the pale faced warriors de-
sired peace. : ;

Now, Dave, tell. me what Indians those are.”

“First, a band of es, that were under a chief
known as Klamat the Tig€ér.”

“T have heard of him—a blood-thirsty savage.”

«He is done for now. \It was with him I had the little
difference which you have been looking at.”

“A pretty heavy difference, Ishould say. But go on.”

“The rest are Sioux, under command of Spotted Tail.
Mrs. Spotted Tail and Miss Spotted Tail, an angel in red,
are in the party.” : ake ,

“Spotted Tail—theadliest enemy of the whites—
a than Red Cloud ever was!” exclaimed General

‘uster. con ad

“Buffalo Bill and me have worked the old cuss over,
general. He has promised peace, and you can bet your
shoulder-straps he'll keep his word!”

«Tf he does it will be better than a dozen campaigns—
better than my Wasbita victory.”

“Nary time, gin’ral, nary time! We wiped out nigh
two hundred varmints there. They'll never forget it!”
said California Joe.

“If you will permit me to ride back now, general, to
get my clothes on and get my arms, I'll tell the Indians
to go into camp on one side of the brook, while you can
take the other, and you can see Spotted Tail and his
chiefs, and bind ’em down with a strong talk !”

 

tagonist.
The moment -he had taken off his arms and hunting-

horse, hig noble Black Hawk, up to hi
+ “Old boy, we've got some ively w
E Dawes path ig horse on: Ahe ne
lighten yo i I Can.” *

He then togk off the sadaie and

on a trot.
‘i. may
e blanket with it, |

| but he took the girth which had beund the Saddie to

its place and replaced it loosely on the horse. He took
off the bridle entirely, for his horse) like Powder Face.
.knew by the pressure of its rider’s leg when and where
that rider wished to turn, and by his voice when to go
or stop.

“Is the pale-face ready ? or would he wait to speak
his prayers?” said Klamat, sneeringly, as he sat in |
savage pride on his horse, which was saddled andj,
bridled as usual.

“TI haven't much prayin’ to do just now, Mr. Copper-
head,” said Dave, coolly. ‘‘But Il hope the Great Spirit
will forgive me for sending a savage like you before Him |
in such a hurry.” |

ety turning to Dove Eye, Dave took her hand, and |
said : |

“Gal, if I don’t get another chance to say it—good-by. |
I love you, and I’m goin’ to fight like lightnin’ to get that |
snake out of your way.” |

“Fight and kill him,” said Dove Eye. ‘If he kills you,
PU kill him.”

“That's the grit,” said Dave, as he sprang on bis horse. |
“Now, Mr. Spotted Tail, just tell us where the bounds
are, and I’m ready to sail in.”

The Sioux chief pointed to two spears, with red flags
on them, set in the ground about two hundred yards in
front of the spot where all the Indians were congregated,
and nearly the same distance apart.

«The Little Brave will take the one nearest to the sun
—the Comanche chief the other, fora post. When Spot-
ted Tail waves his blanket in the air, then begin the
poco Its end is with yourselves. Are both of you now
ready ?”

“Tam, but Klamat is not,” said Dave. ‘‘He wears upon
his breast a shield—mine is bare.”

“It is but the sign of my rank,” said the Comanche, as
he laid his hand upon a golden emblem of the sun, as
large as the crown of the hat Dave had cast down.

“Bare your breast, coward, as I have done,” cried the
little scout.

With a look of gloomy hatred, the Comanche lifted the
symbol from his breast. It had more meaning than cven
Dave had suspected, for the chief had taken it asa gift
from the hand of an Aztec priest, who told him while he
wore that, he would be invulnerable.

He offered it to Dove Eye to hold for him, as she now
held the arms and trappings of his enemy.

With a look of bitter scorn she refused to take it, and
he had to consign it to the care of one of his own war-
riors. ;

Now, with that off, his pride went too, and he tore off
all his proud trappings, and, in a few seconds, his giant
torm was also bare to the waist.

“Now,” he cried, as he waved his long glittering knife
in the air—‘‘now is the pale-face satisfied ?”

“Yes. Jo your post, as 1 to mine,” cried Dave, bound-
ing to the back of his horse and riding to the spear which
was set farthest east.

He had just reached it, when he saw, to his surprise,

shirt, Dave gave @ shrillcry; which bgought-his.trained |

re USL” _ “General, I 2
net EE Ball =e wan sive

 

mounted troops close at hand, but he had not a mo-
ment’s time to inspect them, or even to think what they

Sioux chief, who could not see the. troops., gave the
signal.

With a terrible yell the Comanche dashed forward on
a direct line for Dave, while the latter, with his horse at
an easy gallop, rode on to meet the terrific charge of the
other.

AS Dave rode, erect and easy, it seemed asif the Co-
manche, prone on his horse, with one hand clutching
the mane, the other stretched forward with the knife
pointed, would have a terrible advantage.

black steed of the scout, touched in the flank by his
rider’s heels, bounded fulla yard to one side, and Dave,
clinging with one hand to the girth on his back, reached
far over and cuta deep groove in the back of the Co-
manche, who supposed himself out of reach.

Wildly yelling, the. Indian drew rein and turned his
horse in swift pursuit of that of Dave, which seemed for
an instant to be flying from him.

But, quicker than thought, the black horse, impelled
by a touch, wheeled, reared full before the flying steed
of the Comanche, which fell back on its haunches, and
both horses sat with their fore-feet in the air, furiously
striking and biting each other, while the knives of the
riders played like vivid lightning in alternate thrust and
parry.

So close were men and horses, that the Indians, but a
hundred yards away, could not see between them, and
had it not been for the stern order of Spotted Tail to re-
main still and motionless, they would have rushed up in
their excitement to get a closer view of the terrible
struggle.

This lasted scarce a minute, yet to all who gazed it
seemed much longer. Then, all at once, a knife was seen
to fly high up in the air, and fall yards away from the
combatants.

Dove Eye trembled now for the first time. One of the
combatants was disarmed. If it was the Little Brave,
his doom was sealed.

But it was not he. He was seen to touch his horse,
which wheeled away from the front of the other, then to
oe short circle, waving his own knife high over his
head.

Then, bending as he rode, he picked up the knife
which he had struck from the hand of the Comanche,
and then checked his horse in its impetuous flight be-
fore Klamat, who, bleeding from several wounds, as did
his opponent bleed also, stood with folded arms beside
the horse. which he had no more use for, waiting for the
death-blow. ‘

 

But when the horses were almost breast to breast, the |

 

“Allright, my brave man. But it seems you fought a
regular duel, a knife battle with that blood-thirsty Co-

manehe, Kiamg@ge What .was.that ahout ?”

Px @ ge ne aspaic: et
knocked him SRE Se | pit “ie Aer l &
the best. of it? oa j

“Ay—that Fajmneand Bow he wiped ont his defeat.
Oh, woman— m—thou art the ioundation of. all Of
man’s troublés! What a blessed ‘thing it is to be a
bachelor !” : :

And the general jJaughed heartily as he said this.
Then he requested Dave to tell the Indians to go into
camp on one side of the stream which meandered
through the timber, while he took the other side for his
camp.

. Dave now went back to Spotted Tail, who received him
with more respect than ever.

“You are no longer a Little Brave !” he said. ‘You are
a great Braye, and I adopt you for my son, and I name
you, E-to-nee—the Tiger Killer !”

«Do you hear that, Dove Eve ?” cried Dave, delighted.
“The old man says I’m his son. Do you ratify ?”

“Dove Eye is glad that the Little Brave has conquered
his enemy. Here are his weapons!” said the girl, with-
out the least show of feeling, as she handed Dave his
hunting shirt, rifle, ahd belts.

Dave was disappointed, and he almost felt glad as he
saw the faces of cowering hate which the remaining
Comanches bent upon him. He wanted another fight it
he couldn’t get that girl to love hiin.

The scout now conveyed the directions of the general
to Spotted Tail, and the Indians of his tribe at once
went intocamp. But the Comanches went and took up
the body of Klamat aad wrapping it in his robes, held
oe ie aloof in gloomy council until the sun went

own.

Then, when Dave was arranging with Spotted Tail for
a “talk” to take place that night between him and the
general, the oldest brave of the Comanches approached
the spot where the scout stood.

“Pale-face !” said he, ‘the Comanches will go back to
their own land to bury their chief in the ground where
his fathers have been laid. But the spirit of the great
Tiger of the Comanche will never rest while you walk
the earth. We go now because our chief shook hands
with Spotted Tail, ané we will not break his peace. But
we shall come wherever you go, and we shall take your
scalp !”

The Comanche turned away before Dave could reply,
and a minute afterward the whole band rode away in
the darkness.

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DYING CHIEF AND THE PORTRAITS.

Buffalo Bill could not rest after he had satisfied his
hunger on his roasted elk. for he wanted to seé what
was going on in the camp of the Blackfeet. So, telling
Red Plume to remain fyith Sunflower and the captain,
while he went out to S¥ont, he lett the cave and again
clambered up.the precipice and proceeded to his look-
out. He had broughthis rifle this time, for he intended,
if it could be done with any degree of safety, to get near
enough to see where Spotted Tail was kept, and, if pos-
sible, to take the range so as to attempt his release in

| the night.
were, for the Comanche being already at his post, the |

When he got to the overlooking point, the scout ad-
justed his glass and commenced his observations.

“The Sioux are on the war-path!” was his first ex-
clamation. ‘But they are fighting the Blackfeet in
squads. There does not seem to be a general battle.
Ab! one of the Blackfeet is leaving in a hurry. A
courier to rdlly the rest-0f the tribe, I reckon. Ill spoil
his game if he comes inside of a half-mile range!”

This last remark was Made when Buffalo Bill sawa
single Indian, mounted on a powerfui horse, dash away
from the camp and ride off to the north-west, in a course
which would bring him almost in rifle-shot of the scout.

The latter. at once left his position, and taking the back
of a ravine for cover ip his route, ran with hot haste to
reach a point which would bring him within shot of the
Indian.

He did not get another sight of him until he had
reached an abrupt point of rocks, where a gorge through
the mountain left a pass easy to traverse.

‘He'll come through here, I bet!” said the scout, as
he paused to geta breath. for he was pretty nearly
“blowed,” to use a Western phrase.

An instant later, before the shake was out of his form,
the Indian came in sight.

Buffalo Bill drew back behind a stunted cedar tree,
and for once in his life took a rest. He generally scorned
to do this, always firing off-hand, as quick as thought,
when he raised rifie or pistol. But he was all of a tremor
from his run, and he knew if he missed at his first shot
the red would be very apt to take cover and get away.

So he covered his man, as he came nearly head on,
and at fully a hundred yards he let him have his compli-
ments.

He was almost sure he missed, for the Indian never
swerved in his seat, and the horse bounded steadily for-
vo so he took another sight over his rifle and fired
again.

Just aS his finger touched the trigger the horse
raised to leap over a fallen tree, and the bullet pierced
his head instead of the breast of the Indian.

The horse fell, and the Indian went with him.

Seeing that the latter did not rise, the scout, with his
weapon cocked, approached the spot and found that his
first ball had done its mission—had pierced the breast
of the red man.

But what astonished Buffalo Bill most, was, that this
Pie na was no otherthan Yellow Bear, yet alive, but
dying.

The chief recognized him, and gasped his name—
“Long Rifle.”

“Yes, it is me,” said the scout. ‘‘Yellow Bear is about

There bleeding, yet

 

Sees lleave for the present.

 

—but it is fate., I made a promise to Spotted Tail once,
and now I suppose if I ever see him again I can keep it.”
_. The dying chief did not seem to notice what the scout
Was saying, but witha nee effort he tugged at a
thong which was about his neck until he pulled a buck-
skin bag from under his hunting-shirt.

«Take and keep. ‘This is for Cindah the Sunflower,”
posped the chief. ‘‘When she goes to the happy hunt-

ng grounds, she wili know her father and mother, if she
keeps this.”

The old chief raised the bag in his hand, looked fixedly
on the sky, and then his head fell back. He was dead.

Buffalo Bill looked at him an instant, almost with
pity. Then he said:

“I'm sorry I gave my word to Spotted Tail to present
your scalp to him, but J did, and I must keep it. I don’t
like to lift hair—it is rather out of my line; as many reds
as I’ve laid out, too—but I must do it before I leave you,
old boy. One comfort is—it will not hurt you. But this
bs ila see what is in it. He might want to poison that

a

The scout opened the bag, and found init two moroc-
co cases, $

Qn opening one, he saw two beautifully painted minia-
tures, done on ivory, facing each other. One was the
portrait of a woman, with light, golden-colored hair,
blue eyes, and features lovely in the extreme. The other
was that of a man, young and handsome, but with a
darker face, and dark hair. Under the picture of the
woman, written on the ivory, was the name, ‘Adele
Benoist.”

Under the picture of the man was written, “Edowart
Benoist.”

‘The astonished scout gazed for a moment on these pic-
tures, and then opened the other case.

Jt contained the picture of an infant—a perfect little
cherub of beauty, with a wealth of golden curls, framing
in the loveliest face that Buffalo Bill eversaw. He
looked at it an instant, and muttered :

“Tye seen a face like that in my dreams,
where.”

Under this picture was written, ‘‘Cecile Benoist.”

Then a thought struck him.

“Tt is Cindah herself—it is Cindah the Sunflower, as
she was, and these are the pictures of her parents. I
will keep them, and take them to her. They may lead
her to a happy restoration yet in the outside world.”

The scout replaced the portraits in the bag, placed it
in his hunting-pouch, and then, with a sigh—for he was
too brave and noble for such work—he. took the scalp
from the head of Yellow Bear. . :

“TI must keep my promise,” he said, as he looked at the
plaited scalp lock, trimmed with ochre-tinted strings.
“Spotted Tail, if he ever sees this scalp, will know it;
and he must be free now, or Yellow Bear would not be
in flight. I will soon know—but first [must go back to
the Cave, and tell Cindah what I have found.”

The scout now put the scalp out of sight, and then
turned back over his trait with much slower steps than
those taken when hé came.

Once or twice he paused to look down on the plains,
and now he saw that the Indians appeared to be con-
centrated, and that the fighting had ceased.

“I reckon the Sioux are out ahead,” he muttered, as
he passed on.

or some-

CHAPTER XXVII,
DOVE EYE RECOGNIZES HER FRIEND.

Encamped, with good grazing ground for their horses,
plenty of wood and water at hand, and game abun-
dant all around, the cavalry under General Custer
were having what Little Buckshot termed a bully time,
while the Indians under Spotted Tail, pleased with
sundry presents, were glad to be at peace with war-
riors who were so much better armed and mounted
than they.

Spotted Tail, his wife, and daughter were the re-
cipients of marked attention from, the officers of the
command—especially the latter. For the beauty of
Dove Eye was well calculated to touch the sensibili-
ties of those who had but few chances to ‘‘bask in
beauty’s sunshine.”

done his journey. I did not know it was him when I fired

no other. Dove Eye—there is Dave Estes, as bra g
chap as everraised arifle. Helovesyou. Take hing,
he will make you happy.”

Dove Eye looked at the noble scout for amps
without speaking.

Tears gathered in her dark, mournful eye yen
epic, Py, faltering suns:

at ve Eye cannot be the wife of ; ,
man Shall press her hand and call her pre See Ry
has EP ‘s i r

The beautiful girl drew her robe up ove...
turned away toward her father’s edges her faga aes

“And now,” said General Custer, DOW, jow, «will
you be 80 kind as to tell us who this bjtirul’ white!
oo in gee, is?” ; \

“Lam atra e cannot tell herself, \
am _ sure I cannot. She has been reare neal. and Fi
by Yellow Bear, the Blackteet chief. He.ajjeq her his |
daughter, bub when he was dying he tye me a bag
with the miniature of a babe, aman, an’, woman. Ry
what he said, 1 am sure that they are}, pictures ory
herself as an infant, and of her father au wother. Sht
‘has them, and will show them to you.” i

the picture and read the names aloud.

“Benoist ? There are Benoists in Cali:.,y_1 geen |
one on the Mokelumne,” cried California Joe.~2e came |
from Missouri, and he wasn’t a pike neither. “je was 4)
allman, he was. .I saw him shoot two Greaserg gnq
Digger Indian, all in one morning.” ' 3

The general paid no attention to Joe’s remark, but |
turning to Cindah, he said: t
_ “You shall have a tent for your own occupation, until
we can reach a point where inquiries can be made that
may restore you to Lie relatives.”

“{ will not stay anywhere unless the Dream Spirit is
with me,” said Cindah, in a determined tone, and she
pointed to Captain Boyd. ar

“Who's the gentleman ?” asked the general, as he now
took notice of the young captain.

“You should know me, if your memory is good, gen-
eral,” said the captain, in a soft and pleasant tone.

“It seems to me as if I had seen you before,” said
General Custer, striving to think when and where.

“Do you remember making a capture after General
i= was killed?” asked the captain, witha peculiar
smile.

“Great heavens!
the general.

“Exactly, general. So you seeif this beautiful girl,
who has known no other name than that of Cindah the
Sunflower, will permit me to share the same tent, there
will be no harm.”

“None in the world, Fair Rebel, as I used to call you.
But look to the girl—she is white as snow—she is about
to faint!” ‘

“No, no,” cried Cindah, waving them all back. ‘Tt
will stop in a minute. I—TI loved the Dream Spirit, for 1
thought he would be my husband.”

“I will be as near like a sister asI can till you find
those who are nearer,” said Belle Boyd ; ‘‘and to make
myself more presentable I will try and manufacture
more suitable apparel for myself, if there are any dry
goods within reach.”

“We will tind some,” said General Custer.

And then he gave order for a tent to be set near his
own for the two females, and ordered Buffaio Bill, as
soon ashe got some supper, tocome and tell him all
about his late adventures.

It is Miss Belle Boyd herselt !” cried :

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE COMANCHE’S REVENGE.

Nearly two months had passed away. The Sioux hay-
ing pledged themselves to peace, were allowed to roam
undisturbed over their extensive hunting grounds. But
now the snows of winter and the bleak, terrific storms of
the season had driven their favorite game, the buffalo,
far to the south, while only the elk, red deer, and ante-
ag remained, of large game, in the old ranges.

uffalo Bill and his mate were once more located in
their pleasant quarters at Fort McPherson, near the
junction of the North and South Platte.

 

 

 

But the girl seemed to pay no heed to these flatter-
ing attentions. Bright buttons and shoulder-straps |
were not attractive in her eyes. And that is more |
than can be said of the pale-faced sisterhood, as a gen- |
eral thing.

Dave tes, though honored by the general and bis |
officers, and an object of envious admiration among all |
the Sioux warriors, as well as the adopted son of her
father, made no apparent advance in the favor of Dove

Eye. ;

He had tried to give her presents. She had refused
them—sadly, kindly, but firmly. The acceptance of a
present means more with a girl of the red race of Amer-
ica than it does with the white ones.

He had asked her what he could do to please her.

“Go and find Long Rifle for me,” was her answer.

And Dave did ask permission of General Custer to go
and hunt up his mate. But the general did not wish to
spare him until a treaty had been concluded with Spot-
ted Tail and the othe, chiefs, and, as smokes had been
sent up to call them tegether, he told him no expedi-

 

 

warriors of the Sioux nation began to come in in
tothe smoke signals, and General Custer had
to: © third day from the time he en-

Foe ie een aa

it was now the second day of the encampment, and it |
Was Well advanced, when an officer with aii EStUlt Cane
spurring into camp from the east.

He had followed the trail of General Custer’s column,
and bore dispatches for that officer.

“From the lieutenant-general !” said the officer, as he |
handed a sealed packet. ‘ :

“God bless him! Phil Sheridan is the best cavalry
man that ever drew a saber !” said the young general as
he broke the seal of the dispatch.

A glow of pleasure lighted up his face while he read it.

«We are going to have a distinguished visitor on the
plains in a tew weeks,” he said. <‘‘The lieutenant-gen-
eral writes to me that the Grand Duke Alexis ot Russia
“ i this country, and will come West for a buffalo

unt.

“He comes late. The buffalo in a few weeks will be
all gone from here, and none of them can be found north
of the Republican. The deep snows will send them |
south,” said an officer. . |

“We can follow them. We will have the grandest hunt
ever heard of. Spotted Tail and his band shall be in it,”
said the young general. ‘Buffalo Bill must be found;
for he knows better than any other man living where
buffalo are to be found, no matter what the season is.”

“Then may I take a party and go and look for him ?”
asked Dave Estes. i

“Not until after the council has been held,” said the |
general. ‘We need you till then.”

“Let Dove Eye go now,” said the young daughter of
Spotted Tail. ‘She will find Long Rifle if he lives, or
revenge him if he is dead,”

«] wish she loved me as she loves Buffalo Bill!” mur-
mured the young scout. ‘The gal is just crazy after
him. [ told her he was married, but that didn’t make a
bit of difference with her. She said he was a great
hunter and could feed a dozen wives.”

General Custer laughed, but the girl looked as grave
as ever.

It was near sunset, and the soldiers were all ti in|
together in anticipation of roll-call, when a large ban
of Indians were reported coming in from the west.

The command was put under arms as usual, until the
character of the visitors was ascertained.

Suddenly, with a wild scream of joy, Dove Eye bound-
ed upon the horse of the general, which stood saddled
close by, and screaming out one name, she dashed off to
meet the advancing column.

The name which left her lips as she rode off, was—

‘LONG RIFLE!”

CHAPTER XXVIII
A LITTLE SURPRISE.

‘“‘Well—that’s cool,” said General§Custer, laughing, as
the beautiful young squaw dashed away on his horse.
«What does she mean by shouting Long Rijie!”

“She sees Buffalo Bill coming, general,” said Dave
Estes. ‘‘The galhas gone clean crazy afterhim. Id
give everything but my right arm to have her love me
as she loves him.”

‘Let not E-to-nee grieve,” said Spotted Tail, ‘‘he shall
have ten of the handSomest women in nity tribe for his
wives.”

‘Thank you, boss—but I'd rather have one, and that
one my choice. Ten would keep me on the hunt all the
time, I’m afraid.”

The attention of all—officers and men—was now rivet-
ed on the approaching party.

In front of the indians rode Buffalo Bill on his favorite
Powder Face, while by his right side rode a white girl,
so strangely, wildly beautiful in the picturesque dress of
an Indian maiden, that the general and his officers
spoke their wonder aloud.

On his left, Dove Eye rude, proudly managing the gpir-
ited horse of the general, while behind him came a Black-
feet Indian—without war paint—it was Red Plume—and
a white man, Captain Boyd.

Behind, with their lances full of scalps, and uttering
yells which victorious warriors only can give, came
Young Bear and a large party of Sioux.

Buffalo Bill, rather abashed, with a lovely girl on each
side of him, of such different types of beauty, halted
when near the spot where General Custer and his staff
stood, and saluted.

“T am glad to see you, my brave friend,” said the et
eral. ‘‘You see that your peace-treaty with Spotted Tail
has not only been kept, but ratified. We will make it a
oon treaty to-morrow, So as to send a report to Wash-

ngton.

“I thank you, general, for your welcome. I hardly ex-
ore this pleasure an hour ago. But I have something

ere for Spotted Tail. I made him a promise when I
asked him to keep peace with the white men. I told him
I would rescue Dove Eye, and give him the scalp of her
captor. There it is.” ’

Buffalo Bill handed a scalp to the Sioux chief.

The moment the latter looked at it he pronounced the
name of Yellow Bear.

“Yes, it is his scalp. I laid the old fellow out and lifted
his hair,” said the scout. “My promises have all been
kept. Now keep yours—never let your tribe raise knife
or hatchet to the pale-faces while you live.”

“Spotted Tail has given you his word and he will keep
it,” said the chief, firmly. Then taking the hand of Dove
Eye, who had returned the horse of the general to his
orderly, he led her toward the scout, and said:

‘She loves you. Take Dove Eye and treat her well.”

Buffalo Bill:blushed scarlet. Then he stammered out:

‘Not for me, I thank you. I’ve got the sweetest, best,

per ncn hie talk.” 98

Our hero, with his wife and little ones, and twin sis-
ters, now forgot the hardships and perils of his late frip
in the mountains, or only remembered them to thank
heaven they were passed. :

Near the fort, where he could see the Officers who
rized him so much every day, where he could exercise
iis favorite Powder Face when he liked, and knock over

an antelope or a red deer whenever he chose toride a
oa or two from home, Buffalo Bill felt contented and
appy.

Dave Estes, his almost inseparable friend, was the
companion of every hunt and ride, and few men enjoyed
life better—at least, in that desolate region.

In quarters assigned them by the kindness of those in
power were Cindah the Sunflower, who had taken ‘to
reading and study,though she dreamed a great deal yet;
Miss Belle Boyd, who was engaged in writing a book,
and Red Plume, whose sole joy seemed to consist in
serving his two mistresses—tor both treated him very
much like a servant—a favorite one, it is true, yet like
a servant.

Cindah, believing her name to be Cecil Benoist, had
assumed it, and, dressed like other ladies, was very,
very beautiful, though 4li said she seemed more beauti-
ful in her old costume,

Gereral Custer had seit to the press in the East-some
accoput, of her history, so far as know *% hat
somé trace of her parents might: he or at eae
some kindred which sight, perh:ps, lit’ “ier auove tr
needs of charity. For the poor girl, with .er almost su-
pernatural beauty, had no knowledge Of a way by which
she could gain an honorable livelihood, and her haughty
spirit revolted at the thought of being dependentjon any
one.

To relieve Ber mind on this point, the general had told
her a story which she believed, whether it was so or
not, that the government would take care of her till
her parents were found, and it was her right and not a
favor.

This contented her; and visited in a friendly way by
the officers, who all treated her with profound respect,
she thought the new world she had come into a decided
improvement on the one she leit in the mountains.

* * *

‘Mate, I’m going to get an antelope for Major Brown.
He has some friends coming from North Platte to din-
ner!” said Dave Estes to Buffalo Bill, very early, ona
bright, sunny morning about eight or ten weeks after
they had got settled in quarters. ‘Will you go along ?”

“T can't, Dave,” said Buffalo Bill; ‘‘not this morning,
] mean. You know the boys outside the fort have elected
me Justice of the Peace, and now two of ’em has got upa
suit, I reckon, just to see whatI know. But no matter
what it is for—it is to come off at ten o’ciock this morn-
ing, and 1 can’t leave.” a>

“All right, squire,” said Dave, laughing. ‘I can go
alone. I'll knock over a couple while ’'m about it, and
bring one home for you!”

‘All right, Dave! But look out for your hair, mate.
Remember what those Comanches threatened !”

“Sho! There isn’t a Comanche within three hundred
miles of here. They'll keep shy of me, you bet, after
they saw me take down their Tiger. I ought to have
won Dove Eye in that fight, but the gal loved you. and
there was no hope for me!” —

‘“‘As much for you as for her, Dave. You knowl am as
true as steel itself to a true hand, to my home angels,
but never mind. Good luck to you on the hunt!”

“Thank you, Bill. Good-morning.”

Dave went away, and the scout turned to look ata
volume of the Statutes of Nebraska, which he had before
him. .

Poring over this, he did not hear the call to breakfast
till his sweet sister Nellie had repeated it forthe third
time.

He had just taken his seat, when an orderly from the
fort came rushing in, booted and spurred, his saber jing-
ling, shouting:

«You’re wanted, sir—quick too, at headquarters. I1-
dians are in sight of the fort, and have just shot downa
man! The troops are mounting !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>o~<
A DOG JOINS A BALL NINE.

A dog in Milwaukee has for some time given amuse-
ment to spectators at games of ball that are played by
boys on the lake front on fine evenings.. The dog takes
astand behind the catcher, and with’ countenance é¢x:
pressive of life and intelligence, and an active tail tuat
emphasizes what he cannot speak, watches for ‘‘passed

balls.” Immediately the sphere slips through the

catcher’s hands a snap is made at it, and the dog darts

after the rolling ball, which on his return he without.
solicitation drops at the catcher’s feet. Whenever the

pitcher passes a ball the dog darts across ‘‘the diamond”

and retrieves it forhim. Almost human interest is de-

picted on the countenance of the animal whenever the
catcher gets up underthe bat for close work. Then
the four-footed ball-player crouches as closely as he Gal

behind the catcher, and by his intense alertness cuts:

comical figure. Sometimes the boys have a. wrangle 8

to which side shall have the services of the dog.

—_>-@~<

A SCHOOL INCIDENT.

* # = #

\ .
When the late S. Irenzeus Prime taught school in Sin}
Sing, there was among his little pupils One who at firs)
stupidly blundered over his A BCs. One day Mr. Prime
stood the small boy in the middle of the room as a pun-
ishment. The bell-rope hung just there, and the
teacher in fun dropped the noose over the lad’s head,
There happened to be some boys in the hall above, who
pulled the rope, and the little fellow at once went to-
ward the ceiling. The teacher grab the rope and
pulled, which made the boys pullall the harder, and
the child was in danger of being hanged then and
there. But Mr. Prime succeeded in extricating him
none the worse for the hanging, and afterward wrote:
“He went on with his studies, became a capital speaker —
at public meetings, studied law, became Recorder of the
city of New York, and subsequently Governor of the
State of New York, my life-long friend, John T. Hoff- ©
man.”
. >
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
For Dyspepsia.
Dr. J. C. WEBSTER, Chicago, says: ‘‘I con-

 

 

 

and prettiest little wife that ever blessed a home, I want

sider it valuable in many forms of dyspepsia.”

 

 

 

 

The git) reached out the bag, and Gener, qyster took, |
a

~——

a nt

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No., 1.

A DROP OF INK.

 

 

BY ERNEST WHITNEY.

 

This drop of ink chance leaves upon my pen,

What might it write in Milton’s mighty hand!
What might it speak at Shakespeare's high command!
What words to thrill the throbbing hearts of men!
Or from Beethoven's soul a grand amen,

All life and death in one full compass spanned!

Who could its power at Goethe’s touch withstand ?
What words of truth it holds beyond our ken—
What blessed promise we would fain be told,

And cannot—what grim sentence dread as death—
What venomous lie, that never shall unfold—
What law, undoing science with a breath!
But—mockery of life’s quick wasted lot—

Dropped on a virgin sheet, ’tis but a biot!

> O-4 - -
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

 

 

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,’
“Maggie, the Charity Child,” ‘Alice Blake ;
or, The Ferry-House Meeting,”
“Eveleen Wilson,” etc.

 

SUNSHINE” was commenced in No. 44. Back

(“Lrrrte ni
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE PARTY.

The grand mansion of the Morelands was radiant with
light from the basement to the attic, and Mrs. Moreland
and her daughter Ruth, dressed superbly and blazing
with diamonds, were ready to receive the company which
had been invited.

The servants had been thoroughly drilled in their re-
spective duties, so that the thing should go off smoothly
and without the slightest blunder, and they only waited
now for the arrival of the guests, who were momentarily
expected.

“1 declare, Ruth,” said Mrs. Moreland, suddenly, and
with a look of horror, ‘your father has lighted
another pipe in the basement. I can catch the disgust-
ing odor of the smoke as it rises. 1 told him that he
must go to bed at half-past eight at the latest, and here
it is nearly ten and he is down stairs yet! I wouldn’t
have Lord Mortimer’s friend, Sir Edward Hastings, or
our new millionaire acquaintance, the Count Gurowski,
see him going up stairs for the world!” Then ringing a
bell, which brought Sam, the negro servant, to her side,
she continued: ‘Sam, go down in the basement and
send the old man to bed. Tell him 7 say he’s to go at
once—do you hear ?”

“Yes, marm,” replied Sam.

‘And tell him he’s to smoke no more to-night—do you |
hear ?”

“Yes, marm,” again answered Sam; ‘‘anything more,
marm?”

“No, nothing more,” was the reply; “go to him and
don’t you leave him till you see him safely in bed.”

Sam departed at once to execute the order which he
had received. It was no new thing for him to do. He
had received the same commission before frequently, and
it was no hard task for him.

Mr. Moreland was a man some ten years the senior of
his wife, but the life she had led him made him seem
considerably older than he really was. Naturaily of a |
peaceable disposition he had allowed her torule lim
with a rod of iron, and now in his old age, nothwith-
standing that he had by severe toil as a merchant
amassed a competency, he was of no more account in
his own house than one of the servants.

He had just lighted afresh pipe, and was enjoying it
augely, when Sam entered the basement. |
“Here, ole man,” said the negro, much in the same
tone as he might have addressed a beggar, ‘‘de missis
pd dat you aus’ go to bed right away. Do yow hear }

dat?”

-“Yes, Sam,” was the meek reply ;. ‘I’m going just as
soon as I finish this pipe.”

«But didn’t I tole you dat he missis says you mus’ go
right away ?” answered Sam, “and when she says right
away she means right away.”

‘Well, well, I spose I must go if she says so,” replied
the old gentleman, with a sigh; “but I do wish they
wouldn’t have these parties. It makes One so very un-
comtortable. Ill finish my pipe up stairs, Sam.”

«Not as you knows on,” replied the negro; ‘‘de missis
Says you mustn’t smoke no more to-night. She’s afraid
de company, will smell it.”

“Well, well—it makes no great difference. Ill go to
bed without it,” said the old merchant, and rising, he
took his way up Stairs, followed by Sam.

When he reached the entrance hall, he stopped at the
parlor door, and called out, in a timid tone of voice:

‘ «Ruth—Ruthey, child—are you there ?”

«Yes, I'm here,” snappishly replied the spoiled beauty,
who sat beneath a chandelier, looking over the last
nove! ; ‘‘what do you want?”

“J want to kiss you good-night, pet—that’s all,” was
the reply.

“Oh, bother!” was the rejoinder; ‘I’m afraid you'll
muss my curls. Besides, your breath smells so of tobac-
co. Never mind it to-night.”

“Well, good-night, pet!” sighed the old man, and with
a slow step he proceeded on upstairs. He knew his
wife was also iu the parlor, but she had forbidden him
long before to trouble her by saying good-night, and so
he refrained from speaking to her. ;

Sam followed the old merchant up to his room, and
having thus obeyed his instructions to the letter, he
Said :

“Well, good-night, ole man, and pleasant dreams. By
de way, talkin’ ’bout dreams, I wish you’d tell me what
you dream to-morrow mornin’—I want to play on it. I
won a dollar on dat last dream ob yours.”

«Good-night, Sam,” replied the old man, quietly. ‘I
should not like to tell you all the dreams which come
to me—not for the world, Sam—not for the world! Most
of what I dream I keep to myselfi—no harm can come of
it while I do that. Ob, I wish I could take that long
sleep which knows no waking! [I should not be afraid
of any dream which might come then. I think that sleep
will come to me before a great while. This worried
frame can’t hold out forever. Good-night, Sam.”

«Well, now, dat’s de most foolish ole man I eber see,”
muttered Sam, as he took his way down stairs’ “He
ain’t got no more pluck dan a baby. If I wasin his place
I jes’ tink I’d see myself g wine off to bed at nine o’clock!
1 think I’a be boss myself, I does; and if de ole woman
went to puton any of her airs wid me, I'd doctor her
mighty soon. However, I. don’t know as I ought to
grumble at it, for it makes tings mighty easy for me
down stairs.”

Thus muttering, be took his way to the kitchen, where
he began a conversation with the cook—a corpulent col-
ored woman, with whom he had established a sort of co-
partnership in the policy business. Aunt Dinah was not
only a dreamer, but an interpreter of dreams, and Sam
saw a gig, or a saddle, or a first figure in almost every
object which he looked upon. If ever a business was
closely followed in all its details, the policy business was
with these two; and yet, candor compels us to say, it
was anything but lucrative. The firm was constantly
cramped for means, for where they won a dollar they
lost five; and yet the faith of both was strong, and hope
never for a moment died within them.

“Hold on a minute, Aunt Dinah!” exclaimed Sam, sud-
denly, as the old woman was about to pick up a towel
which she had accidentally dropped. ‘Don’t toueh dat
towel for your life! Lufit lay dare and look atit! Hi!
yab! Ain’tdat afigger two? Look at it, [say! You
couldn’t a-fixed it dat way wid your hands ff you'd tried
all night! We'll play two fust to-morrow for ten cents,
sure as you're born,”

‘Pat’s so, Sam!” returned Dinah, whose eyes glittered
with excitement—‘‘dat’s so! Dats a figger two, if dare
eber was one on de yorth! Two fust—two fust! Dat’s
de ticket !”

Just then a carriage rolled up to the door, and with
the exclamation, ‘‘Dare’s some ob de company!” Sam
rushed up stairs just as his mistress was about to call
him. t

«You good-for-nothing nigger,” exclaimed Mrs. More-
land, angrily, ‘‘take your position at the door, andifyou
leave it again to-night Pl cut your black ears off clean
to your thick skull.”

Sam flew to his position accordingly, muttering to him-
self, however, as he did so:

“Dat’s all very nice now, ole woman, but you won’t al-
ways hab de privilege ob talkin’ dat way to your humble
servant. When Dinah and me hits ‘em hard a few times,

and makes fiffyor sixty thousand dollars, I'd like to
know who'll hab horses and Carriages, and a grand
house den! Dar won't be no cuttin’ ears off den! Not
much—not much }”

A ring at the door-bell stopped his soliloquy, and upon
opening the door, Lerd Mortimer Littleton and his
friend, Luke Davis, aliasSir Edward Hastings,-presented
themselves, and were dtly announced by a servant in
waiting.

«“‘My dear Mrs. Moreland, and you, my darling,” said
Lord Mortimer, turning to Ruth. ‘‘allow me to present
to you my old college chum and dearest friend, Sir Ed-
ward Hastings. Sir Edward Hastings, Mrs. Moreland
and her daughter Ruth.”

Luke Davis bowed gracefully, and at once entered into
conyersation with the two ladies, who were greatly

gesture, and refinement in every word which he uttered,

and greatly did they congratulate themselves that
through Lord Mortimer they were brought into close ac-
quaintanceship with so distinguished a gentleman.
What a humbug is society ?

lf these ladies could have had the faintest idea of the
true character of the man whose presence led them in-
to ecstasy, they Would have found no eloquence in his
words, no grace in his manner, no nobility in his fea
tures. He would have been to them simply a worthless
vagabond, whom they would have delighted to hand
over to the tender mercies of the police.

While they were talking the door-bell again rang, and
another distinguished visitor was announced.

This was no less a person than the distinguished Count
Gurowski, a polish nobleman of immense wealth—at
least he was so reputed.

Which of her friends it was who had introduced the

count to her set Mrs. Moreland did not remember. In-
deed, she gave the matter but little thought. She was

too well satisfied with making his acquaintance to in-
quire as to how the thing was brought about.

The Count Gurowski was not over attractive in per-
son. He was humpbacked, and walked with a shuf-
fling gait. He was moreover, afflicted with strabismus,
which gave to his countenance a peculiarly sinister ex-
pression, added to which his voice was disagreeable,
and he spoke broken English. But then he was a count,
and that made amends for everything. Had he been
the most disagreeable monster living his title would
have made his presence not only endurable, but charm-
ing to those who were proud to call him their guest.

And now the guests began to assemble in‘ynumbers,
and soon the spacious and superbly furnished rooms
were filled with ladies and gentlemen, who were ex-
quisitely dressed, if they had nothing else to recom-
mend them. And, indeed, few ot them had little else
but wealth of which they could boast; for the More-
lands had never gained the entiee to the more select
circles of New York society. For the most part, their
acquaintances belonged to that numerous class known
as “shoddy”’—people who had accumulated wealth by
honest trade, which should have been their boast, but of
which they were thoroughly ashamed.

“My dear count!” exclaimed Mrs. Moreland, as she
advanced toward the hunchback and took his proffered
hand, ‘‘welcome to my humble abode, and allow me to
say that 1 ama thousand times obiiged for the honor
you do me in becoming one of my guests. I do not re-
member just now to whom I am indebted for introduc-
ing you, although that makes but little difference. It is
sufficient for me to know that you are here, and that
the lady or gentleman who introduced you will be proud
to announce the fact sooner or later. Come forward,
Ruth,” the lady continued, looking toward her daughter.
“This is the Count Gurowski, my love. Count, this is
my daughter, Ruth—a little backward just now, but she
will get over that in a few years.” And@ the lady smiled

 

| count.

 

 

charmed by his elegant manners and brilliant conversa-
tion. To their imagination there was nobility in every

affably.

“Oh, yes, madame,” returned the count, gallantly, as
he touched the tip of Ruth’s fingers, ‘she will get over
dat pretty soon, quick—she is like de full-blown rose al-
ready—she is beautiful—she is divine—oh, she is! I
salute you, my dear young lady.’

He rushed toward Ruth as though he would have
embraced her, but Mrs. Moreland, thinking that that
was rather more than etiquette would | warrant,
stepped between them—quite by accident, of course—
and said :

“My dear count, allow me to introduce you to two of
my particular friends, Sir Edward Hastings and Lord
Mortimer Littleton. Gentlemen, the Count Gurowski!”

The count turned to acknowledge the introduction,
and as his eyes fell upon Lord Mortimer, he gave an in-
voluntary start, and a slight exclamation of. surprise
escaped him. He recovered himself almost instantly,
however, and said, affably :

“Oh, madame, Iam happy to make de acquaintance
of such very distinguished gentlemen. Gentlemen, I
am your humble servant.” Then he added, carelessly :
“I beg pardon, but I think I have seen you before some-
where, gentlemen.”

“Oh, very likely,” replied Sir Edward, in an equally
careless tone. ‘‘Lord Mortimer and myself have traveled
all over Europe together. We have been inseparable
companions for years, and it would be curious if you had
not met us at one time or another.”

“Very true, Sir Edward—very true,” assented the
“7 think, perhaps, dat I have met you at court,
and although I have seen so many grand gentlemen, I
et forget a face—not one—not one—I remember dem
all.”

You have an excellent memory, count,” returned
Lord Mortimer ; ‘‘I1 wish mine were as good.”

And, then excusing himself, he took his companion’s
arm, and they walked away together.

“f wonder,” continued Lord Mortimer, when they were
out of hearing, ‘‘who that old fellow is 2”

“Why, he is the Count Gurowski,” returned Sir Ed-
ward ; ‘‘you heard his title, did you not ?”

“Oh, yes, I heard his title,” was the reply ; “but some-
how or other I didn’t half like him. Do you know, Luke
—Sir Edward, I mean—that his presence sent a chill all
over me, and I can’t get rid of the idea that I have seen
him before.” '

«Nonsense !” exclaimed Sir Edward. ‘He is very likely
just what he represents himself to be—some old fogy,
with a title to hig name and..not @ .cent.im-his et.
Somme old feliow who has come to‘ republican America
determined to live on his wits, the same as you and I
are doing. You are getting nervous, and want a glass
or two of brandy to set you up.”

Well, I shouldn’t object to a glass of brandy—that’s
certain,” replied Lord Mortimer, ‘‘but I don’t know how
it’s to be had just now. Mrs. Sutton (that’s the name
your Kate is known by here) might getitfor usif she
were so disposed, but I shouldn’t dare ask her, tor she’s
frightfully opposed to ne, you knew. Now she might do
it to favor you, if we could see her.

“Might!” exclaimed Sir Edward, significantly. ‘I be-
lieve you, my boy. I should like to see her denying me
anything. Why, she'll be frightened to death the mo-
ment she recognizes me. Might doit to favor me. Well,
that is a good joke. Here, Julius,” he continued, ad-
dressing Sam, who just at that time was passing through
the room, ‘‘send Mrs. Sutton, the housekeeper, here.”

“My name am not Julius,” returned Sam, with a show
of dignity—‘‘my name am Samuel—Samuel Johnson, at
your service, sir.”

“Well, Samuel Johnson, Esquire,” said Sir Edward,
with mock politeness, ‘‘have the kindness to send the
housekeeper here, and I’ll tickle your palm with a fifty-
cent stamp. Do you understand that ?”

Sam did not wait to reply, but rushed immediately in
search of Mrs. Sutton, muttering as he sped along’:

“Hi, golly—dar’s nuffin’ like keepin’ up yer dignity.
He wouldn’t a gub me more’n ten centsif I hadn’t been
on my dig. Hello! dar’s a piece ob paper on de floor—a
piece ob paper—dat means 1 fust, and I’ll play dat fifty
cents for 1 fust to-morrow mornin’, sure !”

He found Mrs. Sutton in her room, delivered his mes-
sage, and a moment thereafter the housekeeper stood in
the presence of the parties who had summoned her.

 

CHAPTER XX¥Il.
THE RECOGNITION.

Sir Edward Hastings turned his back as Mrs. Sutton
approached, and Lord Mortimer said, affably :

“Mrs. Sutton, my friend here is complaining of thirst,
and I must admit that I am somewhat dry myself.
Can we prevail upon you to furnish us with a little eau
de vie ?”

“No, sir,” was the curt reply. ‘I am not instructed to
furnish refreshments for anybody, and if you wish any-
thing before refreshments are set ‘before you in due
course, you must apply to the mistress of the mansion.”

“J did not look for much favor from you on my own
account,” returned Lord Mortimer, indifferently, ‘‘for I
know you do not like me any too well, but surely you
will not refuse my friend.”

“Surely I will,” replied Mrs. Sutton, in a tone of de-
cision. “I donot know who your friend may be, buta
man is generally known by the company he keeps, and
judging from this standpoint, your friend is not exactly
what he should be.”

“And yet I will venture to say,” remarked Sir Edward
Hastings, turning suddenly and facing the housekeeper,
“that you will furnish us with what we want without
further parley,”

He spoke in a low, vindictive tone, and his eyes blazing
with anger as he tixed them upon the astonished Mrs.
Sutton, who shrank from his gaze, and shuddered with
fear as she ejaculated, in an under tone:

“Luke Davis, by all the fiends !”

“Hush!” hissed Sir Edward, savagely. ‘‘Mention that
name again beneath this roof, and by the heaven. above
us 1 will strangle you where you stand! You know me!
Don’t tempt me to do that which I should have done
long years ago—that which I would have done had you
not fled my presence when you did. Away with you at
once and bring us some brandy! Be quick about it!—
d’ye hear ?”

Mrs. Sutton did not stop to reply, but left the room
at once, ani soon returned with a decanter containing
the liquor, and two wine glasses, which she placed upon
the center table,

«Now fill one of those glasses and drink it yourself,”
commanded Sir Edward. ‘I have heard of such a crime
as poisoning ere now, and there is nothing like being
cautious.”

“Oh, Luke—Sir Edward, I mean!” exclaimed the
woman, terrified beyond measure at having mentioned
the man’s proper name again.

‘Have a care!” threatened Sir Edward.
caution you again.”

“You know I never could drink strong liquor,” con-
tinued the housekeeper; *‘although you have forced me
to do so before.”

‘And shall force you to do so again,” returned Sir Ed
ward. ‘Drink !”

“You don’ t think Iam bad enough to poison you!”
asked the woman, deprecatingly. ‘‘No, no, Luke; you
have treated me cruelly, but I love you too weil for
that.”

“I think you are bad enough to do anything,” replied
Sir Edward, doggedly. ‘Drink!” *

The woman raised the glass and drained it to the last
drop.
“there !” she said, with a sigh; ‘‘are you satisfied
now ?”

“Perfectly,” replied Sir Edward; ‘satisfied that you
cannot poison me now, Whatever you may do here-
after.” ;

“And what is your pleasure with me now ?” asked the
housekeeper. ‘‘Why have you hunted me up,? I can do
nothing for you. Why do you persecute me ?”

“T don’t wish to persecute you, Kate,’ returned Sir
Edward, “nor to prosecute you either, although I might
consistently do both. The fact is, I fear you have never
thoroughiv understood me. You have not used me ex-
actly right, but I never bear malice. I have no feeling

“J shall not

 

 

 

 

against you—not the slightest. And my only object in
visiting you now is to see how you 1ook, to ascertain
how the world is using you, and to talk of the past,
all for the sake of ‘auld lang syne.’ Now I think of it,
however, I will freely adniit that my motive in seeking
you out was not entirely disinterested. It is true I do
not need your services now, for I am doing well enough,
but I may at some future time have occasion to call
upon you. And now, what I wish to know first is,
where is the girl ?”

“What girl?” asked the housekeeper, in a tone of af-
fected astonishment.

“Now, don’t attempt any nonsense with me, Kate,”
returned Sir Edward, somewhat impatiently. ‘You
know well enough what girlI mean. I mean the girl
whom you stole when a baby at the dictation of the
grand lady of this mansion. I mean”—here he lowered
his voice and whispered in her ear—‘‘I mean the daugh-
ter of Percival Raymond.”

“She is dead,” replied the housekeeper, doggedly.

“That's a lie, Kate!” exclaimed Sir Edward, with em-
phasis. ‘Excuse me for using such very plain talk, but
the occasion requires it. »< gold you before not to at-
tempt any. nonsense with me, bub you always were
stubborn. You will .be surprise@ now when I tell you
that I came across th:it child years ago in the tenement-
house in which you placed her after I deserted you. I
had no suspicion of whom She was at first, of course,
but the old woman who had charge of her told me,
when on her death-bed, who she was, and I adopted her
and led her to suppose Iwas her father. I kept her
with me for some years, and intended to keep her with
me always, but, unfortunately, some few years since I
amused myself by imitating a gentleman’s autograph
and was obliged to serve @ term th the State prison. [
sought her again when at liberty, and found her. She
was working for one Flint, a miserable old hypocrite, a
shover of the queer, bué my friend, notwithstanding.
She is known as Lilly Davis Sometimes called Little
Sunshine), and she is now f® prison on a charge of pass-
ing counterfeit money.” gg

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed the housekeeper, great-
ly shocked ; you are worse than myself. I injured the
child, to be sure, but 1 was aétuated by a motive—a base
one, to be sure—but stil a@motive. Iwas greedy tor
money, and money was promised me, although it was
never paid, but you could haye no motive for injuring
an innocent young creature like that.”

“Stop abit, my bonny Praca abit,” replied Sir
Edward. ‘Have I said that-visied to injure her?
Nothing was further from My sntention than to injure
her. On the contrary. it wa ¥ wish to benefit her.”

‘You took a queer way t show it,” remarked the
housekeeper, in a tone of sareasm.

“The fact is,” rejoined Sir award, “you don’t under-
stand the case at_all. The whole gist of the matter is
that when 1 found Lilly, after ny discharge from prison,
1 was homeless, penniless, and ragged. If was neces-
sary that I should do something to make myself com-
fortable. While I was looking about me and seeking
some method of making an honest penny, I suddenly en-
countered an old companioni-my friend, Lord Mor-
timer here—who took me inte his confidence, introduced

me to his partner, old Flint, aad they at Once gave me |

an interest in their business. JT need not say what that
business is. Itis only nee to say that I supplied
Lilly with funds, and the notes I ve her happened
to be pronounced bad, a faet which I regretted as much
as she did. My hope and d@sife was that they should
be received as genuine, in whieh case Lilly would have
been enabled in alittle while te ride in her carriage,
and I should have been the _.. man around town.
So you see you do me great injustice when you accuse
me of enmity toward the girl tused her as an instru-
ment to benefit both herself and me, andif I have failed,
of course I can’t help it.”

“And did you not make ld iint aware of the fact
that you intended tc place Lilly in this great peril?”
asked the housekeeper.

“There you go again!” replied Sir Edward, with well-
assumed displeasure ; “you will have it that ] intended
to place the girl in peril, when I intended nothing of the
sort. I did tell old Flint that it was my purpose to em-
ploy Lilly in the business, and he was delighted to hear
it. He agreed with nie that She was just the one of all
others to-make a complete sucCiSe.of the job, but it
seems he was mistaken a8 well as mnyseli. To tell the
truth, however, I domt think the old Man will shed
many tears because Lilly is in limbo. On the contrary,
I have no doubt he would be yery glad to Know that she
was on the road to the State prisom. You see the girl—
very foolishly, 1 think—interfered somewhat with the
old fellow’s method of conducting his business, and thus
made an enemy of him. The old man isnt one to for-
give readily, and I think he will hound her to the death.
Poor girl! The fact that she ’S caged is net the least of
her troubles. She is likely to drag her sweetheart down
with her. She gave him some of the money to invest tor
her, and he is also nabbed. This seems to worry her
more than anything else. I should like to clear the girl
if I could do so with perfeet safety to myself, Dut I can't
say that I sympathize with the young man a particle.
He is one of your very proper youths. A fellow who is
all virtue and innocence—wWho hever goes out of the
beaten path of duty—whose every movement is regu-
lated by method—who would not i ak social glass, nor

 
  

smoke a cigar, nor kigs @ Dretiy aii) ep oaras atoll lib-
erat wit ler faVors.“nor do anyiiiiig, in fact, that a
genuine thoroughbred of twenty-iive Gught to do. I
hate such fellows, and ¢amt see what om earth they
were made for. - If all men were like him, 1 should like
to know what fun there would be in the somd. But he’s
fairly caged, and will get five years af ieast. By the
time he comes,out he will have his eye-teeth cut, and
will probably be good for something. I don’t see any
chance of his escaping, for his employers believe him
guilty, and will have nothing to do with him. Lilly
could clear him, but she dare not. The foolish little
thing considers an oath sacred. She would not perjure
herself to save his life and her own. I knew this when
I made her swear on the Bible that she would not be-
tray me. Il shouldn’t be here at his moment if I were
not certain se would keep her oath.”

“You were always a bad man,” said the housekeeper,
in a tone of mingled sorrow and reproach ; ‘‘you were bad
enough long years ago, but time has made you worse,
and yet I have never ceased to love you.”

“Satin rebuking sin!” replied Sir Edward, with a mali-
cious laugh ; ‘‘you are a nice one teaieliver a lecture on
morality! How long is it since you joined the chureh and
took to preaching? I shouldn’t wonder, now, if you ex-
pect to be canonized after death.”

“Tam bad enough, Heaven knows!” rejoined the house-
keeper, with a shudder; ‘‘but I am not as bad as you
are. I am revengetul, I know, and never forgive those
who willfully wrong me, but I would not persecute this
poor girl for mere pastime—I migkt injure her to re-
venge myself, not otherwise.”

‘Neither would J,” replied Sir Edward, emphatically ;
‘but when the rope is around a man’s neck charity be-
gins at home.” And then he added, suddenly, as he
fixed his keen eyes threateningly upon the face of the
housekeeper: ‘See that in your excessive philan-
thropy you do not attempt to aid her to my detriment.
I know the little game you are playing in this house-
hold. You have Mrs. Moreland in your power—at least
she thinks you have, which answers every purpose—and”
you are working for both revenge and money. Now, it
is hardly necessary for me to tell you that if I hear of
your interfering in this matter, even to the extent of a
single word, I will post the grand lady upon whose
throat you hold so firm a grip, and down goes your air
castle like a row of bricks, and you are a beggar! That
wouldn’t suit you, would it ?”

‘Indeed it would not!” replied the housekeeper, whose
eyes flashed fire ; ‘anything but that! I have not cher-
ished revenge all these long years to be foiled now when
it is within my grasp. I will not interfere even to save
the girl from imprisonment, if you will let me alone to
carry out my own plans. Is ita bargain ?”

“With all my heart!” exclaimed Sir Edward, in a jubi-
lant tone; and now, my bonny Katg it is about time we
ended this conference, for we may \§- observed.”

And as he spoke he turned upon his heel to walk away,
and saw the Count Gurowski critically examining a fine
painting which hung upon the wall directly behind him.

‘| wonder if he could haye heard me ?” he muttered,
as he took Lord Mortimer’s arm.

“He couldn’t have understood you it he had,” returned
the latter; ‘‘he’s a blarsted foreigner, you know.”

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT THE COUNT GUROWBKI DID.

On the morning succeeding the night of the party, the
Count Gurowski Summoned a waiter to his room in the
hotel at which he was stopping and ordered him to call
acarriage. He then proceeded to make his toilet, and
shortly thereafter the carriage arrived, and entering it,
the count, in-reply to the hackman’squery, ‘‘Where will
you go, sir?” answered curtly :

«To de Tombs.”

On rolled the carriage, which in a very short time
drew up in front of the dismal building in Centre street,
through whose dark portals so many wretched criminals
have made their entrances and exits.

“Now, you wait here a leetle while,” said the count to
his Jehu, ‘‘and I vill come again.”

Tunning nimbly up the steps, the tount made his way
to the district attorney’s office, and was closeted with
that functionary about half an hour, at the end of which
time he emerged with a smiling face, and sought the
office of the keeper, to whom he handed a note.

«Ah, you wish to see the prisoners here, instead of in
their cells, do you?’ asked the keeper.

‘Vf you please, sar,” was the reply,

The keeper disappeared, and in a very short time he
re-appeared, followed by Lilly Davis, Ernest Hartley and
Tony Tucker, who had been a daily attendant upon the
prisoners, if only for a few moments each day.

“Here is a gentleman who wishes to see you,” said the
keeper, addressing the young couple

Both Ernest and Lilly bowed courteously,
Count Gurowski remarked :

“Yes, my young friends, I come tosee you on business.
I am your friend.”

“Yes, you're a high old friend,’ interposed Tony
Tucker. ‘‘I s’pose you’re one 0’ these ’ere snoozers that
they call shysters around here. One of ‘em has beat Mr.
Hartley out of his watch, and the other has got a hun-
dred dollars that Little Sunshine put away in the bank,
saved out of her hard earnin’s—every cent she had in
the world—and now they’ve gone back onto’em. They
promised to have ‘em out on bail before this, but since
they've got all they could, they’ve never come to see’em.
A pooty friend, you are! Do you know what l’ve a good
mind to take and do with you? I’vea good mind to lay
for you when you get outside and take and go to work
and put a head onto you.”

And Tony Tucker looked as though it would have
gratified him hugely to put his threat ato execution
then and there.

and the

 

 

 

«<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

‘Softly, softly, my young rooster,” cautioned the keep-
er. ‘I guess you forget where you are, don’t you? If
you ain’t very careful you may get a berth in one of the
cells yonder. As for this gentleman, I don’t know who
he is. I never saw him before. I do know, however,
that he’s no Tombs shyster. He came to me with an or-
der from the district attorney to let him see the prison-
ers. So far I know he’s on the square, and the best
thing you can do is to stop your chin-music and clear
out—you’re not wanted here any longer.”

“All right,” replied Tony. “Ill go, because I ain’t got
no choice in the matter. But I'll remember that old sar-
dine’s mug, and if he attempts to play any rough p’ints
onto my friends, I'll go for him the first time I see him
in the street, if I get six months for it.”

And scowling fiercely at the Count Gurowski, Tony
took his departure.

“Dat young friend of yours is very hasty,” remarked
the count, as he looked kindly, almost affectionately, at
Lilly Davis; ‘‘he is, vat you might say in my country,
too hot to wear a sword, and somebody must look after
him before he vill get in trouble.”

“He is a good fellow, although a little rough,” replied
Lilly, with a blush; ‘“‘he has been very kind tous. He
makes our cause hisown. There is scarcely a day that
he has not been with us, always ready and willing to do
anything which lay.in his power to assist us. [ don’t
know how we could well have got along without him.
He has not only acted as our messenger when we de-
sired to communicate with our friends, but he has daily
brought us little delicacies which we never could have
had but for his kindness, and I fear he has sometimes
pinched himself to procure them. He knows that we
have been badly treated by certain me® who call them-
selves lawyers. and that is why he exhibited so much
passion just now. Heaven bless him for all his kindness!
If I am ever able, I shall surely repay him!” And Lilly’s
eyes filled with tears of gratitude as she spoke.

‘Vell, perhaps you shall be able to repay him some
day,” said the Count Gurowski; ‘I have come to help you
and de young man, I vill get you out on de bail—dat is
if you vill answer me some questions, eh ?”

‘That will depend entirely upon the nature of your
questions, sir,” replied Lilly, who could not help regard-
ing the count with some degree of distrust.

‘Vell, den, in de first place,” said the count, “how
long have you and de young man been in de business
ot passing de counterfeit money, eh ?”

“Sir, you are impudent,” interposed Ernest Hartley,
whose face flushed with anger.

«You will keep silence if you please, sar,” answered
the count, with a show of asperity: “1 vas talk to de
young lady, not to you. Ven 1 ask you de question, den
it vill be time enough for you to answer, eh ?”

“T have no doubt, sir,” rejoined Hartley, ‘that you are
some avaricious Jew who has come here to prey upon
our necessities. If such is the case, let me assure you
that your errand will be fruitless. We have nothing left
except the consciousness of innocence, Therefore be-
gone, and do not insult us.”

“Again I say, I speak to de lady,” said the count, turn.
ing toward Lilly.

“I regard your question as an insult,” replied Lilly;
“but I will answer it nevertheless. We were never in
the business of passing counterfeit money, nor in any
otber business which was not strictly honorable.”

oo what for are you in dis place, eh ?” asked the
count.

“We are the victims of circumstances,” returned Lilly;
“a bad man gave me the money, and, supposing it to be
good, I placed some of it in the hands of my friend to
invest for me and kept some for my own use. It turned
out to be counterfeit, and we were both arrested for at-
tempting to pass it.”

‘And dis man dat gave you de money—you know him,
eh?’ asked the count.

“I do,” replied Lilly, blushing deeply.

“‘VeR, den, my little girl, vot is his name 2”

“That I will not tell you, sir,” replied Lilly, firmly.

“And vat for you won’t tell me ?” asked the count.

“Because I took an oath that I would not reveal his
name,” answered Lilly.

“And you will go to de prison yourself and let your
young friend go to de prison, too, for such an oath as
that !” exclaimed the count, raising his hands in sur-
prise; “vy, my tear young lady, de grand people vid
ever SO much money would not keep such oath as that,
and you are so very poor.” ‘

“I Know,” replied Lilly, proudly, “that I am but a
working-girl, but tome my oath is sacred. If I could
but suffer alone I would not mind it, but it is bitter to
think that I must drag the innocent down with me.”

“Speak no more of that, dear Lilly,” exclaimed Hart-
ley, as he took both her hands in his and gazed lovingly
into her face; ‘I have considered the matter fully and
am Willing to sutfer with you. In fact, if my prison door
were thrown open and I were told to depart a free man,
I would not doit. Imprisonment with you is far preter-
able to liberty without you. As for this miserable Jew,
pay no further attention to him, for whatever his ability
to help us may be, he has not the slightest inclination to
do.so, now that he knows we are penniless.”

“Yes, dat is so—dat is so,” remarked the count, rub-
bing his hands, ‘1 can do noting vidout the money—I
cannot make my living dat way. Yot for I should go
bail for you ven you tell me net.de man’s narge,eb 2 -You
vill not tellmeé de niin’s name? No? Vell, “never mind
for dat.
naine.” And placing his mouth to her ear the count
whispered the name of Luke Davis.

Lilly gave a start and uttered an exclamation of sur-
prise.

“So you see I know vidout you tell,” said the count,
gleetully ; ‘‘vell, never mind—never mind—I can noting
do for you ven you have no money. No, no, [cannot my
living make in dat vay. Goot-by, my young frients—
goot-by ;-I can noting do for you—noting at all—no, no!
Goot-by.” And the Count Gurowski bowed himself out.

“] am glad he is gone,” exclaimed Ernest Hartley; “I
think 1 should have strangled him had he remained
longer! Come, Lilly darling, let us to our cells and bear
our affliction with what patience we may.”

“1 know not why it is, dear Ernest,” replied Lilly, as
she followed her lover, ‘‘but I feel that help is at hand,
ond that we shall not long remain inmates of this gloomy
prison.

The result proved that Lilly’s premonition was not
without meaning, for, in about an hour after the jailer
had locked them in their cells, he bore to them the cheer-
tul intelligence that a gentleman—he did not say who—

had called upon the District Attorney and offered unex- |

ceptionable bail for them, and that they were to be taken
into court the mext morning and liberated.

@0O BE CONTINUED.)
——__—__+-e~
MASSAGE.

 

Massage, as a hygienic agent, was practiced from the
earliest times, and is probably as old as surgery itself,
or, as it would be more exact to say, as old as mankind.
The word is derived from the Greek, to knead, and the
Arabic, to press softly. With the Egyptians, Greeks,
and Romans, a form of massage was the common ac-
companiment of the bath, and was used as a luxury, as
a means of hastening tedious convalescence, and to ren.
der the limbs supple and enduring. Rubbing and
anointing were sometimes done by medical practitioners
themselves, or by the priests, or sometimes by slaves.
Herodicus, one of the masters of Hippocrates in the fifth
century B.C.; first proposed gymnastics as a cure for
disease. He was the superior officer of the gymnasium
at Athens; and by compelling his patients to undergo
various exercises and to have their bodies rubbed, is said
to have lengthened their lives, insomuch that Plato re-

proached him for protracting that existence in which,
as years advanced, they could have less and less enjoy-
ment. MWe himself, by the practice of his own remedies,
attained the age of a hundred.

The earliest definite information regarding massage
comes from Hippocrates, who says: “The physician
must be experienced in many things, but assuredly also
in rubbing; for things that have the same name have
not always the same effects, for rubbing can‘ bind a joint
that is too loose, and loosen a joint that is too rigid.”
He also used the word anatripsis, the process of rubbing
up, and not down, although not understanding the rea-
son of it, andit was not till five hundred years later that
Galen pointed out that the arteries were not filled with
air, as their name would seem to imply. Asclepiades
was probably not far wrong when he founded his school
at Rome on the belief that diet, bathing, exercise, and
friction, should keep the body without disease; and Cice-
ro affirmed that he owed as much of his health to his
anointer as he did to his physician. Plutarch tells us
that Julius Cesar had himself pinched all over daily, as
a means of getting rid of a general neuralgia. Celsus,
at the beginning of the Christian era, advised that rub-
bing should be applied to the whole body, ‘‘when an in-
valid requires his system to be replenished;” and Pliny
availed himself of a mode of treatment which was evi-
dently much in fashion in his day, and derived so much
benefit from the remedy that he obtained for his physi-
cian, Who was a Jew, the privileges of Roman citizen-
ship. Itis related ot the Emperor Hadrian that one day
seeing a veteran soldier rubbing himself against the
marble at the public baths, he asked him why he did so.
The veteran answered: “I have no slave to rub me.”
Whereupon, the emperor gave him two slaves and suf-
ficient to maintain them. If is quaintly added to this
story, that the next day several old men rubbed them-
Selves against the wallin the emperor’s presence, when,
perceiving their object, he shrewdly directed them to
rub one another.

nie ie iene ramen

AN INNOCENT ABROAD.

 

It doesn’t make any difference what his other name
was, but he was a Congressman in Paris, and he had
never been there before.

It is the customin that city when a stage is full to
put up the sign complet, and no more passengers can
getin. .Our Congressman wanted to see everything,
and as these labeled stages would pass him he would

would try to stop them, but the driver would shake his
head and drive on.

“You can’t get inany of those,” said an English-speak-
ing citizen, who had watched his vain attempts.

“But I want one of them,” he persisted.

“Take one of the others, with fewer people in it,
There's plenty of them,” urged the @itizen.

See, mine leetle frient, I vill tell you de man’s |

“You go to thunder,” he said, angrily. “I guess I
know what I want. I’min this town to see the sights.
Everybody seems to be going to Complet, and I'm —
Tain’t a-going there, too,ifI have to wait a week to
catch a’bus with room in itforme. That’s the kind of
an American citizen I am, and don’t you forget it.”

 

—>- e+ —_____

A DOG THAT PAID,

Lovers of dogs will be interested in the following true
story:

A lady was visiting friends at the sea-side, where there
was a fine dog whose master was in the habit of giving
him money every day to buy meat for his dinner from
the butcher's cart. The lady, admiring the handsome,

intelligent animal called him to her as she gat at break-
fast and fed him from her plate.

The dog at once went to his master, and standing on
his hind legs, pawed and scratched at the gentleman's
vest pocket. At first the master failed to understand,
and ordered him away; but, the creature persisting, he
finally said :

“Well, I do believe he wants his money,” and offered
him a coin, which the dog instantly took, and trotting
up to the friendly visitor, deposited it in her lap with a
wag of his tail anda look which seemed to say, “I al-
ways pay the butcher, and why not you ?”

Never Put Off

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form of Throat or Lung disease, do not
neglect it. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, if
promptly taken, will speedily reliey-
and cure ail ailments of this character.

 

 

Two years ago I took a severe Cold,
which, being neglected, was followed by
a terrible Cough. I lost flesh rapidly,
had night sweats, and was soon confined
to my bed. <A physician was called, but
the medicine he prescribed afforded
only temporary relief. <A friend advised
the use of Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral. I
began taking this medicine, and before
finishing the first bottle was able to si
up; four bottles effected a verfect cure.
— Geo. W. Dick, Newton, Mass.

In seyeral cases of Bronchitis, caused
by exposure to damp and cold weather,
I have used Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral. It
jis an anodyne expectorant of great
value and usefulness to patients of all

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safety as a household’ remedy, \ are
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other cough preparation does its work so
quickly and satisfactorily. — C. E. Hoyt,
M. D., New Orleans, La.

Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,

Prepared by Dr.J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5.

 

 
      

The only perfect substitute for Mother’s
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erfect nutrient in all Wastin Diseases.
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4 DOLIBER. GOODAEH & \CO., Boston, Mass,
‘
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No house can give the same
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Address NATIONAL TEA &
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PENNYROYAL PILLS!

ADIES! “CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH,” .
| pHson ars in letter by return Mail

 

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ETECTIVES.—A reliable conptepandeny wanted in
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|
3
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NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 6, 1886.

rita ie OR gM re aR 7 ent a TL ete
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FREE.)

3months. . ee EE LE ODIOS oe ce $5.00
4 months- . . $1.00] 4 copies . - . 10.00
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Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.
We employ no traveling agents.
All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,

P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

 

 

A VIVID LOVE STORY,
BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.

The reward of true love, after enduring the most ex-
asperating suspicions, and the agony of purishment
and disgrace for

AN UNCOMMITTED SIN,

is pathetically and powerfully illustrated in the brilliant
story we shall begin next week under the title of

WAITING FOR HIM;

OR;

THE WHITE HAND.

By the Author of ‘‘Jennie Vail’s Mission,” ‘* The
White Sapphire,” etc.

 

This is a graphic story of English life at the present
time, and incidentally portrays the bitter partisanship
which prevails during a parliamentary election; how
the animosity of opposing candidates is transferred
from the hustings to the family fireside, and turns kin-
dred against kindred, even :

SISTER AGAINST SISTER.

An entertaining and cleverly evolved plot, abounding
in thrilling situations and strange experiences, is one of
the attractions of this powerful story.

Do not fail to read the opening installment of ‘‘Warrt-
ING FoR Him,” which will be placed before our readers
next week. a :

e

HONOR HER,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

Honor thy mother. And how?

_ Lremember when I was a lag it seemed that obey
would have been the better word. 1 was remindéd o
my own early impression by a young lady’s question re4
cently; woman-grown, she wondered ‘“‘why the word
honor was used instead of obey.”

For my own part, honor seems much more the needed
command for adult years. The child of age is often free
from the command, obey. He is away from home; he
must guide his own footsteps; he must be his own
master, for better or worse. But the honor of his pa-
rents now becomes a far more wide-reaching duty than
ever. He bears the family name, for honor or dishonor ;
he realizes or disappoints the hopes of the fondly dream-
ing mother now: he crowns her watchings and ward-
ings, her pang of birth and her sacrifice of strength,
with the reward of a well-done or a fool’s errand, as the
case may be. Now he is the pride or shame of her who
brought him into the world. Now to think of him brings
the high look of honor to her brow or the mantling of
shame, and the mention of his name on the lips of such
as know him is her sadness or her gladness. Now all
her teachings show, the ‘‘bringing up” which she gave
him; the seed sown before harvest begins to appear in
the life-harvest. The sort of man or woman you make
is a bright light reflected on your home training. lf you
are a bad young man, the first presumption of your
neighbors is against your family; they put the fault on

your parents; they say, ‘Of course. What else could
We expect out of such a family?” All this may be
wrong; the fault may be almost wholly yours that you
have grown up to be wild, and your parents’ hearts may
be breaxing with disappointment. But the fact remains
that the community at large estimates a home Circle
very largely by the way the children ‘‘turo out,” the
character they show when grown. ae

The successful, and what is moré worthy, the honor: }
able career Of a child is the inestimable riches of a fam-
tly. In this country there is no aristocracy of blood,
there is no ‘founding ofafamily” in the European
sense. But yet there are families whence the sons and
daughters of successive generations exhibit such ster-
ling worth, such strength of character, that they have
been built into abiding prominence among us. When
first the oldest son achieves virtuous success, then the
next, and the next; when not one turns out badly, but

to me.” In that sigh is the wisdom of a Socrates and
the love of a Saviour, almost.

Look thou on mother’s brow and think of all the
storms it has faced. Look on her aging features and
think of all the life it has confronted. Then honor her
superior wisdom. I tell you that any old farmer's wile,
who never learned a line of Greek or Latin, is infinitely
wiser than the most scholarly young college professor.
If you and | are wise, as her life ripens we shall more
and more deter to mother. Weshall honor her in our
dweilings, in the sight of our children, in the company
of others, and in our own secret thoughts. Honor is not
a mysterious word. We would know how to honor a
Senator it he were visiting us, or a queen, a songstress,
or a benefactor. So much and more do thou to this no-
blewoman, thy mother, as long as her life lasts. ‘So
shall thy day be long in the land which the Lord, thy
God, giveth thee.”

PEOPLE WE ALL KNOW.

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

 

 

No. 9._THE SANGUINE MAN.

 

‘

There are some people whom it is hard to know what
to think about, and one of them is the sanguine man.

Thousands regard him as the finest fellow alive, but as
many others insigt that he does more mischief than any
half dozen criminals combined.

He is the man who always thinks that everything will
turn out right, so he never is on the lookout for things
that will work the wrong way.

He is found in every department of life, from running
a dirt cart to running the government, and his cheerful
spirit gains him hosts of followers, no matter which way
he is going.

In business he risks his last penny on a promising
speculation, no matter if he has a lot of unpaid bills in
his pocket ; worse than this, he persuades his friends to
be equally reckless.

He will help any reckless couple to elope, regardless of
poverty, ill-adapted natures, parental wishes, and every
thing else. Once in a while the facts prove him not to
be wrong, but much oftener the principals curse him for
his pains, and later their children hold him to blame

that they ever came into the world.

He is at the head of at least half the bogus gold mines,
wild-cat banks, and impracticable railroad schemes in
the world, and although he loses his all—which is as
much as any one else can do—the other victims curse
him for a swindler.

He will start a split in a church, engage a pastor, and
begin a new church building on credit, fully believing
that necessary money will be forthcoming, somehow ;
but usually it doesn’t come, and the sanguine man has
to take all the blame for the blunder—and he de-
serves it. ,

He will do his best to coax his fellow citizens to bond
the town for the purpose of getting a railroad station, or
water works, or city pavements, or some other expensive
luxury ; the consequence is that hundreds of American
towns owe more money than all the property in them is
worth, and the sanguine man is entirely to blame.

He will run in debt to any extent to improve his own
house and estate, feeling sure that he will come out all
right in some way, but he generally comes out all
wrong.

He can always borrow money, for his enthusiasm is
as catching as the small-pox, but when the time to pay
comes around, there generally is misery for the lender—
unless the sanguine man knows where to borrow some
more.

He is manager of almost every land swindle in the
United States, and is as horrified as any one else when
his victims straggle back to shake their fists in his
face, for he took the principals at their word—he takes
the word of anybody, if it is very strong.

He is full of schemes for regenerating the world in
every respect; he has some respect for the leaders in
finance, society, politics, and religion, and doesn’t like
to belittle anyone, but away down in the bottom of his
heart is a regret that he was not alive to give points to
the founder of everything—even George Washington and
the Saviour, to his mind, were not quite all they might
have been.

The sanguine man’s family has not as much furniture
and clothing as other people ; sometimes they have not
enough to eat, but they have hope enough to supply a
whole county. They are ‘going to” have everything
that heart can wish, and somehow the sanguine spirit
of the head of the family keeps them from seeing things
as they really are.

The sanguine man is the delight of Wall street, and
all other gagnbling places, for he and his kind do most
of the operating. If he has millions;ne ventures ali on
big operations ; if poor, he denies himself a needed pair
of trousers so as to invest five dollars with a ‘‘bucket
shop” stock broker, but the results are the same—he
gets nothing back. This ought to discourage him, but
it doesn’t, forhe is always sanguine enough to say to
himself, ‘Better luck next time.”

He is everybody’s triend; he says it, and he means it,
but the man who relies on his promises is pretty sure to
“get left,” and isn’t consoled in the least when the san-
guine man declares that he meant right.

And yet the world owes a great deal to the sanguine
man. It was one ot his kind who discovered America,
another gave us the steamboat, and still another the
railroad; while, if it were not for ovhers of the same kind,
we would not have the telegraph, the telephone, or the
newspaper.

“The tree is known by its fruits,” and the sanguine
man must be judged by results; unless these have been
satisfactory, he is not the man to whom to intrust your
spare cash, to say nothing of such cash as you may want
to get back in a hurry.

When he has proper balance he is a powerful influence
for good; but if he merely follows his impulses and goes
off at half cock, he can do more harm than a thousand
men can repair. ee

A locomotive is a powerful object, and capable of do-

ing much good if kept on the rails, and with a strong
hand on the lever; but when it jumps the track and
cares for nothing but to go, the sooner it is ditched the
better.
A sanguine man is in like manner a most useful being
to put “go” into a household, business, town, or church;
but if he hasn’t a steady grip on himself, some one must
put one oa him or everything will go to smash,

him” to start a new business, a new hewspaper, or a
new religion, it is time to hurry home, give your wife all
of your money to take care of, and make her promise
not to give it back to you until you have had a long,
quiet think. And the less you have to do with the san-
guine man while you are thinking, the less you are
likely to have to regret afterward.

 

ie Se

GOOD NEIGHBORS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

 

all keep the high grade of cleanness, good citizenship,
and real influence among their fellows; why, what is
more common than the speech, “That was a remark-
able pair, the father and mother of that family 2” Itis
not an unusual thing fora son toso honor his parents
by his noble deeds that the patient biographer searches
back most carefully to show up the stock trom whence
he came: a crown is placed on the obscure old farmer
father’s brow; a wreath is dropped by the grateful
world upon the humble grave of the mother. What hon-
or did Webster, did Washington, did Wesley reflect on
their mothers? Who would ever have heard of those
women but for the nobility of their sons?

As you think, reader, with love and gratitude, of your
dead parents; or, as some of my young readers look
with tender affection on living fathers and mothers,
does not the desire burn in you todo such honor to
these dear ones? Do you not often feel the debt you owe
them, and the hopelessness of paying it? Does not the
boy often say, ‘‘You do not know my mother; how good
she is?” Itis your wonderful privilege to show the’
world how good she was by your well-ordered life. It is
yours to honor the fond hearts by your reflected virtue.
‘And there is nothing, no childish disobedience, no infan-
tile insolence, that can hurt your parents as your eyil
behavior after you touch sixteen years of age, and De-
gin to be known in the great sharply staring world.

But the word honor is the fit one ‘for our thoughts of
our parents. As we grow strong, mother grows weak,
As we grow active, She grows slow and quiet. As we
grow educated, mother, with her many cares, and fail-
ing eyes that cannot long endure a book, seems often to
us to be left somewhat behind. The schools are so smart
nowadays! We don’t use the antiquated Rule of Three.
Mother cannot assist us in our lessons. The newspa-
pers tell us young people lots of things that it were bet-
ter for us it we did not know yet awhile. The result of
it all is that we begin to dishonor: mother in our secret
thoughts, if we are not careful. Poor fools that we are,
we plume ourselves on our little new knowledge and
cherish a half-contempt for her ripe experience of years.
Ab, boys, mother’s seasoned frame and muscle may long
outlast yours. Girls, mother must have had an endur-
ance that you are not certain of if she has lived to bring
you up to the present; you may not have the vitality to
reach forty, for all you feel so coltish now. You. boys
simply cannot endure the strain that your father can,
notwithstanding you can leap over a five-barred.gate
and he cannot; yet he can “kill” you with continued
hard work. Roystering boyhood is very raw; it is liable
to fevers and all sorts of acute, inflammatory maladies
which riper: manhood has small -fear of. : Better honor
your parents’ strength—they may bury you yet.

And as for’ knowledge—why, bless you, young things,
it is the cheapest sort of knowledge that can be learned
from a book. All printed knowledge is superficial; the
deepest truth, as any one knows, is felt, but cannot be
put in form of words. Can you tell all you Know? Can
you write the best things you know ? It is experience,
it is life that makes us truly wise. Better honor that

subtle and deep experience of this strange life that is
stored in your old mother’s heart. I ‘tell you that she
often sighs, ‘Poor thing, how little they know. But I
suppose they must live and learn, They will not listen

Dwellers in cities do not know much about their
neighbors. They de not care to know. The ceaseless
fret, and bustle, and friction all around them give them
little opportunity to interest themselves in the proceed-
ings of any particular individual. It is only in country
towns that neighbors play any important part in our
lives, and there we could not possibly do without them.

selves, and attend to it even more closely than they do
to their own; and it is a blessed consolation to feel that
no matter where you are, or what you are doing, there
is somebody over the way anxious about you, and watch-
ing over you, and taking note of all your incomings and
outgoings. You feelas if you had guardian angels al-
wavs hovering near. It is delicious to know that when

your good neighbor across the street is thoughtfully
taking note of the transaction ; and if you happen to for-
get what day of the week you settled your ice bill last,
all you have to do is toask your neighbor—she knows
better than you do.

The human mind is so constituted that it must be em-
ployed about something, and in a country neighborhood

“where business is slack, watching one’s neighbors is

quite a diversion. We notice that those engaged in it
seem to like it. 7

If Mrs. B. goes up.in the attic, and looks over the rag-
bag, and plans to hook a rug, it is soon all over the
neighborhood what she has done. It is told of as though
it were a fact of a good deal of magnitude. All the
neighbors taik it over, and compare their experiences in
rug making. They discuss the ways and means, and
they insinuate that Mrs. B. is extravagant to want more
rugs, and they wonder if she will put her green delaine
into it, and it she will spread it on the sitting-room or
on the spare chamber floor, and how long it will take
her to do it, and what pattern she will make it, and
altogether there will be talk enough about that pro-
jected rug to convoke ten average parliaments.

Your neighbors know many things about you that you
do not know yourself. They have advantages for hear-
ing about you which you do not enjoy. If ever you want
to know any additional facts about yourself or your
antecedents, ask your neighbors.
the whole matter, and can give you particulars at a mo-
ment’s warning,

Do you suppose that when you tore your pants against
a nailin the pantry, and said some big words on ac-
count of it, that your neighbors never heard of it? Don’t
indulge in any such illusion. Why, you never swore in
your life, or snapped out at your wife, or kicked at your
horse when he stepped on the shafts of the wagon
when you were harnessing.in a hurry; you never split
kindling-wood, and got into a demoralized mood be-
cause the ax flew off the handle and made you pound

 

your thumb nail; you never chucked your pretty ser-
vant girl under the chin on the sly ; you never jumped

When the sanguine man wants you to ‘goin with

They see after our business better than we could our- |

you buy an extra pound of beefsteak or a link of sausage, |

They have studied |

4

your fare into the circus or the annual cattle show ; you
never put a filled ten-cent piece into the contribution-
box in the evening, when the lights were dim, and the
singers who were cheering you On in your good work of
charity had colds, and the deacon who passed the hat
was blind—you never did anything that you did not
want known, and felt sure was not known, but that
your enterprising neighbors found out about it, and
talked it over among themselves.

—> e+

Tike

Wonders of Nature.

BY PROF. M, RUDOLPH.

 

WHAT ARE THE STARS ?—No. 2.

In our last article we considered the constitution and
distance of the Stars, ‘and learned the great truth, that
they are all Suns. Let us now ascertain our relative
position to these bodies.
understand that the Stars are not only above our heads,
but

THE STARS ARE ALSO BENEATH OUR FEET.

Like a particle of dust floating in the atmosphere, sur-
rounded by its fellow particles, So our globe is surround-
| ed on all sides by its fellow worlds, its comets, and blaz-
ing Stars or Suns. But, unlike these particles of dust»
moving at random, these worlds and Stars are all placed
at fixed distances, and move in regular orbits, with vary-
ing velocity. mo

The Stars are called ‘‘fixed*’ because to the casual ob-
server they seem always to be exactly in the same place;
differing in this respect from the planets, which are con-
stantly changing their places; hence their name **plan-
ets” that is, wanderers. ‘
OF STARS.

THE NU
There are now discovéred to us by the aid of the tele-
scope one hundred millit f Stars. y

The actual number is, doubtless, far greater, as in
some part of the heavens the Stars are so crowded to-
gether that they present the appearance of ‘“‘comming-
ling blazes of light,” and cannot be counted. They
seem like great masses of intense light, completely cov-
ering and shutting out large tracts of the sky.

Had we still more powerful telescopes, we probably
would discover such vast multitudes of Stars that no sky
at al) would anywhere be seen ; but this can be proven
only by larger. instruments than the world is likely to
see for many years to come. Indeed, we are almost
forced to the conclusion that the Stars are innumerable
—that there is no part of Space where they do not flash
and blaze, lighting up vast systems of worlds.

We cannot set bounds to space. There is no part of
the universe where are reared towering walls reaching
up millions of miles beyond which space does not exist,
We may dash down through the depths beneath, mil-
lions and trillions and decillions of miles, and continue
our flight through ten thousand millions of years, and
then with the wings of light press on in the misty dark-
ness ten hundred thousand millions of decillions of ages,
and in the same direction, too, and there will be no bar-
riers found to obstruct our progress, no boundaries of
space, but illimitable expanse. will still be stretching out
beyond, and beyond, a) yond—forever.

Let it be remembered here that each of these one hun-
dred millions of Suns is, in all probability, the center of
a system like ourown, Our family of worlds now num-
bers about one hundred and seventy worlds, including
planets and Satellites, or moons. —

Now as we know that many of these Stars or Suns are
greatly superior to our own Sun, we may reasonably in-
ter that they have as@many, and probably more worlds
circling around them as there are revolving around our
solar center. But all this vast assemblage of one hun-
dred millions of Suns, and their many hundred millions
of moons and planets may be to the whole universe only
as a drop to the ocean, and if in a moment destroyed
their loss would probably no more be noticed by an‘ob-
server, who co survey the whole of creation, than
would be the removal of a grain of sand from the sea-
shore. So vast is this universe! How little is man!
How GREAT 1s Gop!

It will probably startle many readers to learn that of
all these many millions of starry worlds above, beneath,
and around us, about jive thousand only are ever seen
by the unaided eye. Seemingly, many more are visible,
butit is an optical illusion.

But when we point alarge glass to the heavens, the
change of aspect is most startling. We seem as if we
were in a moment transported through the mighty pro-
found of space, and set down in close proximity to an-
ee cregion, or, it is as if another Daa had sud-

enly sprhag- v the eae iglity fiat, and was
there See ee et i beter S, on es the beauty
and freshness ot new-born life.

THE WONDERS OF LIGHT. é

How wonderful that light cam reach us from such re-
mote worlds! How mysterieus that an imponderable
force—that is, one having no perceptible weight, even
when weighed by the most delicate apparatus science
and art can construct—how mysterious that this weight-
less something should be capable of outstripping in its
flight all the projectiles ever inven.ed by man, even as
the gazelle or antelope outstrips the laggard sloth.
Think of a ray of light setting out on its long journey to
Earth, from one of those far-off Suns far beyond the
Milky Way. It started ten thousand years before Adam
first looked up with delight, and yet witg wondering
awe, upon the glorious heavens, as he, with Mother Eve,
walked the grassy groves of Eden. On it came, that
ray of light; now rushing through vast systems, now

And at the outset, we must |

«<oext THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 > mem,

| they do, from forty to sixteen hundred years to make
one circuit. This proves, that though apparently .so
near, they are nevertheless at immense distances from
each other. We must bearin mind here that these are
Suns revolving around Suns, and not planetary sys-
tems like our world-tamily and Sun. The revolution of
these smaller suns around the larger establishes the
most interesting tact that the law ot gravitation—that
is, the attraction of matter by matter—extends to the
fixed stars. Before this discovery we had no actual
demonstration ot the truth of the theory that attraction
operated beyond the limits of our own system or family
ot worlds, but when it was seen that one Sun revolves
around another Sn, then it was clearly and satisfac-
torily demonstrated that the law of gravitation is the
law of the whole material universe; that we are all
bound together by this mysterious force ; that however
distant might be any one of those twinkling suns out in
the abysses of space, yet it exerts an influence upon us,
and our world, in turn, attfacts that same remote star.
Whatever else may yet be unsettled, this great truth is
now well established.

Another most beautiful and interesting feature of
these double and triple stars, is that they often are of
different colors. Thus we roaneny Abe what to the
aa eye seemed to be singlé white stars, are, in
| reality, ‘

BLUE, ORANGE, AND GREEN STARS,

| seemingly companions to the larger stars around which
they regularly revolve. Hence, the inhabitants of these
systems—supposing them to be inhabited, as in all
probability they are—those residents are probably some-
what differently constituted from us, as they have dif-
ferently Colored light from their respective suns. -

The cause of these different colors is revealed to us by
the fascinating science of Spectrum Analysis. From
this we learn that these various colors result from the
various substances in combustion in the gaseous flames
enveloping those bodies ; just as we often see here the
flames from burning bodies are not always of the same
color, some giving blue, others red, and others green
tiames, etc. We must infer, therefore, that the sub-
stance is most abundant on any particular sun or star
whose proper flame predominates. But the color of a
star is not always thesame. Thus Sirius is now de-
cidedly white ; but centuries ago, in the time of Ptolemy
and Seneca, they reported it asred. The change may
be owing to the fact that the substance giving forth the
red flame had been mostly consumed, and what pro-
duces a white flame is now the chief substance burning
on that star. 7

; NEW STARS.

Another interesting class is new stars. Suddenly,
where all was blank space before, a star will all at once
shine forth, and sometimes with more than ordinary
splendor.

In 1572 one of these mysterious bodies suddenly ap-
peared in the constellation Cassiopia in the northern
sky. It was of such extraordinary brilliance as to be
seen at noonday. It was supposed to be undergoing
some extraordinary change trom the most intense heat,
as it exhibited all the phenomena of a great conflagra-
tion: It continued burning sixteen months, when it to-
tally disappeared, and has not since been seen, though
carefully watched for by numerous observers.

During the sixteen months it was seen it seemed to
pass through all the changes of a great combustion.

hus, it was first a dazzling white, then a reddish yel-
low, and last of all an ashy pale. Its light was estimat-
ed at the time to be equal to the blaze of 1,200,000 worlds
like our own, all collected into one mass, and all at the
same moment wrap in flames! What a conflagra-
tion would it be, the burning of our globe. But imagine
one million, two hundred thousand such worlds ali at
one time on fire, burning not merely trees and other
substances easily consumed, but metals, rocks, and
earth, all melting away in the fierce heat as readily as
the dry stubble of the field. Verily, Omnipotence work-
eth like a God!

And such a fate is predicted for our own beautiful
earth: and it will as surely come to pass as that He
who has foretold it is now on the Throne of the Uni-
oe, Happy they who are prepared for this great
event! :

 

A third article will close those devoted to the consid-
eration of ‘‘WHAT ARE THE STARS.”

Feces le tO

Josh Billings?

THE VEGETABLE BITTERS MAN. :

Whenever a man gits dead broke, and kant think 0

nothin to raze the wind with, and hiz unkle won’t hav
him boarding at hiz house enny longer, and hiz boots
want tapping the wust way, lie takes sum rubarb root,
afu katnip blossoms, and sum black cherry tree bark,
and sokes them 14 hours in cheap whisky, and goes hed-
long into the life renovating tonik bizness.

He plasters every fence, Saw-mill log, stun wall, and

hilosophy.

 

 

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

ta?" 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.

 

[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty zm ovr ;ourna.,
Avery question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared twrender
the answers to questions absolutely reliable.]

 

Renfrew, New Orleans.—ist. Relative to the killing of Gen.
Custer and his command, it may be briefly stated that in the
early part of 1876, military operations were begun against the
hostile Sioux Indians in Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming.

Crazy Horse, and other chiefs, had made war on the friendly
Indians, and had refused to settle upon areservation. In
March an unsatisfactory expedition was made by Gen.
Crook, and Gen. Sheridan ordered three columns to move
simultaneously to a common center, the Indians were
from montans from Dakota, and ‘from the
the Seventh Cay under
) of the Rosebud River: 6 21.
next day Gen. Custer started with his whole men
stron shment of scouts and guides, : quouth of
incia Gal eine he followed toe Eide Ble Bown Rigek
n w e followed to the “ .
Here he found a village of almost unlimited Sette a é

 

 

once aa * ett t _- rtion of ae pin was
immediately at hand. subsequent moy scarce.
anything is own. He was Killed Gune. 25 or 26)

and his entire command 2d. Gen. . A. Custer
was born at New Rumley arrison Count; ..on Dec. 5,
1839, He was a graduate of West Point, and his achievements
during the civil war were of the most brilliant kind. When
the Confederates fell back to Appomattox, he led the advance
of Gen. Sheridan’s command. In July, 1866, he was made
Lieutenant-Colonel of the United States Cavalry, with the
brevet rank of major-general, and was thereafter engaged in
frontier service.

Lee M., Collierville, Tenn.—The career of Gen. Sam Houston,
the person you refer to, was a very remarkable one. He was
born near Lexington, Va.,on March 2, 1793, but soon after
the death of his father, his mother, with nine children, re-
moved to Blount County, Tennessee, within eight miles of
the Cherokee settlements. While a clerk in a store he ran

away, crossed the Tennessee River, and took up his abode
with the Cherokee Indians, with whom he remained for
three years ; Oolooteka, one of their principal chiefs, adopt-
ing him as hisson. He subsequently returned to his family,
enlisted (1813) in the U.S. army, and rose to_a lieutenantcy.
Next he restened his commission, returned to Tennessee,
settled in Nashville, and studied law. He rose to distinction
at the bar, was elected to Congress (1823) without opposition,
and was re-elected (1825) by an almost unanimous vote. In
August, 1827, he was chosen Governor of Tennessee by a ma-
jority of 12,000. His popularity was such that he had not a
single opponent in the State slature. On Jan. 9, 1829, he
was married, and in April of the same year, for reasons
never publicly explained, separated from his wife, resigned
his office, and went to the Indian Territory, where he was
formally admitted the rights and privileges of the
Cherokee nation. Afterward he removed to Texas, of which
he became President when it was a Republic, and Governor
when it was a State, and represented Texas in the U. 8S.
Senate. He died in Austin, Texas, on Oct. 8, 1861.

Wm. H., Chicago, Ill.—ist. “Dwyer’s Horse Book” will cost
$1.25. It treats of seats and saddles, bits and bitting. An-
other work entitled “The Saddle Horse” can be mailed to you
for $1. In addition to horsemanship it tells how to teach
horses to perform various feats under the saddle. 2d. The
effects of camphor an, with the quantity administered. In
moderate doses it produces mental exhilaration. In larger
doses it displays a more decided action on the brain, cawaz ng
more or less giddiness and mental confusion. In very large
doses it occasions nausea, vomiting, anxiety, faintness, ver-
tigo, delirium, ipacnal bility. coma, and con ions, which
may endindeath. It is chiefly employed to allay nervous
disorders, and is thus very useful in certain forms of
attended with derangement of the nervous functions. Itis
also much used in maladies of an inflammatory character,
and in troubles arising from the abuse of spirituous liquors.
Snuffed up the nostrils, in the of powder, it is recom-
mended for nervous headache, e injurious effects of an
overdose are said to be best counteracted, after clearing out
the stomach, by the use of opium.

Viva Gatchell.—1st. The hair inclosed is a very fine auburn.
2d. The lady named is not to our knowledge married. 3d,
The hair referred to indicates the blonde type. 4th. Your
handwriting is very legible. 5th. In the Japanese language
a is pronounced like ain father. The word mikado does not

occur in the most ancient Japanese books, but is the one,
ouvof many names given to the en which has ob-
tained the test currency. The derivation of mikado
usually accepted by the Japanese is from m7. honorable, au-
gust, and kado, a gate, equivalent to the Turkish title Sub-

 

 

 

 

cows back from Portland, Maine, to San Francisco, with
red and yello plakards, offering to heal the halt, make
the blind talk, and the'deaf see, and renew the livers of
all kreashun, for one dollar and a quarter a bottle.

H¢. ; rooms at sum fust klass hotel, drives four in
hand, and never iz sefii Oily on tho jump. 4
He iz az phull ov bizness az the superintendant ova
Sunday skool on a piknik day, and callon him when yu
will to collect yure little bill ov eight dollars, he haz just
left for Baltimore, or won’t be home trom Nu Orleans
until week after next.

Theze men are not all ov them unskrupulous ; Sum OV
their kompounds are too simple to do enny hurt, or
good, and the worst perhaps that kan be sed ov them iz,
that they knowingly praktiss upon the kredulity ov poor
human hatur.

The vegitabel bitters man iz akuning kritter, full ov
pomposity, frequently ackumulates a fortune, but never
kan entirely outlive a certain kind ov rubarb and katnip
smell that scents hiz reputashun.

MERMAIDS.

 

 

 

passing in an instant great worlds as they too sped
With frightful haste through their mighty orbits; now
overtaking and dashing by raging comets, as they
rushed on with almost lightning speed, their fiery trains
streaming out over the profundities of the vast abyss ;
on it came, that ray of light, passing mighty constella-
tions, sweeping by huge Suns with their planetary
worlds, leaving star after star in the unfathomable
depths behind; thus it came, that ray of light, straight
on, turning nota hair’s breadth either to the right or
left in its long flight; and yet, when our great pro-
genitor looked out upon the sky, that ray of light from
that remote sun did not fall on his vision, for it was yet
far out in the immeasurable depths. Nor when the
Ark was launched upon the angry waters had it come.
Nor when the Divine One appeared in human form to
| redeem a fallen race had that ray yet dawned on human
sight ; and though ever since dashing on more than one
hundred and eighty thousand miles each second of time
measured by the faithful pendulum, yet that same ray
‘ot light has not yet reached us, and jive thousand years
more must pass away before it can leap the great chasm
| that separates its source from us.

But that ray of light will come; its far-distant source
will yet shine as a bright orb in our firmament, and in
some part of the sky where now is only blank space,
there will be suddenly seen a blazing star, thenceforth
to glow with its fellow suns until heaven and earth
shall pass away.

THE MAGNITUDE OF THE STARS,

We have already seen that the Stars are at immense
distances from us, and as they are visible to us, notwith-
standing this distance, they must be suns shining by
their own native light. But this is not all; they are not
only suns, but ni otf immense magnitude, vastly

 

 

greater than our offi. This we know from the fact that
they appear far brigater to us than would our Sun it
| placed at the same distance from our world as are the
| Stars. The star Sirius, commonly known as the Dog
| Star, is estimated to be two thousand times larger in
volume or bulk than our Sun; so that from it might be
formed 2,000 solar centers each one capable of doing all
that is accomplished by our own.

It must not be inferred from this that its light is also
2,000 times greater, as Sirius emits only three hundred
| times more light and heat than does our Sun. The star
| Lyra in the constellation called the Harp, has been esti-
| mated to be 58,000 times greater than our Sun.

But this estimate is probably too high, though doubt-
less itis a most wonderful object, and must light up a
system of overpowering grandeur ; and yet this immense
lobe appears to us only as a mere point of light, with-
| out affording any perceptible heat; so deep is it buried
| in the unfathomable depths of space.

Now, bearing in mind that our Sun is only a Star, and
if as far removed from us as are some of the other stars,
would not be seen at all by the unassisted eye, we are
better able to form some faint conception, both of the
distance and magnitude of this glorious body.

We have also seen that our Sun isa globe of liquid
fire; that on its surface there are raging billows of
molten matter leaping, and rolling, and tossing literally
mountains high, while above and around this there is
another ocean of gas in an incandescent state—that is,
on fire, and producing intense heat, and dashing up and
out in every direction its mighty tongues of flame one
hundred thousand miles into the solar atmosphere. Be-
sides all this, we saw there were other and even
mightier forces operating there, projecting matter to
the enormous height of one hundred and sixty thousand
miles in an incredibly short time.

Now, as our Sun is comparatively a small body when
placed by the side of such a vast globe as Sirius or Lyra,
we may reasonably suppose that the forces operating on
it are also comparatively feeble, and that incomparably
mightier eruptions and physical agitations are con-
stantly going on in these greater sun-worlds than are
| witnessed on our Own. ;

If there are waves of liquid molten matter on our Sun,
heaving, and rolling, and tossing to the height of ten or
| twenty miles, we may suppose similar waves a hun-
| dred times higher, and rushing and rolling with a mo-
mentum and force a hundred times greater on these
| more ponderous orbs.

DOUBLE AND TRIPLE STARS. e-

When we examine the heavens with a powerful tele-
scope, we
to the eye alone, are composed of two, three, four or

| more stars. These are called Binary and Ternary sys-
tems, according to the number of which they are com-
posed. By close observation, they have revealed the
| startling fact that they revolve around each other in
orbits of apparently small diameter. Another exceed-

 

 

find that many of the stars that appear single

Mermaids are the skarcest kind ov femails thare iz.
They are sed to be haff maid and haff codfish, but the
whole kritter looks to me rather fishy.

I kno they are skarce, for mi friend Barnum never had
but one real mermaid, and he wouldn't never let enny

| boddy handle that.

They inhabit the salty deep, and cum up at arly kandle
lite, every nite, onto sum seaweed-strown rok, and set
thare and comb thare hare, and krimp and pucker
things bi the lite ov the stars.

They are never married, but liv single like the daisys
and dandylions.

Thare iz a grate supply ov poetry in the mermaid,
more poetry, I think, than thare iz kodfish or maiden.

I would giv a thousand dollars to see a helthy mer-
maid combing her hair on a rock.

I beleave in mermaids just enuff to keep up the assort-
ment, that’s all. :

Ghosts, mermaids, and honest men are three things
nee i have got to do bizness with before I will sware to
them.

Jam not an inkredulous kritter. I beleave now in four
times az mutch az I kan prove, and that iz mi share.

>o~<
KEEN NOSES.

 

James Mitchell, who died ‘in or about 1833, in the
county of Nairn, in Scotland, and was born blind, on
November 11, 1795, recognized different persons by
smelling. The famous Mr. Moyle mentions a blind man
at Utrecht who could distinguish different metals by
the different odors. Indian travelers have recorded that
certain natives who habitually abstain from animal
food have a sense of smelling which is so exquisitely

delicate that they can tell from which well a_ vessel of
water has been obtained. It has been related that by
smell alone the negroes of the Antilles will detect the
footsteps of a Frenchman from those of anegro. The
guides who accompany travelers in the route from
‘Aleppo to Babylon will tell by smelling the desert sand
how near they are to the latter place. Nathaniel Wan-
ley in his ‘Wonders of the Little World,” a famous old
book, gives a particularly full accunt of a man, called
John of Liege, who, when a boy, flying in terror of
soldiers in time of war, passed many years alone in the
depths of the forest of Ardennes, where he lived upon
roots and wild fruits, the, presence of which he could at
least detect from a great distance by the smell alone.
In the same way he detected the presence of men long
before they came in sight.

——____»>-@-4—___-

A RACE AROUND THE WORLD.

 

Rev. James L. Hill, of Lynn, Mass., sent from that city
in the same mail two postal cards so stamped as to go
in opposite directions on a race around the world. One
was sent via San Francisco to Japan, and back by Brin-
disi and Liverpool, and the other crossed first to Eng-
land, and so around home by Japan and San Francisco.
Both travelers returned from their long journey well
worn and well stamped. As the post-office authorities
have prohibited the old-time method ot getting these
curiosities, it was necessary to arrange to have the
cards restamped and redirected by a friend interested
in the project at Kobe, Japan. The card that went
round the earth from west to east made the circuit
eight days quicker than the other, and was eighty-five
days on the way. ‘

——_ > @-+___—_—_—_-

SPLIT TEN-DOLLAR NOTES.

 

A new departure in the matter of counterfeiting
money was brought to light at the United States Sub-
Treasury in Baltimore some days ago. A somewhat
worn ten-dollar Government bill was presented at the
cashier’s window with a request for change, which was
given. The note was sentto Washington as mutilated
currency, and was returned with the information that
one side of the note was good, but the other side was a
well-executed counterfeit of the original. It was found
that a genuine ten-dollar bill had been split, the face

undertaking. The original face with a counterfeit k
had been used, and it is quite likely that the ’

 

 

ingly interesting discovery in connection with them, is
the seeming slowness of the revolutions—requiring, as

back with ,a well-executed counterteit face
passed in some other quarter.

being separated from the back, a seemingly impossible’

lime Porte. The first mikado, Jimmu Tenno, who is usually
regarded as a historical character, began to reign about 660
B. C., since which time 131 emperors have occupied, the
throné, The mikado claims divine descent from the gods or
kami who created heaven and earth (or Japan). He has no
fa name, and no mikado ever takes the name of any of
his Bpredecesnors. 6th. Fine and imprisonment, or both, at the
option of the court. « 7th. To what signs do you refer ?

L. C. G., Raleigh, N..C.—Pisgah is a mountain of Palestine,
east of the mouth of the Jordan. Its identification has been
a matter of much doubt in modern times. The Bible asso-
ciates it with Nebo, from the top of which Moses looked over
the land of promise, but it affords no prospect fully equal to
that described. But a mile and a quarter south-west of
Jebel Neba, there is a triple summit known as Jebel Siaghah,
jutting out far to the west, and commanding a more ex-
tended view than the higher summits east of it. This south-
west een of Jebel Siaghah Prof. Paine identifies with Mt.
Pisgah, and he describes it as overlooking two-thirds of the
Dead Sea, the hill country of Judah, the buildings of Beth-
lehem and Jerusalem, the hills about Nazareth, the Jordan
Valley, and Perza.

M. M. M.—The first postmaster appointed in England was
Matthew Le Quester. The appointment took place soon after
the accession of James I. In 1635 the postmaster-general
was ordered to establish a running post between London and

dinburgh, to oe and day, and come back in six
days. In 1644 und Prideaux, then a member of the
House of Commons, was appointed master of the posts, and
first established a weekly conveyance of letters to all parts
of the kingdom. It was not until 1855 that pillar letter-boxes
were introduced, and London divided into ten districts, for
greater facility in the distribution of city letters.

Genie W. C., New Providence, N. J.—tst. To make lime
water, take of lime, two ounces; distilled water, two quarts ;
slake the Hime with alittle of the water; pour on the re-
mainder of the water and stir them together; then imme-
diately cover the vessel and let it rest forfour hours. Kee
the solution, with the undissolved lime, in glass-sto paral
bottles, and when wanted for use, pour off clean liquor.
2d. Basilicon ointment is made with ten ounces of resin,
four ounces of yellow wax, and sixteen ounces of lard,
melted together, strained through muslin, and stirred con-
stantly until cool.

Henry J. J—ist. Warts can be removed by the application
of lunar caustic, but moles should not be disturbed unless
by a physician. 2d. Rub a little castor oil on the eyelids. It
will make the eyelashes grow longer, if anything will. 3d.
For the finger nails, we suggest that_you purchase a mani-
cure set. ce $1.50. It contains all the implements neces-
sary for the purpose you desire. 4th. To sleep well, let your
evening meal be somewhat light. To avoid dreams and snor-
ing refrain from lying on your back.

Old Reader, Richmond, Va.—Mrs. Benjamin F. Butler died
in Boston, Mass., on April 8, 1876, in her 55th year. She was a
daughter of Dr. Israel Hildreth, of “Lowell. She made her
debut on the stage Aug. 10, 1837, at the Park Theater, this city,
as Mariana in “The Wife.” During 1842 she performed a star
engagement in Louisville, Ky., appearing in “Ion.” She
goon after retired from the stage, and was married to Gen.
utler.

Q. E. G., Rochester, N. Y.—Little progress has been made in
commending cremation to the American people. It is gen-
erally objected to on various grounds. It was borrowed by
the Romans from the Greeks, and went into disuse about the
end of the fourth century. A proposal was made during the

nch Revolution to revive the practice, but it was not
adopted. ;

Montmorenci, Aiken, 8. C.—Czar is from Cesar, a title of
honor assumed by the sovereigns of Russia. Ivan Basilonitz,
after having achieved great triumphs over the Tartars, and
made many conquests, pursued thém to_the center of i
own country, and returning in triumph, took the title of
Tzar, or Czar (signifying Great King).

D. P. C.—1st. Let your manner toward him be always such
as will command his admiration, 2d. The gentleman should
write first. . 3d. To improve your voice, exercise it in the open
air. 4th. Much depends upon _the intimacy of the ies as
to its aay: 5th. The bride-maid stands at the left of the
bride. See 4th answer. .

L. C. J., Cleveland. Ohio.—To make millefleur water, take
of very pure rectified spirits, nine pints; balsam of Peru and
essence of cloves, each one ounce; essences of beeen and
musk, each two ounces; essences of neroli and thyme, each
aquarter of an ounce; eau de fleurs d’oramges, one quart.
Mix well.

M. C. L., Oberlin, Ohio.—A good liniment for rheumatism
is thus made: Melt together four ounces of oil of mace and
four ounces of beef marrow. Dissolve in four drams of alco-
hol, two drams each of rosemary and balsam of_tolu, and
one dram each of camphor andoilof cloves. Mix all to-
gether.

Marion, Irvington, N. J.—The great riot in New Orleans,
growing out of the Cuban expedition, took place on Aug. 21,
1851. ‘The houses of Spanish residents were attacked, and the
Spanish consul was ae to ask protection, and was placed
in the city prison for safety.

G. G., Allentown, Pa.—The oleomargarine bill passed by
tion butter, and requires that the package containing it
shall be branded and stamped.

C. T. and T. C., Brooklyn, N. Y.—N.P. Banks was elected
Speaker of the U. 8. House of Representatives, after a con-
test of nine weeks,
votes. ey

Frank B., Carbondale.—Glycerine diluted with borax water
will help fo remove sunburn, freckles, ete. Apply with a
linen or cotton cloth.

C. C. G., Brooklyn, N. ¥.—The property goes to the next of
kin, to be distributed in equal shares. ,

C. S. M., Philadelphia.—tst. Consult the manager of any
theater in your city. 2d. No recipe.

B. K., Fremont, Neb.—No knowledge of the ingredients.

 

has been

 

 

Ernest Hartley._See ‘“The Ladies’ Work-Box.”

 

 

These, to the number of, about 3,000, under Sitting Bull, .

Congress provides fora tax of two cents a pound on imita-,

on Feb. 2, 1856, by a plurality of three j

 

 

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4
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sent an rence oc il Mn pene

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

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course, she was a favorite with both teachers and schol-

_ waist, she led her away to exhibit to her the attractions

 

  

 

 

mun, eae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ee

 

TREASURES UNREVEALED.

 

BY I. EDGAR JONES.

 

Sweeter the songs that never were sung
Than the psalms which found their voices ;
Back of the thought which found a pen
A ‘happier thought rejoices ;
And the grandest wonders hide and sleep
In the space profound of the voiceless deep.

Nobler the landscapes unrevealed
Than those that have charmed our seeing ;
Grander the things as yet unborn
Than those that have found a being;
And the brightest glory bathed in light
Is the ghost of a grander vailed from sight.

Sweet are the echoes—soft and clear—
But the soul of sound is sweeter :

Glad are the joys which break in smiles,
But the sealed ones are completer ;

And back of the loves our idols win

Are the deep heart-secrets barred within.

Never as good the pictured scene
As the harvest rich and fruity ;
Never a view which charmed the soul
But covered a broader beauty ;
And the scents which burden the evening hours
Left a sweeter locked in the souls of flowers.

Never a kind wora but concealed
A love-thought still more tender ;
None a ee but ore si
‘he gold of a greater splendor ; :
And everything to a man revealed
S| Apade of a nobler thing concealed.

shall come, from the deep retreats,

oughts which the years are screening ;

time shall break through the words and songs
The soul of their matchless meaning ;

And the shadows hiding the heavens from view

Reveal the substance from which they grew—

God’s marvelous secrets shining through.

—— > 3+
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

THAT DOWDY.

——

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, .

Author of “The Forsaken Bride,’ “Two lieys,”
“stella Kosevelt,” etc.

  

 

 

[“"Tuar Dowpy” was commenced in No. 50. “Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER VII
GERTRUDE AT SCHOOL.

«Have you seen the new scholar ?”

“No; is there a new scholar at this time in the year ?”

«Yes, she came this morning.”

**What does she look like ?”

“Qh, she is tall and slender, and I imagine she has
been sick, for she looks delicate, and her hair is short,
though it curls in just the loveliest rings all over her
head and about her forehead. She has beautiful great
eyes, with the longest lashes I ever saw; there is the
prettiest color in her cheeks, and her lips are like that
bit of coral at your throat.”

“Well, that israther an attractive picture. What is
her name ?”

“Livingstone—Gertrude Livingstone. It has a kind of
high-toned sound, hasn’t it? I.was passing the recep-
tion-room just as she came, and I peeped while she was
being introduced.”

“Miss Curiosity! How old is she ?”

“Ahem! it appears that J am not the only curious
one. Well, I guess she must be sixteen, though her
short hair makes her look very young. She is very quiet
in her manner and carries herseli—well, rather up-
headed.” '

«Humph !—proud !” 4

“J dou’t know; we’ll have to wait and see. There is
something about her eyes, though, that goes to your
heart, as if she’d seen trouble of some kind, you know.
Hush, there she comes now.”

The. above conversation was carried on between a
couple of girls who were standing near one of the win-
dows in the main hall of the seminary building at Hilton
on the day of Gertrude’s arrival.

Considerable excitement prevailed among the pupils,
as was always the case when a new scholar entered the
school, and everybody was on the alert for anything re-
garding her personal appearance, her antecedents and
history in general.

Lu Perry and Rose Taylor were the young ladies who
had just been discussing the new arrival, but they sud-
deniy suspended their conversation as the wife of the
principal, accompanied by Mrs. Livingstone and Ger-
trude, came down the stairs into the hall where they
were standing.

Mrs. Livingstone had seen Gertrude nicely settled in
her room, helped her unpack and arrange her books,

ictures, and some articles of ornament which she had
Tnelated upon her bringing to make the place seem more
home-like, and now, having done ever\thing that she
could for her comfort, she was about to take her de-

ure, -
Penne carriage was at the door, and all that remained
for her to do was to say her tarewells to Gertrude, which
she was loth to do, knowing well that she should sadly
miss the girl who had grown so dear to her of late, and
that her home would seem forlorn enough without her
oung presence. ,

: she a her arms about her as she reached the door
and k her tenderly, enjoining her to write every
week, and be sure to take good care of her health.

“She was very ill during the fall—you will not let her

with the class understandingly until she made up the
back lessons.

Her teachers were very kind, and, seeing how ambi-
tious she was, arranged for her to recite privately until
she could join the class.

It was simply a pleasure to teach her, she was so
eager for knowledge—so determined to master every
difficulty that stood in her.way : and they were no less
proud than Gertrude herself, when, as the end of the
year drew nigh, she stood among the first in her class.

She had developed, too, a great taste for painting,

pe we becoming a source of delight to herself and her
trien

She heard from Allan regularly once a month, and she
replied to every letter faithfully, although her own
epistles were always very brief, and she said just as
little as possible about herself and her pursuits. :

Allan had approved most heartily her plan of going
away to school, and was deeply interested in her prog-
ress, although he had todepend more upon accounts
from his mother regarding that, than upon Gertrude.

“Who writes to you in such a fine, bold hand, and
from a foreign port, too, Gertrude?” Rose asked her
one day, as She Came into their room bringing a letter
that the professor had just handed her.

“Oh, this is from Allan,” Gertrude returned, seizing it
eagerly, but coloring vividly at her friend’s question.

“Allan, indeed! And who may ‘Allan’ be, if you

9

“Why, Allan Livingstone, of course.”

“Oh, your brother!” returned Rose, jumping at con-
clusions. ‘What is he doing in Paris ?”

“Studying to be a physician.”

“How old is he ?”

“Twenty-one.”

«Well, I must say you are extremely quiet about your
affairs!” exclaimed Rose, in surprise. ‘‘No one would
have dreamed that you had a brother from anything
that you had ever said. Pray, have you a picture of this
noble youth ?”

“Yes, there is one in my trunk,” Gertrude admitted,
but feeling greatly embarrassed.

“Do let me seeit. ] am crazy to know what he is like;
does he look like you ?”

“Not at all; he is very handsome,” Gertrude said, un-
consciously emphasizing the pronoun.

“Indeed! do you mean to imply that he is the only
handsome one in the family ?”? demanded Rose, dryly,
but with a roguish twinkle in her eyes. ‘What do you
call yourself ?” {

“Tam a—‘dowdy,’” came from Gertrude’s lips almost
before she knew what she was ing.

“What do you mean ?” exclaimed Rose, in astonish-
ment, and ener | with indignant emphasis.

Gertrude laughed. :

She had been trying to skim over Allan’s letter and
answer Rose’s questions at the same time, and as she
never could think of herself in connection with Allan
without remembering the dreadful term that he had
applied to her, she had involuntarily uttered it aloud.

“Oh, some one called me that once, and I have never

“T should like to know what reason any one had to
insult you in such a way ?” said Rose, with spirit.

“More reason than you imegine possible,” replied
Gertrude, gravely. ‘‘Less than a year ago 1 looked en-
tirely different from what I do now; my hair was red,
coarse, frowsy; my face was one mass of unsightly
freckles; I measured and weighed half as much again
asIdonow; and all this, besides being very careless
and untidy in my personal appearance, contributed to
make me anything but attractive.”

«Your hair—red!” gasped Rose, almost breathless
from amazement.

She sprang to her feet, went over to Gertrude, regard-
ing her head with curiouseyes. |

“Yes; as red as Nelly Lawin’s is.”

a would ever believe it? What changed the
color ?”

“T had a terrible illness—brain fever—and my hair
had to be shaven off, and when it came out again it was
no longer red.”

“No; it is a beautiful, glossy brown; and Gertrude,
there isn’t the suspicion of a freckle about you; your
skin is as smooth and fair as a piece of satin; you have
a beautiful color, and your eyes are simply glorious; you
are just as lovely as you can be. and growing more so
every day. You're the queen of the class. A ‘dowdy!
Gracious ! Id like to box the ears of whoever said it.”

«Spare me.” Gertrude said, putting her white, delicate
hands up to her hot cheeks and laughing at her friend’s
compliments aid undisguised disgust over what she had

 

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“HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEW SCHOLAR ?
LOOK LIKE ?”

told her. “I know Iam changed, butIlam afraid you
have exaggerated the improvement.”

“T haven’t; and it you ever give yourself that horrid
name in my presence again, ’ll—just paste your mouth
over with a piece of court-plaster. But I suppose you
want to read your letter from that precious brother of
yours, so I'll vanish until you are through, then I shall

WHAT DOES SHE

 

study too hard,” she added, turning to the principal’s
gracious wife, tears springing to her eyes.

“No, indeed; we make it a point to leok after the |

health of our pupils most carefully, and I think you may
safely trust Miss Livingstone with us,” was the reassur-
ing reply.

Gertrude’s composure nearly forsook her at this part-
ing, for a feeling of loneliness was beginning to creep
over her at the thought of being left alone among so
many strangers. But anything was preferable to going
pack to Livingstone Elms, where she had been so uhhap-

y, and where, day after day, She must meet Mr. Liv-

ngstone, whom she believed she never could forgive for
the wrong he had done her.

Yet it was not easy to stand there and watch the car-
riage drive away with the only friend between whom
hae herself there was a bond of perfect love and sympa-
thy, and she would have returned to her room very
wretched indeedif Mrs. Bennett, the principals wite,
had not linked her arm within hers, saying cheer-

Come, dear, I must introduce you to some of your fu-

ture companions,” and leading her down the hall she

resented her to the very girls who had been so earnest-
y discussing her advent a few moments previous.

They were only too eager to make her acquaintance,
and remembering their own homesickness upon the day
of their arrival, they exerted themselves to make her
feel at home and forget the recent parting, by entertain-
ing her with pleasant and chatty gossip about the

hool.

P eattute at once conceived a great liking for Rose
Taylor, who was a very attractive girl of medium height,
a brilliant, black-eyed brunette, with red cheks, coral
lips, and dazzling white teeth ; a graceful, breezy, dash-
ing girl—a veritable rose ; happy, sweet-tempered, with
a smile for everybody ; tender, sympathetic, helpful. Qt

ars, who called her ‘the sunbeam of the house.”

“Come with me, and let me show you about the build-
ing,” she said to Gertrude half an hour after their intro-
duction, and winding her arm familiarly around her

ution; taking her into the library, chapel,
various recitation rooms, and finally endin:
by drawing her into her own room, where she treate
her to some of the contents of a delighttul box which
had arrived from home that very day.

From that hour the two girls were firm friends, and
Gertrude began to live anew and charming life in this
intimacy, which was destin to last as long as she
lived, and in the atmosphere of fresh young life that was
all about her, and when, at the end ofa fortnight, Rose’s
roommate was obliged to go home on account of illness,
and Gertrude, who was ones an apartment by her-
self, was allowed to take her place, her happiness |
seemed complete.

She had acquitted herself most creditably in her ex-
amination, and, although still considerably behind the
first class of the collegiate course, she was allowed to
enter it and make the trial ot going on with it.

Mr. Bennett had tried to dissuade her trom it at first,
fearing her health would not admit of the necessary

e study. ;
Tarvou are so young,” he said, with a glance at her
youthful face, “that, were you my daughter, I should
advise you to review with the academics and begin. with
the collegiates next year. Still, ifyour heart is set upon
going on, I will not hinder you.”

“T think I will goon, sir,” Gertrude had answered
quietly, but with a resolute settling of her lips.

She would lose no time reviewing what she already
knew ; she must make the most of every hour, for when
Allan came home he must find her with a finished edu-

  

cation.

She found the more she studied the easier it became to
commit her lessons ; she had great power of concentra-
tion, a determination; to overcome every obstacle,
and she made astonishing progress.

insist upon your showing me his picture.”

She did not forget, as Gertrude hoped she would, but
made her dive to the depths of her trunk, and bring up
a photograph of Allan, that he had sent her the last year
he was in college. :

Rose was delighted with it.

“He is like a young prince!” she cried. “You bad
tom of your trunk? He isn’t a bit like you though; I
guess he must resemble his motherand you your father.
We'll just put this treasure in the most conspicuous
place we can find, and it will be such fun to see the girls
open their eyes and wonder who he is.”

“No, Rose, don’t,” Gertrude pleaded, with a troubled
look, as the gay girl was proceeding ene the picture
upon a bracket just beneath their looking-glass, ‘‘be-
cause girls always look in the glass the first thing when
they enter a room, and they'll be sure to see it here,” she

said. ¥ ,
The idea of having it seen was very distasteful to Ger-

she would not say that Allan was her brother, ard she
could not tell her miserable secret and acknowledge him
as her husband.

«JT would like to know why you are so obstinate about
it,” retorted Rose. ‘I declare, I feel personally ag-
grieved that you should have kept this fascinating face
concealed from me all this time. Have you been afraid
that some of us would fall in love with him, and you
have other plans for him? Perhaps he is even spoken
for already, and you thought some of our innocent young
hearts might be endangered to no purpose. Come, be a
dear, now, and let me put the picture where I want to.
I'll make the girls think that he isa very particular
Sriend of mine.”

But Gertrude would not; it was too painful a subject
to be talked about, and she would not run the risk of
having to answer uncomfortable questions.

Rose saw that something was troubling her—some-
thing that she did not wish to explain, so she returned
it to her after a time and said nothing more about it,
though she could not help wondering how any one hav-
ing so handsome a brother as Allan Livingstone ap-

ared to be, could refrain from talking about him and

trayiny a pride in him.

As the long summer vacation drew near Gertrude be-
gan to dread going back to Livingstone Elms.

She had been so happy at school. Hilton was lovely,

she could could not bear the thought of ers, where
everything would remind her so painfully of the dark
blot upon her life.

But she did not have to go back to Livingstone Elms,
Permission came to Rose, from her mother, to invite her
friend and chum to spend the vacation with her at Long
Branch, where the Taylors had a lovely residence, and
Mrs. Livingstone—upon being consulted—agreeing to
the at Gertrude was only too happy to ac-
cept it.

So the middle of July found the two friends by the sea,
with the prospect of six delightful weeks before them,
and with nothing to do but to happy, and gain
strength for another year of study,

CHAPTER IX.
GERTRUDE’S WEDDING-RING.

Mrs. Livingstone went to Long Branch also.

She had been very loth to give up Gertrude for the
whole vacation, but remembering what she had once
said about her dislike for Livingstone Elms; and her
aversion to her husband, she had not the heart to op-
pose her request to be aliowed to visit Rose.

She felt, however, that she could not be denied her
society altogether, and so resolved that she would her-
self spend the summer at the same place,

She had seen her but once or twice since she left

 

She had no trouble with anything but mathematics. She
was behind in this study, and of course could not goon

home, but she realized from her letters that a great
change had taken place in her.

while her voice, under careful cultivation, gave prom-!

forgotten it,” She explained, but with heightened color. ~

girl! why have you concealed all this beauty at the bot- | P

trude. She knew she should be asked all sorts of ques-|
tions ; she could not tolerate anything like deception, so |

aud the companionship of her young friends so delightful, |,

Her accounts of her life at school were very entertain-
ing, and well written, both as to penmanship and syn-
tax. They were very cheerful also, while occasionally
she would indulge in little pleasantries that were ex-
ceedingly gratifying to Mrs. Livingstone’s sympathetic
cay for they told her she was happier than she had

een.

She had longed to have the cloud that had fallen so
suddenly upon her young life dispersed. She longed to
have her forget those dark days of grief and suffering of
a year ago, and enjoy herself like other girls, and with
other girls. She hoped that such was the case, and that
her future would not, after all, be so hopeless as at first
she had feared it might be.

She was very much gratified with the progress sre was
making, for every month there came a report from Pro-
fessor Bennett, and the percentage was always the same
—one hundred. —

These reports she sent regularly to Allan, and Ger-
trude, knowing this, of course resolved that her stand-
ing should never be anything less.

Then at Easter Mrs. Livingstone had received an ex-
quisite little picture, painted by the young girl’s dett
fingers, and which had displayed a rare gift, as well as
great care and nicety in execution.

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SHE REACHED THE DOOR. AND KISSED HER TENDERLY.

“My daughter will yet be an accomplished woman!”
was the gratified woman’s comment upon receiving this
token of remembrance. ‘‘We Shall be very proud of her
by and by. Allan will never. have reason to say in
that she is ignorant and

last time I saw her, and I foresee that when he re
he will be very likely to fall in love with his own wife. I
really must make her sit for some pictures, and send
him one.”

When she met Gertrude at Long Branch she found her
in perfect health, and greatly improved every way. She
had been much in the open air during the summer, but
her skin was as fair and spotless as when she had en-
tered school in Fob we tach ak that she had a
lovely color that came and went with every emotion.
She had grown too, in stature, and was now a Stately,
slender figure, with an indescribable grace in every
movement, and a certain air that bespoke culture and
something of pride as well.

Her hair was now gen long, so that she was able to
wear it in a graceful knot low on the back of her small
head, and: fastened in place with a pretty golden arrow,
while in front she gee Sedum about her white
brow in soft silken rings. T was not a touch of red
in it, and the long lashes that Shaded her wonderful
eyes were even darker.

She seemed happy, yet at times that old wistful, pa-
thetic look would return to her eyes, sending a keen
ony through Mrs. Livingstone’s heart, and convincing

er that the old sorrow was not forgotten.

She brought a whole trunk full of pretty things for
her to wear at the sea-side, and it was a perfect delight
to her to see how charming she was in them, while Ger-
trude herself betrayed pleasure in her wardrobe.

It was not because she was growing vain of her good
looks, but it was such a comfort to know that she was
longer ugly, and that no one could criticise her un-

ind . , Pim 5 Me os emg Te oe Pat hy bicees

   

 

ort & G . i D 5 e a DSLUT to

recognize a difference in her and addressed her as an

} equal.

He was making a tour of the Alps and Switzerland
| that summer, and had a great many entertaining things
‘ to write about; and one thing in particular struck her—
| his letters to her were very much longer than they had
| ever been, while those to his mother were proportionally

shorter. Still, there was never a tender passage in them ;
not a single word to show that she was ee more
hi than she had been in the old days of their child-

-hood.

But all halcyon days must have an end, and so this
| beautiful vacation time passed ali too quickly ; Septem-
| ber drew on apace and with it the time for returning to
school.

They all went up to New York about a week
in order to make a few last purchases for the girls before
they went back to Hilton, and then it was that Mrs.
Livingstone broached to Gertrude the subject of pic-
tures.

“My dear,” she said, ‘I hardly feel as if I could give
you up again ; this has been such a delightful summer,
| and I shall be very lonely when I go back to Livingstone
Elms. I want you to sit-for some photographs before
you return to school—and we ought to send Allan one,
too.”

She saw at. once, however, that she had made a mis-
take in adding that last clause, and she would have
given much to have been able to recall it.

Gertrude colored a vivid crimson, straightened herself
with a haughty air, and, after an awkward pause, re-
lied :

“It is too warm to sit for pictures now, besides we have
so many other things to do; I will wait until some other
time—there will be opportunities enough.”

She spoke with such decision that Mrs. Livingstone
knew it would be useless to urge the matter; but she
was greatly disappointed.

 

 

“WE IS LIKE A YOUNG PRINCE!” SHE CRIED.

She was extremely desirous to let Allan see how lovely
she had grown. Of course, she had written him about
the change in her, but then he could not realize it with-
| out the ocular proof before him, while, too, he might
think she regarded her with partial eyes.

When Gertrude was alone again she went up to her
glass and examined her face critically.

A smile, half pleased, half bitter wreathed her scarlet
lips as she looked.

“He would never know me—if I should send him a pic-
ture he would hardly believe it was taken for me. But
—he shall never have one—I will never throw myself at
him. He has a picture of the ‘dowdy’ as she was at fif-
teen ; let him have the full benefit of it, and then when
he comes home he can see the change for himself.”

* * x * * *

* *

The next two years at school were but a repetition,
mainly, of the first one.

Gertrude did not relax her diligence and every report,
forwarded to Mrs. Livingstone, showed that she was do-
ing strong, good work; while certain pictures that were,
from time to time, expressed to her, were a perfect de-
light to her and gave evidence of artistic talent of a high
order.

Gertrude experienced some anxiety during this third
year of her course. Allan had not been quite well of late,
and there was some talk of his coming home.

 

 

‘

a

MRS. LIVINGSTONE PUT HER ARMS ABOUT GERTRUDE AS

g aga

| icultured; while. as for her
personal appearanée, she was growing very lovely the
rns

If he should return, there would be an end of school
for her, for her place, as his wife, would be with him in
his home, and she could not then complete her course
and receive her diploma, which she was exceedingly
anxious to do.

Rose Taylor was to graduate this year and she would
lose her friend and roommate. This was also a great
‘trial to her—to both of them indeed, for the two girls
had grown to love each other very dearly, and the"
thought of parting was very painful. :

The last week before commencement finally came, and
it was not decided whether Allan was to return even
then. Fora month this uncertainty had caused Ger-
trude great anxiety—she was growing exceedingly ner-
vous, and was losing flesh and color on account ot it.

Her teachers said it was because she was working too
hard, and the principal advised her to suspend all study
for the remainder of the term. But she knew better—
she knew it was not the work ; it was the fear that Al-
lan was coming and she would be obliged to give up her
cherished plan of graduating with honors and a finished
education. f

One aflernoon she and Rose wandered away to a cozy
green nook not far from the seminary, and where they
often went on a warm day with their books to study.

Both were thoughtful and somewhat sad.

“I declare, I cannot realize that in less than a week
my school-days will be over and I shall leave. Hilton for
good. I believe] am very sorry to go,” said Rose, as
she slipped her arms about Gertrude’s waist, and leaned
her head against her shoulder.

*And what amJto do without youifI come back
next year ?” Gertrude asked, with a sigh and an un-
steady voice.

«« <T7? you come back! of course you are coming, Ger-
trude,” said her friend, looking surprised at the doubt
her words implied.

“T am not quite sure.”

“Why, you certainly can’t think of giving up the course
and the prospect of graduating !”

“J wish very much to graduate.”

“T should think so—as brilliant a scholar as you are!
| You will be sure to take the very first honors, and |
; Shouldn’t suppose you would miss them on any account.
| What has happened to make you fear you cannot come
| pack—has your father been unfortunate, or anything ?”

“No,” answered Gertrude, with a slight curl of her
lips at this last query.

«Well, what is the reason, then ?”

“1 am afraid Allan is coming home.”

«Afraid that your brother is coming home!” cried
Rose, in astonishment. ‘Why, 1 should imagine you
would be perfectly delighted ; and I cannot understand,
either, why hisreturn should interfere with your course.
He ought to be the last one to prevent your graduating
when he is so learned himself.”

Gertrude made no reply to these remarks, but sat with
drooping eyes and fiushed cheeks, nervously twisting
her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger.

“Do stop twirling that ring, Gertrude, and tell me
what you mean,” said Rose, a trifle impatiently. ‘‘That
is a great habit of yours when anything troubles you.
By the way,” she interposed, as if some strange thought
had suddenly occurred to her, “I have often wondered
what makes you wear that ring and no other, when you
have such lovely ones in your jewel box. It looks like a
wedding-ring. Are there any particular associations
connected with it ?”

“Yes; it isa wedding-ring, Rose.”

Gertrude had made up her mind some time previous
to tell her friend the story of her life before Rose left
school. She had kept it a profound secret all this time ;
but now they were about to part—Rose would be sure
po gs a it some time, and she preferred to relate it her-
self.

This seemed a fitting time, and her friend’s question
gave her the desired opportunity.

«Whose ?” inquired the young girl, ‘‘some relative’s, I
suppose ; perhaps it belonged to some one who has died
—your mother, maybe—and you have taken a vow to
wear it, and no other, all your life. It would be like
you.”

. “Yes; I have taken a vow to wear it all my life,” said
Gertrude, very gravely, but regarding the heavy circlet
sadly. ‘But—it belonged to no friend, Rose—it is my
own wedding-ring !” > 4

 

 

CHAPTER X.
“MERCY! WHAT A LITTLE FRIGHT! WHO IS IT ?”

«What !” exclaimed the girl. starting up and regard-
ing her companion as if she thought she had suddenly
gone crazy.

ee ee PO
SA pS Sous ee
baat 4)

‘

es 2

JIN” ey »v Ss

f Aw he ee

yin | | \ fer ioe
Pe a a

OS cans
.

          

 

 

RING !”

revious |

‘It is true, my dear,” the young wife answered, smil-
ing slightly at her friend’s amazement, but with the old
pained look returning to her eyes. ‘The fourth of Sep-
ee will be the third anniversary of my wedding-

ay.”
“Do you know what you are talking about, Gertrude
Livingstone, or have you suddenly taken leave of your
senses ?”? demanded Rose, giving her an excited little
shake, and regarding her with a half frightened air.

“T am perfectly sane, Rose, and what I have told you
is but the simple truth. I have wanted to confide in
you for long time, but could not seem to muster the nec-
essary courage ; for, believe me, ].am nota happy wife,
and it causes me deep pain to speak of the fact. I am
glad you spoke of my ring, for it helped to break the ice;
while 1 prefer to tell you aboutit myself rather than
have you learn itfrom any one else, as you would be
likely to do if you come to visit me, as we have planned,
during the coming vacation.”

“Gertrude Livingstone, you have fairly taken my
breath away. Married—to whom ?” cried Rose, with the
blankest of faces imaginable.

“Allan Livingstone.”

“‘O—h, and he isn’t your brother at all?”

«I never said he was. You assumed that, and I let
you remain under that impression because [I could not
explain the mistake without exposing my secret.”

«What was your name before ?”

“Gertrude Wynn.”

“IT cannot comprehend it ; but—but it explains a good
many things that I have thought very queer—your not
seeming proud of Allan, or talking about him as most
girls do about their brothers ; your refusing to have his

icture out in sight; your blushing when you got his
letters, and never chatting about them afterward. My,
just to think of it. what a remance right here in our
midst and not one of us to suspect it.”

“It is rather a sad romance, my dear Rose,” said Ger-
trude, in a dreary tone.

‘My poor dear, I am sorry,” returned Rose, with quick
sympathy. ‘‘But, Gertrude—three years—you are only
nineteen now ; you must have been married when you
were sixteen.”

“Yes,” returned Gertrude, sadly, ‘“‘I was little more
than a child—it was a cruel thing, was it not, dear ?”

“]—J cannot say, you know, for I am ignorant of the
circumstances,” Rose replied, but conscious that she
| should not regard it a very cruel thing to be the wife of
| aman like Allan Livingstone, if she loved him.

“Well, lam going to tell you all about it; but of course
you will understand that I want it to remain a secret
still. I would, not have it known in the school for any-
thing before I graduate, ifIdo. If Allan comes home,
however, it will have to be known, because I ‘shall be
obliged to take my place as his wife.”

“Obliged! Do you not love him ?” Rose asked.

Gertrude blushed a vivid crimson, and hid her burning
face in her hands.

«That is the worst of it—I love him with all my heart,”
she confessed, with passionate earnestness.

“Then how can you dread his coming ?”

“Oh, Rose! can’t you understand? It is because he
does not love me.”

Rose Taylor turned and regarded her friend with as-
tonishment.

“Not love you! Why, how could he help loving you ?
Why on earth did he marry you, then ?” she asked.

Then Gertrude told her all the story of her life, of her
happy home, and her free, careless, delightful childhood
at Livingstone Elms; how plain and unattractive she
was as a girl; of her love for and pride in Allan, and his
unvarying kindness to her during their early life. She
spoke of Mr. Livingstone’s financial troubles, and how
he had planned this marriage for his son in his own in-
terests. She told of her wedding-day—how supremely
happy she was until she made the startling discovery
that Allan had been driven into the union, and regarded
it and her with so much aversion; of his departure: for
Europe, and the almost fatal illness that came upon her
immediately afterward.

It was an intensely interesting story, and Gertrude
told it vividly, for she seemed almost to live it over
again as, for this first time in her life she gave utterance
to her inmost thoughts, and her full, free confidence to
another.

«J thought I should never be happy again,” she said,
in conclusion; ‘I believed my life was ruined, but my
pride was thoroughly aroused by what Allan had said
about my looks and my ignorance. I could hot help be-

 

 

ing homely, and freckled, and red-headed, for God had

made me so; but I could help being ignorant and uncul-
tivated, and I resolved that day that nothing should be
too hard for me to do to remedy those defects. I had
disliked study all my life, and I was tar behind girls of
my age. I vowed that.I would make up for it in the tu-
ture, that Allan should not be able to say on his return
that we never could be congenial because I was not his
equal intellectually—he should never be ashamed of me
because of my ignorance.”

«But it must have been very hard for you to begin to
study so diligently all at once, when it had been so dis-
tasteful before,” said Rose, pitifully.

“Tt was not so very hard; I think I was completely
changed by the shock that I received that day. It may
be that my will was the strongest part of me, and that
for the first time it was fully aroused ; for, just as soon
as I was able to do anything after my illness, I had my
books brought, and I reviewed everything by myself,
not finding it very tedious either.- I laid out certain
work for certain hours, and I felt a sense of triumph, as,
day after day, I found myself steadily progressing, and
knew that I should succeed in the end. When 1 came
here I was confident that I should pass examination in
the academical course, and though I was somewhat be-
hind in the first year of the collegiate, I had made up
my mind to catch up and go on with it.”

“Gertrude, I think it was a wonderful thing todo. 1
do not. see how you ever had the resolution to accom-
plish so much,” Rose observed, gravely. ‘‘And,” she
added, “how you must have suffered that day when you
sat therein the hammock and overheard that dreadful
conversation.”

“1 did; but I was nearer being happy again than [
ever believed I could be, when, after my illness, I found
I should never have red hair any more; that all my de-
tested freckles were gone, and my form had changed so
much for the better. I did not find it out for some
time, for what Allan had said had made me hate my-
self so, that I thought 1 never could look in the glass
again; but one day Mrs. Livingstone brought me a
little hand-glass, and—I hardly knew myselt.”

“1 should think not, if you were as you have described
yourself before; you are beautiful now, Gertrude,” said
her friend, softly smoothing her glossy hair. ‘I thought
the first time I saw you, with your delicate face and
great, earpest eyes, and those dainty little rings of soft
hair curling all about your forehead, that I had never
seen any one any prettier; but you are lovelier than
ever now.”

“TI know it, and of course I am very glad,” Gertrude
replied, gravely, yet without a particle of self-conscious-
ness. ‘I wonder what Allan would say it he could see
me now.”

“} imagine he would be very proud of his—wife; how
strangely it sounds, dear!”

Gertrude flushed. ; :

‘Itis not a pleasant sound to me,” she said, ‘‘and I
dread his coming more than I can tell you, because I
know he does not love me.”

“Take my word for it, Gertrude, it will not be very
long before he will lose his heart to you when he does
come,” Rose observed, hopefully, and with a fond look
at the fair flushed face beside her.

“He may have lost it long before this to some one
else,” was the low, pained response.

Rose looked serious. Such a circumstance would cer-
oe make matters very complicated and uncomfort-
able.

“Do not borrow trouble, dear,” she said, after a mo-
ment; ‘‘hope for the best ; I believe it will all come out:
right. It nearly breaks my heart to see you look so un-
happy, so brush away the clouds and be my 2wn Ger-
trude again. 1 thank you for giving me your confidence
—I have somehow felt as it there was some mystery con-
nected with your life, but I never liked to speak of it.
Now there is one tavor that I want to ask of you before
school closes—grant it and I shall be happy.”

Gertrude turned questioning eyes upon her friend.

‘‘Well, what is it, my Rose?” ,

“T want you.to go to Brainard’s and sit for some pic-
tures, so that I can have one to take home with me.” _

Gertrude smiled a trifle bitterly and shrugged her
graceful shoulders. ;
ee ask a great deal; but—I will upon one con-

ion.”

“Name it, my dear friend. I can refuse you nothing.”

“That you will allow no one here to know that you
a it; 4 have never sat for a picture since 1 was fif-

een——

«What! have you never sent Allan one since you have
changed so ?” interrupted Rose, eagerly.

“No. Mrs. Livingstone has begged me again and
again to have some taken, so that she could send him
one; but J would not. I know that I have been very ob-
stinate about it—I have said to myself that ze should
not have one on any account—it would seem too much
like trying to court his favor, and I should be the last
person to invite his attention to my changed looks.”

‘7 am afraid you are very proud, ma belle.”

“Yes, I amv proud—too proud to try tocoax his love by
flaunting a simple, pretty face at him.”

“How would it be if he showd come home and fall in

_| love with it ?” Rose asked, roguishly.

» «J donot know whether I should despise him for it or
not,” Gertrude replied, impetuously ; but her quickened
heart throbs told her but too plainly that to be able to
win his love under any circumstances would be the
highest blessing that could crown her life.

‘If he should not come home this summer, you will
surely come back to school ?”
“Of course ; I would not miss the next year for any-

thing: anc ifI do, you will come to see me-graduate |

next commencement ?”

“Yes, indeed; you may be very sure 7 would not miss
that, for of course, I know you will have the valedictory
and I shall be as proud of you as can be. But, will you
go to-morrow to have some pictures taken ?”

“Yes, if you will promise not to tell any one.”

«“T will; no one here shall know.”

“And you will say nothing to Mrs. Livingstone when
you come to visit me ?”

“No, indeed; 1 will do nothing to betray you to any
one, you beautiful darling.”

The girls soon after returned to the school building,
and the next day Gertrude went to Brainard’s to sit for
some photographs.

When they were sent to her a few days later they were
very lite-like and charming.

The young girls eyes lighted with pleasure at the

| first glance, and she almost wished that Allan could

have one of them.

Then her proud little head was lifted with a haughty
air ; a resolute look settled about her mouth.

He should not—she thought—he should never know
anything of the change in her until the moment when
they should stand face to face upon his return.

She went to her trunk, and brought forth the picture
that she had had taken when she was fifteen—Allan had
one exactly like it—and compared it with those she had
received that day.

A low, scornful laugh broke from her red lips as she
looked. No wonder he had called her a “dowdy.”

She felt for the moment as if she must tear it in
pieces, while from the bottom of her heart she pitied
the poor, homely, forlorn-looking child as if she had
been some one else; She pitied Allan, too, for having
had her forced upon him as a wife.

Could it be possible that those pictures had been taken
from one and the same person? It did not seem so, for
they were so utterly unlike.

“Whatis it? What were you laughing at?” Rose
asked, looking up from the book she was reading.

“Come here and see,” Gertrude responded, quietly.

Rose obeyed, and her friend handed her one of the re-
cent pictures.

“Oh, they are perfect,” cried the delighted girl; ‘‘and
what a lovely position the artist has given you. I hope
you told him to destroy the negative, else he will be hay-
ing one putin his show-case; then what will all my
vows of secrecy amount to ?”

“You may be very sure I attended to that,” replied
Gertrude, with a flush. ‘They are very good, I think;
but—how do you like this ?”

As she spoke she laid the old-time picture above the
new one.

“Mercy ! what a little fright! Who is it?” cried the
aneyeESeoe girl, elevating her pretty nose disdainful-

y.

Gertrude laughed merrily, still there was a ring of bit-
terness in it that smote painfully upon her friend’s af-
fectionate heart, while a second and more critical
glance revealed something familiar about some of the
features.

“It is a picture of ‘that dowdy.’ ”

“Gertrude, what havelsaid? Do forgive me,” ex-
claimed Rose, in dismay.

Gertrude stopped her with a kiss.

“There is no need; you only spoke the truth,” she said,
gently. ‘You and I can see that there has been a mar-
velous change, and we are both glad thatitisso. But
the heart of that poor, plain little orphan girl was just
as true and loyal as that which beats’ in the breast of
Gertrude Livingstone to-day. She is older, and wiser,
and—better looking, perhaps—but in soul and spirit she
is unchanged.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

-o~

ABOUT FANS,

 

According to the learned Froissard, the fan originated
from the necessity felt in all warm climates of some-
thing for keeping off flies, whether from the sacred

offering in the temples, or trom the. faces and hands of
officiating priests.

In China and India the original model of a fan was
the wing of a bird. The fans of the high priests of Isis
were in the form of a half circle, made of feathers of
different lengths. Such, too, were the fans carried in
triumphal processions, and which, among the ancient
Egyptians and Persians, sérved as military staudards in
time of war.

The fans carried by the Roman ladies during the Au-
gustan age were not like the most ancient Chinese fans,
made in one piece, but were composed of littke tablets
ot perfumed wood, specimens of which can be seen at
the museums of Florence and Naples.

The fans of the middle ages were worn in good society,
suspended by gold or silver chains fastened to the girdle,
and were usually made of feathers.

The fan was introduced in France by Catherine de
Medici, where it was quickly adopted by belles of the
period and also by effeminate fops. France has since
led the world in fan-making, and designing decoration
of fans has become a fine art. A fan was made for the
ex-Empress Eugenie which cost 125,000 francs, or $2,500
in our money, and one for the Princess cf Wales which
cost $1,500. Parisian fans are esteemed all over the
world for their artistic beauty and workmanship.

 

 

 

Sw

 
 

 

.
.

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Ba esha

sulk

 

 

   

 

ee

THT

==

 

-~-so0d as thy word. But mind, I shall remember them all

 

 

ex THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

VOL. 42—Ne, 1.

 

 

LEAD ME ALONG THE HEAVENLY WAY.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER,

 

If I should leave the fold—
If I should go astray—

Oh! gentle Shepherd, lead me back
Along the heavenly way.

Earth’s beauty is so fair,
Earth's music is so sweet.
In many wild forbidden paths,

They tempt my restless feet.

I step aside to pluck
The gaudy way-side flowers,
And so forget the blossoms bright
That grow in Eden’s bowers.

I bend my ear to hear
The songs of earthly love,
And so forget the golden harps
And choristers above.

Oh! gentle, loving Friend,
Oh! Shepherd, kind and true,
I know thy care will never cease,
My long, long journey through.

Thou art so tender, Lord,
To all thy wandering flock,

Oh, guide Thou me, the least, and place
My feet upon the Ruck!

a Ot
{THES STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

AVIS GREY,
THE DAUGHTER OF THE GRAFT,

A Story of the Mystic Tie.
BY WALTER HORTON.

 

 

(‘Avis GREY” was commenced in No. 48. Back oumbers
can be obtained of all News Agénts. }

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DISAPPEARANCE EXPLAINED.

About three weeks after the mysterious disappearance
of Avis from the very side of Ethelbert Mapleton, Captain
Gerald was walking through one of the least frequented
streets of New York.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and the night was very black.
The neighborhood was a bad one, but with the easy con-
fidence of a man accustomed to danger, and on the alert
for it, the detective walked calmly along.

Perhaps he was conscious that for something like six
blocks he had been followed at a distance.

If so, he gave no sign of such knowledge, neither
hastening his steps nor turning his ear to listen.

And yet, now that he had reached the loneliest part
of the street, the man behind him had increased his pace
so as to be within twenty yards of him.

The detective’s hand stole into the breast of his coat, :

but that was all.

‘Hold on, cap. A word with you.” :

The detective wheeled sharp around, and peering
through the gloom tried to recognize the man who ac-
costed him.

“Who are you?
sharply.

“Wait till I get my breath and I'll tell you.”

He advanced toward Captain Gerald.

‘You're near enough till I know who you are.”

“Oh! To be sure, cap. Truth is I’ve been virtuous so
long that I’ve almost forgotten the ways of the wicked
world you move in.”

“It's Gentleman Dick or his ghost.”

“Well, you’d think it was his ghost if you could only
see me. I'm as frail and delicate as a fine lady.”

The detective had gone up to him as soon as he had

What d’ye want,” he demanded,

 

 

recognized him.

Discharged cured, or did you take French leave, like |
our friend Jack. Eh, Dick ?”

“Oh, I was discharged fair and square, cap; though I
must say I expected an escortin uniform. After I got |
out I wasn’t sure that I might not be wanted yet, so I’ve |
been in sweet retirement all day, and only came out to- |
night because 1 wanted to see you, or some of your boys, /
and find out what I had to expect.”

“You know I told you, Dick, I’d forget the warrants if
you'd put us on the scent of the, young lady. I'll be as

the first time you go at your old work.”

“It'll be a couple of weeks ‘before I can handle a |
jimmy properly, so 1 Shall be virtuous that much longer, |
anyhow.”

“Look here, Dick,” said the detective, earnestly, “why
don’t you quit and reform? If you were like most of
‘em 1 wouldn’t waste breath on you; but your're fit for
better things. Come, Dick, now’s the time to turn over
a new leaf. What d’ye say? Ill promise to do all I |
ean.”

“Captain Gerald,” Dick spoke with deep feeling, ‘‘you
are a good man, and I heartily thank you: but it’s no
use. Don’t let’s talk of it. From what you say, you've
had your hands on Jack. Did you find the young
lady ?”

“Vea, and lost her again in the strangest sort of way.”

“How was that?” —

Captain Gerald had good reasons for going into par-
ticulars with Dick. He knew that for some reason he |
had Avis’ welfare at heart, and he hoped for some as-
sistance from him.”

He told him all that had occurred, and Dick listened |

|

 

without interruption until he was through.

«Where did you say the house was ?”

The captain told him. |

“J understand the mysterious disappearance. You |
remember the French woman, Madame Claire ?”

“Yea.”

“That was one of her houses. Many a rich man has ;
given up life, character, or fortune in that house. But |
you know all that. The house is full of traps and pas-
sages, andright alongside of the chimney in that back
parlor is a sliding-door. In the confusion Finkey |
must have _slipped in that way and carried Miss |
Avis off.”

house back and front was watched for days after.” |

‘ch age runs into the cellar of the house in the |
rear. He took:her out that way. Whereishe now? [|
can’t form any idea.” |

“Nor I, though I’ve put my best men on the job.”

*“Couldn’t you find out through Jack ?” |

“He wouldn't say a word aboutit. Did nothing but |
curse all the time he wasin the hospital, in fact. One |
day he escaped, and nothing’s been heard of him since.” |

“Badly wounded ?”

“No. Ball passed through his shoulder.”

«Of course the lawyer knew nothing.”

“No; and, worse yet, he got clear on technicalities ;
though we’re sure he killed—he and young Grey—Miss
Avis’ father. Now the scoundrel has had the impu-
dence to put in Sidney Gray’s claim to the fortune, and
if we don’t find the girl her moncy may yet go to her
father’s murderer.”

“Singular, cap, what men will do for money.” |

“So itis, Dick. I’ve known men, fit for better things, |
spend their lives trying to get money by any dishonest
means.”

“SuCh as bank burglary, for instance,” laughed Dick.

“Yes, Dick, bank burglary. Come, Dick, turn honest.”

‘How van 1? I’m too poor. Can you find me a rich |
wife? I might try Jack’s or Finkey’s plan of courtship.
It's the only way for a disreputable wretch like me.”

Dick laughed sarcastically.

“Well, have your own way; only remember I can't |
show any favors if ever I’m sent after you. Find out
what you can for me about the young lady, if you won't |
do anything else that’s good.”

“All rivht, cap. . Good-night.”

«Good-night.”

The detective watched Dick out of sight, and then
walled slowly on.

Suddenly he struck his hands together, with an air of
vexation, and exclaimed :

‘Fool that I was to. take that man into my confidence!
Yet hethelped us before; but he was sick then, seemingly
dying. Now he is well. There was something in his
tone I didn't like when he talked of getting a rich wife
in Finkey’s way. Allright, my man; play me any trick,
and I'll try to sho\. you that Captain Gerald isn’t such a
fool after all.”

|
|
}
|
|

CHAPTER XXVII.
A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF.

Afterdeaving Captain Gerald, Dick walked on until he
or. to a low groggery in one of the worst parts of the
city.

He ‘went into it, and carelessly sat down at a table in
the back room.

His entrance created a sensation, and meaning glances
and furtive whispers were exchanged among many orf
the ruffians congregated there.

Dick's appearance was enough to cause comment in
such a place.

In looks and manner he was a refined, elegant gentle-

man. His face, always handsome, was now pale from
peed recent illness. His clothing was new anda fashion-
able.

Altogether, he made a striking contrast with the
rough characters with which the den was crowded.

The diamond sparkling in his shirt-front, and the gold
chain dangling in front of his vest, were attractions
which could not long be resisted by the occupants of the
saloon, few, if any, of whom knew the notorious bank
burglar.

| Atl

 

Two of the boldest, after a whispered consultation,
walked over to him and sat down at the same table.

Dick took in the situation at once, and his eyes twin-
kled in anticipation of the fun to follow.

Goin’ t’ treat, mister ?” asked one of the roughs.

“Why, [ would like to, sir,” answered Dick, in his po-
litest tone, “but, really, 1 have nothing smaller than a
fifty-dollar bill, and I’m afraid they can’t change that
here.”

“Oh, yes, dey kin,” cried the other fellow. ‘Pass out
de bill.”

‘Really, I’d rather not.”

«You'd better, then, that’s all,” was the threatening
answer.

«But, my dear sir,” remonstrated Dick, in a mild, per-
suasive tone, which was audible, however, all over the
room, ‘‘some of these men hefe look as if they were not
quite honest.”

A half- angry, hailf-derisive howl went up from all
parts of the room, and the general pushing back of
chairs told the experienced in such affairs thata general
row was ene j

But just then a hoarse voice, pitched in an authorita-
tive key, rose above the din.

‘Hold on, byes! Sure it’s Gintleman Dick, an’ some 0’
yez ll git hurted.”

“Gentleman Dick! Gentleman Dick!” was echoed all
oversthe room.

Aud the men who but a moment before had been pre-
pared to tear him to pieces for his money, now craned
their oer in an eager desire to gaze upon the famous
rascal.

; ‘Hello, Tim,” exclaimed Dick, carelessly, <‘ow goes
t? 3

‘Bad luck to ye, Dick,” answered the man, the pro-
prietor of the place, ‘d’ye bear me a grudge that ye
must be fer raisin’ ructions in my place ?”

Smiling as he said it, the man approached Dick and
shook hands with him, the crowd meanwhile looking on
in admiration.

‘Liquor at my expense, Tim,” said Dick, handing out
a five-dollar bill, ‘‘and a word with you in private,” he
whispered.

Under cover of aloud chorus of approbation the two
men went out of a side door, and entered a small room
at the rear.

‘Where's Jack ?” demanded Dick, abruptly.

Tim evidently was thrown into confusion by the ques-
ery but he managed to ask, with some show of sur-
prise :

“Jack who ?”

‘Bludgéon Jack, my. innocent friend.”

“Divil a know I know,”

“Is that so? Well, ’msorry. However, you may see
him some time during the year, and if you do, please
tell him that I would like to see him to tell him some-
thing about Finkey. Will you ?”

“If I should see him, I will.”

“Thank you. Now, Tim, go take a drink at my ex-
pense, will you ?”

‘“‘What shall I bring you, ould man ?”

“Nothing, thank you, Tim. ’ll just sit here a while,
and perhaps Jack may happenin. Good-evening, Tim.”

Tim went away with a broad grin on his face, and in
about ten minutes came back, and with a loud guffaw,
exclaimed :

«Sure, Dick, yer a caution. I just met Jack axiden-
tally, an’ he said he’d loike t’ see ye. He’s in me parlor,
up stairs.”

“How siugular he should happen in so soon, Tim.”

“Oh, but you're the bye, Dick !”

And Tim, ina state of hilarious delight over Dick’s
acuteness, led the way to a room up stairs, where Jack
was stamping back and forth like an angry bull.

‘How are you, Jack ?”

“Hah!” snorted the ruffian, morosely.

‘Will you please take another drink at my expense,
Tim ?” said Dick, politely.

Tim took the hint to go, good-naturedly, saying, with
a grin, as he opened the door :

“Sure if ye was bein’ hung, Dick, I b‘lave ye’d do it
somehow swate and loike a gintleman. Yer well
named.”

“Jack,” said Dick, when they were alone, ‘do you

©

| know where Finkey is ?”

«How should 1?”

«You ought to if you don’t.”

«Why ought I?”
‘ aw haga you and he were partners in that girl specu-
ation.” :

‘‘What d’you know about—oh, ya-as, it was you that |

put up the job for her to skip.”
A savage gleam shot from Jack’s sullen eye.

Dick started, but quickly recovered himself, and said, |

coolly :

“Yes, [got sweet on the girl’s million, and put up a)
job to capture it; but youand Finkey got in ahead of.

me.
*“Ya-as.”

The tone was savage and ominous of violence. Dick
went on as if unconscious.

“Now, it seems Finkey was working for himself, and |

has got away with the girl and her million, with no
partners to bother with.”

“Wa-at!” :

«“Finkey intends to marry the girl himself.”

‘“Tll cut his heart out if he does!” almost howled |

Jack.
«You'll have to find him first, Jack.”

* “Tl find aa How’d you know what he wuz goin’ vt
0?”

The question was asked suspiciously.

“Guessed it.” t

“Quessed it ?” oe

sab snorted with rage and contempt.

“Why not?

you.”

There was something decidedly quelling in the quiet |

contempt of Dick’s tone, and almost in spite of himself
Jack changed his violent tone to a moderate one.
«Who said you wuz afraid of me ?”

‘Never mind about that, Jack. Let’s come to’an un- |

derstanding about Finkey.
Jack ?”
‘Hundred dollars maybe.”

How much are you worth,

“How much am I worth do you suppose? T’ll tell you. |
How much is Finkey |

Fifty dollars and what’s on me.
worth ?”

“Dunno.”

“No, nor dol; but it’s way upin the hundred thous-
ands. Do you remember the bank we opened and got
over fifty thousand in bonds out of ?”

“Vy br

-as.
«You and I got five hundred a piece out of it, didn’t
9”

*“Ya-as.”

«Well, Finkey got ten thousand. I can proveit by the
lawyer who negotiated the thing. Jack, Finkey has
been playing with us these five years, running no risk
and taking all the cream. Didn't he pro to you to
te the gang and divide even on the girl’s fortune ?”

“Ya-as.”

«J thought so. 1f he wanted to find you now: he could
do it, I suppose, couldn’t he ?”

“Ag easy as you could.”

ae you haven’t heard from him, have you ?”

‘Naw.”

«Well, then, why can't I make a guess about Finkey. |
| Listen, Jack. He’s made use of you and me and the rest,
“And where do you suppose he took herto? The | cheating us all the time for the money he’d make. |
There’s big money in this thing and he wants it all. |
Do you sup- |

How can he getit? By marrying the girl.
eg then, he won’t marry her? !
will.”

“Vl kill him.”

«When you catch him.”

“Tl catch him.”

Of course he

“You'll be caught yourself if you go out, and he knows |

it. Didn’t he tell you to stand guard at the door where
the girl was the night you were shot ?”

“Ya-as.”

«And you were nearly killed ?”

“Ya-as.”

“He got off clear and carried the girl with him.”

“Tl kill him.”

«‘When you catch him.”

«What d’ye mean by a Sayin’ that ?”

“T’ll tell you plump and plain, Jack. I’ve a mortal
grudge against Finkey and I'm going to find him it I can.
I can go out, you can’t. I want you to tell me how to

find him.”
“1?” exclaimed Jack in surprise. ‘If I'd knowed

| where he wuz wouldn’t I a gone to ’im.”

«“‘Why d’you suppose I came here to find you ?”

‘Blamed ‘f I know.”

‘‘Because I knew you trusted Tim Maloney. I suppose
Satan himself has somebody he'll trust. Anyhow I
never knew a thief, murderer, or any other sort of
scoundrel, but trusted somebody, be it man or woman.
Finkey trusts somebody, sure as youlive. Did you never
hear him say so ?”

Jack looked at Dick in a sort of stupid wonderment.
t he ejaculated :

«Why, yer keen as Finkey. Keener, maybe.”

‘Quite likely,” said Dick, carelessly, ‘when I’m
sober.”

**When yer sober ?”

“Yes. I’m generally drunk, you know. I’m sober

now, and I’m going to stay so till I find Finkey. Now,
think, Jack—did you never hear him say he trusted
somebody ?”

“Why, ya-as. We wuz talkin’ ’bout it one night, an’
he said he never trusted nobody but his owy brother.”

“Ah! Did you learn what his brother’s name was ?”

“Why, Finkey, I s’pose.”

“Bosh! Finkey isn’t our man’s hame any more than
Gentleman Dick is mine or Bludgeon Jack yours.”

“7 s’pose not.”

Jack was positively awe-struck at the keenness of his
old associate.

‘Pid you catch any hint of the brother’s business.”

“Why, yes. Finkey said ae waz a mad doctor an’ had
a private asylum.”

ick’s eyes snapped, but he said,in a disappointed

tone :

“That's all? You don't know where he lives ?”

“Naw.”

“Well, never mind, I'll never give up tillI find him. [ll
come see you often and let you know how I’m gettin on.
If ever we lay hands on Finkey he won't fool us any
more. Eh, Jack ?”

<T’ll hammer the life out of him.”

“Good-night, oldman. Keep up your spirits. Shall I
have a bottle sent up ?”

“Ya-as.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
DRIVEN TO DESPAIR.

Avis could never tel! by what mysterious means she
had been caught up and whirled away at the very mo-
ment of rescue.

But look here, Jack, it won’t spoil our |
little conversation if you will please to remember that |
Gentleman Dick never was and never will be afraid ot |

For a moment she had struggled, and then, under the
influence of some stupefying drug, apparently, had
yielded up her consciousness. When she recovered she
was ina handsomely furnished room.

The windows were barred on the inside, and had shut-
ters so arranged on the outside that air and light could
enter, but that nothing could be seen by the occupant.

The room was evidently made for a prisoner.

Avis felt for her pistol. lt was gone, 2S was also her
skeleton key..

It was plain that every precaution had been taken this
time against escape.

Still she did not yield to despair. She had so many
times received succor when she least expected it, that
now she felt, herself buoyed up by hope.

It was much to her to have had those few brief talks
with Ethelbert Mapleton, and her fond imagination
dwelt tenderly on the words of passionate love he had
uttered.

The opening of her door surprised her in the midst of
such thoughts.

It was Finkey who entered.

“Why, Miss Avis,’ he said, politely, ‘who would sup-
pose you the heroine of such adventures. You look as
fresh and blooming as a rose.”

“TJ should think,” she answered, coldly, ‘‘that it might
be useless to insult a prisoner.”

“My dear child, you are mistaken; I was expressing
my admiration for you. Do you not know that you are
very beautiful ?”

There was a barely concealed irony in the man’s tone
that gave Avis more uneasiness than anything he could
have said. She felt instinctively that he was trifling
with her, and was careless of her thoughts or opinions,
which he wovdd not have been had he not some secret,
powerful reason for feeling sure she was entirely in his
power.

She concealed her feelings, however, and took refuge
in silence.

«Yes, you are very beautiful,” he went on, ‘‘and you
are worth a million. Now don’t tell me I may have the
million it I will set you free. That is nonsense. I in-
tend to marry you. You may say I have intended you to
marry your cousin, or Jack. 1 never did; | always made
a mental reservation in favor of myself. Now take a
good look at me. Old eno®fh to be your father? Yes.
Little, and very plain, not to say ugly? True. Look
again, however, and you will notice, if you have the least
knowledge of physiognomy, that around my mouth and
eyes are lines which say, ‘very firm, very cruel.’ Yes,
my dear child, Iam both. I have made up my mind to
have you and your money, and [ will stop at nothing to

et you both. Oh, I don’t expect you to give in to-day.

‘ll see you again to-morrayyand the next day, and the
next, until you either say yes or hold out too long, in
which case I will try a ltd pla that I am sure will
subdue you. Few can ho. Good-
day, Avis, dear.

He was gone. >

He had never raised his voice ; had never ceased to
smile pleasantly ; had been courteous, even to bowing
with old-fashioned elegance before going.

Avis shuddered as she never had done for fear of Jack’s
brutality.

The next day he came and asked, politely :

«sAre you prepared to marry me ?”

She refused to answer, and he left her, smiling and
bowing. ;

The next day the same thing happened.

She saw nobody, heard no other voice.

Her meals came to her¥hrough a holes so contrived
thatshe could not even see the hand that held the
tray.

As the days went by so and no help came, a singular
feeling began to steal over the poor child.

She wondered if the time would come when she must
yieid and become that man’s wife. .

She made herself contemplate the idea.

Then she wondered what he would do next to make
her yield.

Something fiendish, no doubt.

Would she really yield, then, and be his wife ?

She wished he would put the new plan in operation
soon.

Perhaps it would kill her if she held out against it.

But it could not be much worse than a life of utter
solitude, death-like stillness broken only by the regular,
unfailing visit.

Always that smiling face, that low bow, those set
words.

She hated him ; she teeta him.

And yet, as the long’days went by, she longed for his
' hour of coming.

Two weeks went by so. The fourteenth day he said
something, new.

“You hold out well. To-morrow you shall have a
change. From to-morrow morning you will be a mad
woman.”

He waited for no answer, but left, smiling, courteous
as usual.

“Oh, ,Heaven help me!”

What fearful thing did he contemplate?

Would he rob her of her reason, and then make her
| his wite ?

Oh, no, no. Heaven would net look down and permit

ut long against it.

 

it.

But had she not nearly gone mad these days gone by ?
How easy it would be to make her so—and then ?

“Heaven forgive me,” she cried, ‘‘death is my only
refuge. I have lived so long eee in vain.. Now I must
| die. Ethelbert, me) in. Oh dleayen | if I die_a,
: cabeiae shall fi Z . there is no hope
| then for me, here or hereafter. But I must die, I must.”

With feverish, frenzied movement the half-crazed child
searched the room for some instrument of death. -

Had such an intention been divined by the satanic
forethought of her persecutor ?

Not a thing was there that would answer, unless——

She snatched a sheet from the bed and tearing it into
| Strips hastily made a rope of the pieces.
| She would not stop to reflect but all the while kept re-
peating to herself :

“J must die! I must!”

Her eye roamed about for something to tie the rope to.

The window bars would do.

Her strength seemed leaving her.
went toward the window. ‘

She could hardly tie the rope.

At last ’twas done.

The rope is about her fair neck.

“Oh! Ethelbert! Ethel——”

The persecuted orphan lay stretched upon the fioor.

   

She reeled as she

jest, entered the room.

One of the men was Finkey. The other was somewhat
older but bore a striking likeness to him. He was Doc-
tor Raspel.

“Good as a play, Bob, upon my soul!” cried the doctor,
rubbing his hands in his enjoyment.

“Yes, She really thought she was killing herself. She's
plucky, Sam, and I’m going te-have no end of trouble;
but I'll succeed. A million is worth some trouble.”

‘Rather. We’lbtake her right in, eh ?”
“Yes, up with her. Bring that torn sheet, too. I can
use it.’

CHAPTER XXIX.
A FEARFUL REVELATION.
«What has happened ?

 

| Where am I?”

The morning sun was streaming into the room from a

window near the ceiling, whem poor Avis came to con-

; sciousness and half rose from her couch.

POR 2 ORY

| ay were rather moans than shrieks that she ut-
tered.

“Mad! mad! Oh, he said I shouldbe mad. But—last

| night—am I—mad ?—I—I—oh! There! there it hangs!
there !—oh, Heaven have pity on me!”

; She sank back with a pitiful, heart-breaking sob.

The room she was in was bare of furniture save the
low couch upon which she lay.

The two windows of the room were near the ceiling.
The walls were padded.

By hands and feet was the g
wall.

Opposite, hanging from the window, was the very
Ltere which she had made frem the sheet the night
| before.

For a while it seemed that the horrors of her situa-
tion would really make her mad; but after a time she
found relief in her sobs, and began to reason more

| calmly. ?
She knew now that it was the stupefaction caused by

some drug that had overcome her. She could recall a

stifled feeling.
She was glad. A

r girl chained to the

 

&
Well, she had not killed her’elf.
reaction had set in, and she could even hope again.
Not bravely, cheerily as at first, but with a sort of
desperation.

wondering in a half-hearted way how much more trou-
ble the future had in store for her.

Suddenly a piercing shriek smote her ear.
to come from an adjoining room.

Then came words. She could distinguish them.

“Tam not mad. ITamnot. Oh! have mercy!
give him up. I will—oh, I will.”

There was a pause, and then a wailing cry.

“TJ consent. I will be divorced.”

Poor Avis! Her brain reeled.

The words she had heard needed no interpretation.
Some wretched woman as sane as herself was being
made to give up her husband. By what means?

Avis shivered as the answer suggested itself. Some
fearful torture.

‘ An! how she would like to comfort the suffering crea-
ure !

A door seemingly led to the room, but, alas! her
chains would scarcely permit her to leave her couch.

Nothing more did she hear that day nor the next.
aaa did she see a human face nor hear a human
voice.

Her meals came to her as silently as before.

On the afternoon of the third day she started up at
hearing a sound at the door to the adjoining room.

She listened intently, and fixed her eyes on the door.

The noise was very slight, but it continued, and after
a while the door was slowly, cautiouly opened.

A sad, haggard face peered fearfully into the room,
pram sight of Avis, gave a low cry of alarm, and start-
ed back.

“Oh, stay, Stay. Do notgo. For pity’s sake, speak to
me,” moaned Avis.

“S-sh !”

The woman crept softly into the room and gazed won-
deringly at Avis. ‘

“Poor child!” she murmured.
tiful !”

“Oh, Iam not mad! indeed I am not!” wailed Avis.

“Alas, you need hardly tell me that. I am not, and yet

It seemed

I will

‘So young, so, beau-

 

A moment later two men, laughing as if at some rare |

A long time she lay, thinking Grearily of the past, and |

I am here.
I fear I shall never get away trom here now. I must re-
turn again. I will see you to-night, when all have re-
tired. Let me touch your hand first. Chained! Oh,
Heaven, can you permit such cruelty? To-night, to-
night. Human sympathy once more. Oh, Heaven, | thank
you for this.”

She pressed a warm kiss on Avis’ hand, and hastened
from the room, leaving Avis to wish feverishly tor night
to come.

It seemed to her the hours never would go by. Dark-
ness was never so long in coming, though it had come
slowly enouyh lately. too.

And when at last the darkness came, it seemed that
the woman must be kept back.

Could she have been discovered ?
crazy at the thought.

ve how she craved only to touch a friendly hand
again.

Alas, she had given up thinking of ever being free.

The door creaked a very little.

“Oh, is it you ?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes. Let me feel your hand again. There,there.
Poor child. Oh, let me weep, too.”

The two women wept in unison, until the stranger
started up, saying:

«Perhaps I can unlock your manacles. J did my Own.
zh me try. I know you must long to be even that much
ree.

She took a sort of picklock from her pocket and after
various trials, succeeded in freeing Avis.

The poor girl gave agreat sigh, and throwing her
iy about the woman’s neck, kissed her passionately,
saying :

“Oh, let me, let me. It isso good to be here. How I
have suffered. And you, too. Ah, I have heard your
cries ot agony.”

“Have you? They have not tortured me for several
days. What fiends they are. I promised everything.
Tell me your story. Why are you here? Or would you
rather not talk ?”

“Oh, I would like to, if you would not be tired listen-

Avis was almost

ing.

*We have all night. Itis enough for me just to hold
your hand—a human hand. Go On, and when you are
through I will tell you why I am here.”

Dwelling very little on her early life, Avis related as
much in detail as possible, all the events beginning with
the death of her father down to the present time.

She spoke of Mr. Mapleton as a friend, not intending
to tell of the tender relations existing between them,
butit was impossible to avoid revealing that fact, and
she did it with modest diffidence.

Almost from the beginning her listener was convulsed
with sobs, and when Avis spoke of her love for Mr. Ma-
pleton, and his for her, her sympathies found vent in a
pitful groan.

ere, will end here or not. Tell me about your-
self.”
“Oh, no, no,” sobbed the woman, ‘I cannot, cannot.”
“Do not, then, said Avis, pityingly, ‘‘if you would
rather not. But it might do you good, it has me, I am
sure.”
“Oh,Heaven have pity on us both.” cried the woman.
She paused a moment, and then went on, vehement-

pity you—pity you.”
«Hate me!” cried Avis, in dismay.

my cries. What did I say ?”
“That you would give him up—would be divorced.”

know my story.
beautiful woman than I.
way. Iam sent here, and I must agree to a divorce. Oh,
the torture they put me to. And who is the other ? {Oh,

Heaven! You, you. You have told me so yourself.”
“T have told youso? Then you are the wife of this
man——”

“J am the wife of Ethelbert Mapleton !”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
———_>-Oo-~

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

WIFE AND WIDOW;
The Bride of the Alps.

By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT,

Author of “Twice an Heiress.” ‘*The Widowed
Bride,” etc.

 

 

 

.

 

(“Wife and Widow” was commenced in No. 42. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] F

} Ke
! CHAPTER XXXII.
: SELECTING JEWELS.

| The tiny alabaster clock had just struck ten in the

breakfast-room of the mansion in Grosvenor square. The
| matutinal meal in the Berkeley family was never very
| early ; to-day it was later than usual.

Ten o'clock, and yet the gas-lights burned yellow and
fiickering above the breakfast-table, and the curtains
were closely drawn, to exclude the sickly struggle of fog
and daylight that reigned in the outer world.

The ladies of the family were gathered around the ta-
ble. Mr. Berkeley had breakfasted earlier than usual, and
had gone to keep an appointment with a friend just on
the eve of starting for India. Edgar was, to all intents
and purposes, self-banished from his home since his
cousin had preferred Lord St. Manfred tohim. Hecould
not bear to look upon the face of the beautiful en-
chantress ; he could not endure the slightest allusion to
his deep disappointment. Home no longer bore the as-
pect of home to him—his whole life seemed to be warped
and distorted, his naturally placid disposition changed
and embittercd, and all through the coquettish wiles of

the lovely brunette who had lured him on, only to reject
him at the last.

Mrs. Berkeley, with swollen eyelids and a manner of
unnatural quietude, sat in her usual place behind the

 

school herself into the same old affectionate manner to-
ward her niece, although the fountains of her heart had
turned to gall and bitterness.

“Tsola is not to blame,” she kept repeating to herself,
although she knew in her inmost nature that Isola was
to blame. ‘i ought not to visit any anger upon her
simply because she is beautiful, and Edgar knew it too
well for his own good. Let me be just, even though my
heart should break.”

And so she tried to smile and keep up a sort of dis-
jointed conversation, even while she was saddest.

less control, or cared not to make the effort. She drank
her tea and chipped at the shell of -her egg in ostenta-
tious silence, scarcely looking toward the low divan
where Lady Isola Rutledge reclined, like an Eastern

es the nature of the girl who called herself her
cousin. . 7

“T don’t care how many viscounts she contrives to en-
trap,” Linda said, energetically, to herself. ‘Nor dol
altogether blame her because Edgar chooses to make a
fool of himself about her dark eyes and olive com-
plexion ; but I don’t think she ought to flirt with other
gentlemen when St. Manfred is off the stage. She has
had her chance; now she ought to stand aside and let
other girls have theirs.”

For the fact was, that Miss Linda Berkeley’s favorite
cavalier had, igan unwary momeng allowed himself to
be entrapped into an innocent little side flirtation with
the dark-eyed beauty, who did not see why she should
enact the vole of disconsolate damsel because Lord St.
Manfred was kept at home with a toothache one even-
ing. Mr. Marchfield ‘‘meant nothing at all,” as he vehe-
mently protested to Linda afterward. Isola tapped her
cousin on the cheek, and laughingly ridiculed her for
becoming jealous on so very slight a pretense. ‘It was
only to ore the time,” she declared ; but Ethelinde Was
inexorable. She reported herself as “not at home” the
next time Mr. Marchfield called. She preserved a mien
of haughty dignity toward her cousin, of which Lady
Isola took not the least notice, and she was thoroughly
‘ disenchanted with the new element in their household.

Cerita herself, in a bewitching negligee of cherry silk,
sat among her cushions, intent alternately on her oreak-
fast anda table full of different sets of jewels, which
had that morning been sent up from Oxtord street, by
Lord St. Manfred’s order, for her selection.

“7 will take another cup of chocolate, dear aunt,”
she said, in the softest and most insinuating tone, as
she placed her painted sevres cup on the silver tray held
by a little page in blue velveteen and gilt buttons.
“And just the tiniest trifle more of broiled chicken—a
wing, or a bit of breast. Really,” with a little musical
lay" “Tam quite voracious this morning.”

“IT am glad you have so excellent an appetite, my
love,” said Mrs. Berkeley, forcing a smile of interest.

“Do come here, Linda,” resumed Lady Isola, ‘‘and
help me make a choice among these pretty things.
ae” St. Manfred has the most exquisite taste in the
world. Which would you select if you were me, Linda,
darling »”

“I think they are all very pretty,” replied Miss Berke-
ley, with extreme indifference.

“Oh, but you really must have some sort of a prefer-
ence, you know,” purred Lady Isola. ‘Suppose it was
Frank Marchfield who had sent them up for your inspee-
tion, now, and——”

Ethelinde bit her lip.

“You have selected an unfortunate illustration,” said
she. ‘Frank Marchtield is nothing to me.”

“Now, you are jealous, dear!” sighed Isola. ‘And all
because——”

 

chased silver breakfast equipage. She was trying to |

Ah, I had hoped to escape by that door, buq

“God only knows,” said Avis, in conclusion, «whether |

y:
“T thought I should hate you, but 1 cannot, I can only the ears of her aunt and cousin.

wire.”
“Ay, ay, ay, I said it. You heard that much, then you |
My husband loves a younger, more |
She is rich, too. I amin the | reddened, her eyes emitted electric fire.

 

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|
)
|

But Ethelinde Berkeley either had her nature under |

sultana, with her chocolate and French rolls on a bijou |
table at her side. For Ethelinde’s eyes were beginning |
to be opened pretty effectually to the shallow selfish--|

 

“Not at all,” tartly interrupted Ethelinde. “I p-efer
to have no lover at all, than one of whumtI am com-
pelled to entertain so ee a feeling as jealousy.”

“All that hasn’t anything to do with my jewels,” said
Isola, in an aggrieved tone of voice. «Of course I’m
sorry you choose to be so ridiculous about Frank, but
that’s no concern of mine, and the present question is
whether rubies, emeralds or amethysts are most be-
coming to my style. Which would you select, dear
Aunt Sophy ?”

“Really, my child,” said Mrs. Berkeley, a litte impa-
tiently, ‘‘that is a matter to be decided by your own in-
dividual taste. Rubies, I believe, are generally worn by
young ladies of a dark complexion.”

‘But every one wears rubies,” said Isola, ‘And these
amethysts are so beautiful. Look at them, dear aynt,
one would think they are great drops of purple water.
And the setting is s0 exquisite. Necklace, bracelets,
ear-pendants, brooch, and ring. Perhaps I could tell
better if I were to try them on.”

“Charles,” said Mrs Berkeley, addressing the little at-
tendant page, ‘go immediately, and bring a hand-tnir-
ror for Lady Isola.”

The beauty viewed herself languidly, decked in the
ornaments.

“How do I look, Linda ?” said she.

“About as usual,” Ethelinde replied, briefly.
laughed, and shrugged her shoulders.

“J see you are determined not to forgive poor little
me,” she sighed, leaning forward, to view herself in the
mirror held up by the admiring little page. «No, no.
The amethysts are beautiful in themselves; but they
don’t suit my style. Now, tor the emeralds, how they
sparkle, like green fire. I wonder which are the most
expensive. But, afterall, this setting is not nearly so
artistic as that of the amethysts. I suppose | ould
have them reset ?”

‘| suppose so, too,” said Mrs. Berkeley, wondering
that her niece could allow herself to become so totally
rk ag in the contemplation of a few glittering trin-
<ets,

“J think I like the emeralds best,” said Lady isola,
leaning back among her pillows, and surveying their etf-
fect with a pleased smile upon her dimpled lips. “What
do you say, Aunt Sophy ?”

“They are very beautiful, my dear.”

“Tam to have the family diamonds of the St. Man-
fred’s reset,” Said Lady Isola, with conscious pride and
delight. ‘Lady Sylfant showed them to me. Oh, how
magnificent they are. J] neversaw anything like them
in all my life. It is worth marrying Lord St. Manired to
secure those jewels.”

«And I suppose that is all you think of in the matter,”
said Ethelinde, brusquely. :

“Is not that what every one thinks of ?” calmly asked
Lady Isola. ;

“If I believed that,” retorted Miss Berkeley, «I should
be ashamed of human nature.”

«Ethelinde, my love,” remonstrated her mother.

“Well, mamma, I cannot help it,” spoke up the trank
natured girl. ‘Isola has gained the goal of her ambi-
tion, and she cares for nothing else. Unless I had seen
it with my own eyes, and heard it with my own ears, I
could not have believed that Aunt Agnes’ daughter
could be so cold and selfish.”

Lady Isola shrugged her shoulders and laughed the
defiant, metallic laugh that sounded so like a discord on

peated. <‘Nay,
I am only like the rest of the world

Isola

“Cold and selfish, Ethelinde ?” she re
that is hardly fair.

“Ay, you, poor, innocent child. You say you heard | —neither better nor worse. You would have jumped,

yourself, at the chance of being Lord St. Manfred’s
«Never !”
Isola lost control of herself for a second—her cheeks

«‘Ethelinde, you know that is false. You would have
married him !”

“[ would not marry a crowned monarch unless I loved
him!” retorted Ethelinde. ‘You are committing a
slight mistake, Isola Rutledge. You are judging me by
the standard of your own heart and soul. I do not call
myself perfect in any respect, but 1 would never sell my-
self for gold and rank.”

«And you mean to assert that I have done so ?”

Lady Isola rose up, pushing the glittering tray of jew-
els aside.

Mrs. Berkeley started to her feet. .

“Charles,” she cried to the little page who was staring
in round-eyed astonishment, and thinking what a fine
tale he should presently have to relate in the house-
keeper’s room, “‘leave the room. Isola—Ethelinde, re-
collect yourselves.

Isola aes and resumed her seat again.

‘After all,” she said, ‘it is hardly worth while fretting
one’s self. Ihave won—you, Linda, have lost. 1 can
pardon a little natural rancor.”

‘My dear,” Mrs. Berkeley interposed. with a perturbed
countenance, “surely youdo not mean to accuse your
cousin of so petty a passion as jealousy 2?”

Isola tossed her head and retvained silent.

‘Mamma, it isn’t worth while to argue the question,”
said Ethelinde, recovering her self poise. ‘My cousin
Isola andIview society from two entirely different
standpoints. We are quite uncongenial.”

Mrs. Berkeley, fairly unsettled by this last verbal pas-
Sage-at-arms, burst into tears and clasped her hands
piteously together.

“Are we henceforth to have nothing but discord and
jarring in our home ?” she asked, imploring ly. “Since
isola came to use we have changed sadly. Cannot it be
otherwise? Ah, my children, let us once more have

ace.”

Lady Isola smiled—the cold, calm smile of triumph.

“Tamsure, Aunt Sophia, it is through no fault of mine,”
said she. ‘And, if I] yield to Lord St. Manfred’s impor-
tunities, it will not be long before I rid this mansion of
my presence, effectually and entirely.”

“Isola,” cried Mrs. Berkeley, growing more- and more
agitated as she perceived how completely her niece was
drifting beyond her control, ‘‘you surely would take no
definite step in this matter of your betrothal and mar-
riage before the arrival of your mother? Oh, my child,
consider what you are doing.”

«But mamma will soon be here.”

«Nevertheless, I must insist on your waiting until her
actual presence sanctions your decision.”

isola straightened her slight figure to its tull height,
and shot a glance of furtive defiance at her aunt from
beneath her long curled eyelashes.

“Tam own mistress, Aunt Sophia, and Lord St.
Mantred has soset his heart on an immediate mar-
riage.’

“fsola, it would be neither seemly nor proper.”

Lady Isola compressed her lips and looked downward
at the floor, but the expression of quiet resolution re-
mained unchanged. :

Mrs. Berkeley looked at her with the utmost distress.

“Isola, my dearest love, reflect. What will the world
Say ?”

“J do not care for the world,” haughtily retorted the
girl. ‘‘Am I not the future Viscountess St. Manfred, the
present Lady Isola Rutledge ?”

AS she spoke there was the sound of wheels outside—
the vague, undefined tumult of an arrival below stairs
we the hurried opening and shutting of

oors.

Mrs. Berkeley looked around. Ethelinde was hurry-
ing toward the door, when a servant entered with a be-
wildered face.

““Mg’am, if you please, the Countess of Victorsfield is
below—coming up stairs now, ma’am, with Lady Angela
and Lady Isola Rutledge !”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE FALSE HEIRESS IS UNVAILED.

Another second and the false and true claimants to
to the name of Isola Rutledge stood face to face.

Cerita shuddered and turned ashen pale, as she clung
to the side of the sofa forsupport. Her first impulse
was to flee, but her own common sense instantaneously
showed her how impossible would be any such escape
from the closing toils of fate.

So she stood, pallid and quiet, awaiting her destiny.

Mrs. Berkeley scarcely waited to be clasped in her
os arms before she seized both hands of the real

sola.

“You are my niece, Isola?’ she cried, hysterically.
sane who is this?” with a motion of the head toward

‘erita.

And the beautiful Petite calmly answered:

“Tam Isola Rutledge. And this false-tongued, cruel
impostor is one Cerita Elmsley, the daughter of the inn-
keeper at whose house in Valgrun my governess died.”

Had one risen from the tomb, Cerita could not have
been more utterly dismayed and astounded thus to see
betore her, in the full possession of her senses, the beau-
titul idiot who had been like a helpless child in her
hands when last she saw her consigned to the care of
Marie Trenard. ‘

Isola’s dark, reproachful eyes seemed to read her very
heart—to look down into the slimy depths of her guilty
intriguing’ soul. Involuntarily she shrank from the
pure presence of the girl she had so cruelly wronged,
and covered her face with her hands. -

“Is this true ?” Mrs. Berkeley demanded ; and Cerita
was compelled, falteringly, to utter: -

“Tt is true.”

“Base impostor!” exclaimed Mrs. Berkeley, ‘how
dared you palm yourself off on me for my sister's child ?
How dared you thus audaciously to deceive us ?”

Stung by Mrs. Berkeley’s tones, Cerita lifted her head,
and Lady Victorsfield stood amazed at the beauty of the
detected schemer, as well as at the slight degree of re-
semblance upon which Cerita had dared to build up the
plot so far wonderfully successful. Both were dark,
both tall, with small features, and low, broad brows—
and that was all.

‘“T meant no harm,” Cerita confessed, speaking in a
low, distinct voice, which was audible in every corner of
the room. ‘It occurred to my mind only when Madame
D’Audreville’s confession revealed to me that yonder
girl—insane then—was on her way to relatives whom
she had never seen. Wasit not a thousand pities that
some one should not enjoy the rich inheritance which
she seemed at that time unfitted everto appreciate ? I
procured for her a good home—better far than she would
have recefyed.had not | myself taken the responsibility
upon my own mind. I provided in every way for her
wants. Wasit through y/ fault of mine that Madame
D'Audreville died as she did? That she had already
woven a tissue of deceit about the future of an idiot girl,
which | had only to follow out in order to obtain the re-
alization of my brightest visions? How wasIto know
that she would ever again recover the senses which at
that time seemed hopelessly gone? Hew was I——”

“Stop !” Lady Victorstield raised her hand with a warn-
ing gesture. ‘You have already said too much. You
have already proved yourself to be utterly destitue of
feeling, sense, even common decency. Had you evinced

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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he slightest symptom of remorse or penitence for the

daring evil you have wrought, I might have entertained

some little degree of pity for you. As it is—Sophia,”

turning to her sister, “now can you longer endure the

er presence of this. bold adventuress in your
ouse ?”

As the countess spoke Mrs. Berkeley’s fair face had
hardened and grown stern and rigid as stone. She laid
her hand upon the silken bell rope.

‘“Montresor,” she. said to her own maid, a staid and
sensible elderly woman who answered the bell, ‘‘attend
this young person to her room.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am—you mean Lady Isola.”

‘‘T mean this person,” pointing straight at the dectect-
ed girl/‘‘who is no more entitled to the name and rank of
Lady Isola Rutledge than you yourself, Montresor. At-
tend her, I say, to her room ; lend all possible assistance
in getting herself and her maid out of the house as soon
as is practicable.”

‘‘Ma’am !” cried the astonished abigail.

But her mistress’ face and gesture corroborated her
words. Cerita uttered a low, mocking laugh. :

‘‘You hear your mistress, Montresor!” she said, with a
debonair erection of the head. ‘Why do you not obey
her at once ?”

“Yes, my la—yes, miss,” Montresor answered, staring
from one to the other, as if she had quite taken leave of
her common sense.

“Poor Montresor, you are perplexed!” said Cerita.
“And Ido not wonder much. Call me Miss Elmsley, if
you are at a loss for a name. Goon before. I shall
follow.”

Turning to the group in the center of the apartment,
she flashed a contemptuous smile upon them.

“You scorn me as a defeated schemer,” she uttered,
‘ta dethroned usurper. ButI defy you allyet. Whenl
am the Viscountess of St. Manfred you shall all pay
dearly this. Not a haughty word, not a mocking
sneer but shall be given back to you tenfold!” ;

Ethelinde Berkeley curled her lip contemptuously.

“You are reckoning without your host, Miss Cerita
Elmsley,” she. said, coldly. ‘‘You will never be Vis-
countess of St. Manfred, The purple blood of a score of
aristocratic generations will never unite itself with that
of a nameless adventuress/”

She spoke the last word with such a quiet concentra-
tion of contempt and dislike that Cerita was stung to
the quick. Her eyes scintillated dusk lightning, her

cheeks reddened passionately.

“You think so,” Miss Berkeley,” she retorted, speak-
ing slowly, and evidently putting a strong constraint
upon herself. ‘But you will find yourself wrong. Itis
not given. to cold, emotionless natures like yours to
fathom the depths, and strength, and endurance of a
man’s love. Mark my words, and remember them when
they are fulfilled. He will marry me. In the mean-
while I wish you all a very good-morning.”

With the port of a princess closing a state audience,
Cerita Elmsley swept from the room, leaving the others
completely bewildered by her audacity and coolness.

She walked quietly up stairs to her own room, her
breathing soft and even, her pulses unquickened.

There Montresor had already related the marvelous
tidings to Mademoiselle Adrienne.

“Take my advice, ma’amselle,” said Montresor, nod-
ding her head, ‘‘and give warning at once.”

ros Adrienne held a spice of French wiliness in her
nature.

“Oh, no,” said she; ‘not untill can do better. All
this may be very awful, but is it not what we read of in
French novels every day. She may be only a plain
‘miss,’ instead of ‘my lady,’ but her wages are just as
good; isitnotso? Mon Diew! Madame Montresor, you
English are so short-sighted! I would not lose the.
chance of being own maid to the Viscountess St. Man-
. fred, not if my mistress turned out to be an apple-girl in
diguise. Life is a romance—and what am I,
Adrienne Dufavre, that I should find fault with it?”

“You are making a great mistake,” said Montresor,
shaking her head.

“J will risk that,” said shrewd Adrienne.

So that when Cerita came upstairs she found her
_ maid deferential, respectful, and full of alacrity as

, ever.

“Good,” thought Cerita, ‘‘she is the only one of the lot
who has a remnant of common sense left.”

She sat down in a chair, and took up a book.

<a suppose you have heard what has happened, Adri-
enne ?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

‘All the better,” responded her mistress, ‘‘I hate ex-
planations. Weare to leave this house atonce. Pack
Whatever is absolutely necessary—and only that. I
shall renew my wardrobe when I reach my new home.”

“And the jewels ?” questioned Adrienne.

“What I brought here I shall take away. There can ;

be no objection to that, I presume. Also the gifts I
have received from my loving and affectionate relatives,”
with a mocking shrug of her shoulders, which was not
lost upon Adrienne.

“And our destination, mademoiselle ?”

“T intend to engage a suite of rooms at the Silverstein
_ Hotel. in Selyrove street.” :

“But; mademoiselle,” with Adrienne’s deferential
manner there was now intermingled an air of confiden-
tial interest new, and not altogether unpleasing, to the
girl who had no friends, ‘“‘perhaps you are unaware that
' the Silverstein Hotel, although the model of an elegant
and sequestered resort, is the most expensive place in
all London.”

«That is the very reason I select it,” said Cerita, care-
essly. .“T wish tobe exclusive... I desire above all
things to avoid the commonplace and vulgar. It is nec-
essary for me to be careful now whither I go, and with
what associations I surround myself. Lady Isola Rut-
ledge had the prestige of rank to protect her comings
and goings—but Miss Elmsley cannot be too cautious.”

“T comprehend entirely—mademoiselle is quite right,”
said Adrienne. And she went, swiftly and deftly, about
her business, while Cerita, leaning back among her

cushions, pretended to read. But in reality the lines |

blurred together before her eyes, and she took in noth-
ing of the sense of what she read. She was thinking—
planning out her own tuture—taking up the dropped
stitches of her liie’s warp and woof. Defeat had come
upon her when she least expected it, but she was, nev-
_ ertheless, far from discouraged.

: “It is annoying,” she told herself, ‘‘but it is not crush-

' ing. I must play my game with exceeding caution,. but

I believe that I still hold the winning cards in my hand.

Courage, courage, and all will yet be well.”

CHAPTER XXXyV.
‘NO ad

While Cerita Elmsley, in her own apartment, was ab-
_., sorbed in thought, and Adrienne glided noiselessly from
_ dressing bureau to trunk and traveling-case, the re-

' united relatives in the breakfast-room below stairs were

engrossed in all the joyful details of the meeting which
embraced so sat elements of the romantic and well
nigh impossible. Butin the midst of their happy con-
fusion of words and laughter, a footstep sounded on the
pian eg stairway without. Mrs. Berkeley started to
er feet.
“Jt is Edgar,” she cried, clasping her hands nervously
“Dear Agnes, darling girl, itis your cousin,
+, whom you have never seen.”
 _ Even as she spoke, with a strange intermixture of de-
| light and dread, which was as yet, quite incomprehen-
sible to Lady Victorsfield, the door swung open, and
| Edgar Berkeley strode into the room, 4 pale, wasted
' phantom of his former self. Fj
; He stopped abruptly at perceiving the apartment full
_ of strangers.. His mother came forward and took his
a with alook which was at once proud and appeal-
ng.

“Edgar, my son,” she said. “I have a delightful sur-
oe for you. This is your Aunt Agnes, just returned
m Rome; there are your cousins Angela and Isola.”
With the inbred instinct of a high-born gentleman,
Edgar Berkeley had instantaneously banished the
shadow from his brow and greeted Lady Victorsfield as
became sg near arelative; but as Mrs. Berkeley spoke
the last words, he involuntarily started back, his eyes
St on the dark pensive beauty of his younger cousin's

ace.
| “This is not Lady Isola Rutledge!” he said, imperious-

ry.

“Isola, and none other,” his mother hastened to reply.
“Oh, my son, my son, we have all been the victims of a
eruel deceit—a treachery as bold as it was incredible.
The girl who has all along palmed herself off on us as
Lady Isola Rutledge, is a low-born innkeeper’s daugh-
ter. n

“Mother, it is impossible.”

He spoke with dry, parched lips, and tremulous ac-
cents,

‘She herself has confessed it, Edgar; she has admit-
ted herself to be a wretched impostor.”

Edgar let. himself fall rather than sat down on the
low divan, beside which yet sparkled with unheeded fire
the jewels that St. Manfred’s devotion had sent up for
the inspection of his bride. °

“Mother,” said he, ‘will you be so good as to explain
yourself? Either I am dreaming, or this is a tale out of
the ‘Arabian Nights,’ done into modern lite for the be-
wilderment of my poor self.”

And Mrs. Berkeley, with some occasional assistance
from Lady Victorsfield and Isola, related the strange
and almost incredible history of Cerita Elmsley’s daring
assumption of a name and rank to which she had no
more right than the meanest scullion in the Grosvenor
square kitchen; while, as she spoke, the glad hope blos-
somed in her heart that this revelation of the fair en-
chantress’ character, in all its wicked deformity, might
effectually cure the fatal passion which had so long con-
sumed the whole nature of her son.

“Let me be sure, mother, that 1 comprehend you fully,”
he said, when at length a long pause succeeded his
mother’s story. ‘‘This girl is no longer a high-born
heiress? She is neither more nor less than the daugh-
ter of a Swiss innkeeper, with neither rank nor fortune

7 gild her lot ?”

you have spoken truly, Edgar,” said Mrs. Berkeley,

“ertain of his meaning.

risi##0k Heaven for that!” cried out the young man,

ity tf bis feet. ‘Then there is all the more probabil-

spurnbe Will listen favorably to the suit which she
name, {When all around was bright. She may lose

Where i#!e, position, but she never can lose my love.

“Bdgar’ ?. Let me go to her at once !”
scent hingtied Mrs. Berkeley, throwing both arms
“are you mag, if she would detain him by main force;

“That is ax

young man, witage word to use, mother,” said the

a quiet dignity which convinced the
ree had well weighed his purpose and

intent deel:
may aaiett peonousha them. ‘If 7 am mad, then we
I love this Cerita jl the rest of the world demented.

sley—was not that the name by

\

 

which you called her ?—and I intend at once to tell her
so; to offer her the name, the protection, the unchang-
ing affection which may now appear more precious in
her eyes than they did a month ago. Mother,” gently
untwining the arms that clung so wildly to him, ‘‘let me
go! Not all the tears that ever were shed, not all the
entreaties ever spoken. can change my purpose now.
My aunt and cousins will, I hope, excuse any seeming
ae ot courtesy, but the present is no time for explana-

ons. ,

Drawing a card trom his pocket, he hurriedly pen-
ciled on it a word or two, begging for an immediate in-
terview, and rang the bell.

“James,” to the footman, ‘‘take this card at once to
Miss Elmsley, and bring back an answer.”

The wondering footman obeyed, and returned almost
instantly.

“Miss Elmsley’s compliments to you, sir, and it’s quite
impossible for her to see you.”

Edgar Berkeley’s countenance fell.

«Did she send no written message, James ?”

“No, sir.”

He mused a moment—then turned to the door.

“Ladies,” he said, to the assembled group, ‘‘you will
excuse me for a few moments. When I tell you that the
whole happiness of my future hangs upon the events of
this hour, I am sure you will need no other apology.”

With these words he left the room, and went directly
to the library, where were pen, ink, and papers.”

“Dearest idol of my thoughts.” he wrote, scarcely
pausing in the intensity of his preoccupation to study
the words aad phrases of his lover-like note, ‘you are
unnecessarily cruel in thus denying to me an Interview
which I crave so earnestly. But I can say by letter what
you will not hear from my own lips. I can repeat through
the cold medium of pen and ink the vows of eternal, un-
changing love: I care not for what has passed—l love
you better as plain Cerita Elmsley than if you were a
king’s daughter. You have lost your name—I ask you
at once to accept mine. You are poor; my wealth is at
your disposal. You are temporarily deprived of your so-
cial rank ; the wife of Edgar Berkeley will need no
other title. My heart’s darling, will you, in exchange
for these few hollow conventionalities, give me the
riches of your love? Write out the monosyllable ‘yes’ or
‘no’—and I shall accept my destiny at your vr ae

te E B.”

This note, carefully sealed, James bore to Miss Elms-
ley’s door.

“Another message ?” she said, almost impatiently, as
she tore it open and read the glowing lines in which the
unselfish and magnanimous nature of Edgar Berkeley
was so clearly mirrored.

‘Does he think] ama fool?’ she asked herself, as,
taking a sheet of scented paper from the escritotire, she
wrote one word, and, twisting it into a three-cornered
note, gave it to the waiting footman.

‘For Mr. Berkeley,” she said, coldly.

Edgar opened it, with a palpitating heart, and read
therein written with an unfaltering distinctness, the
one word :

“NG

“So,” he said to himself, ‘“my hopes are atanend. She
does not love me; she. never loved me! Heavens!” a
sudden quiver of anguish passing over lip and brow,
“what is life worth to me, now? A year ago, if any one
had hinted to me that the whole future of existence, so
far as I was concerned, should hinge upon a woman’s
smile or frown, I should have laughed at him. Now-——”

He threw the crumpled sheet of paper on which was
penciled his fate into the fird, snatched his hat from the
table, and strode from the house.

In another instant, Mrs. Berkeley alarmed by the vio-
lent closing of the door, had rushed in—but the room
was deserted. Fortunately, however, for the quelling of
her anxiety, the twisted sheet of paper dispatched by
Cerita had fallen short of its aim and fallen into the fen-
der; she caught it up, and eagerly unfolded it, perceiv-
ing at once, in the one iittle word written in Cerita’s fair
sloping chirography, all that occurred as clearly as if she
had been gifted with the power of second sight.

“No ?

How, in her heart, she thanked God for those words.

“The wound is deep,” she said to herself, with a
mother’s pitying pang, even for the grief with which she
could not sympathize, ‘but it will heal. All will be well,
now that the envenomed arrow is fairly plucked out,
and flung away. My boyis broken-hearted, but he is
not lost. The girl has been mad and infatuated to re-
tuse such love--such a position—but she has refused
him. That is enough.”

And Mrs. Berkeley went back to her sister, to com-
municate to her the glad tidings which had so cheered
her own heart.
| «Dear Agnes, Il amso happy. There is such a weight
| off my heart. She has refused him.”

/ [TO BE CONTINUED. ]

: + > 9
| (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

 

 

 

THE

Old Detective's Pupil

OR, THE
‘Mysterious Crime of Madison Square.

By the Author of the “ American Marquis.”

(“THE OLD DETECTIVE’s PUPIL” was commenced in No. 46.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXX.
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

“Stop!”

Nick’s voice rang like a trumpet blast through the
room.

«Another step and you area dead man!”

The two murderers stopped short.

«Come over here, Ethel.”

Ethel ran to him with a glad cry, and clung to the
hand he extended to her through the bars.

“Lie down on the floor, both of you, or you die!
Quick !”

There was no mistaking the tone.

Dave yielded at once. Perhaps he remembered how
Mansfield had been obliged to obey. At any rate there
was no resisting the terrible detective.

Gilbert obeyed, too, but more slowly.

His was a fertile brain, and full of expedients. He
was trying to think of some way out of this disaster.

“Lie on your faces and put your hands behind you.”

They did as ordered.

“Now, Ethel, take these handcuffs and snap them on

the wrists of those men. Can you do it, poor child »”

“Anything with you to protect me,” was the brave
answer.

«Keep out of my way while you are doing it, so that I
may keep the rascals under cover, and neither of you
move till [ tell you to, or I will shoot you as I would {a
mad dog.”

Ethel did as Nick had bidden her, and approached the
prostrate men from one side.

She stooped over Gilbert, and was about to adjust the
handcuffs when she was startled by a cry from Nick.

She glanced quickly around. ;

Nick’s face had disappeared, and only his hands could
be seen clinging: to the iron bars. _

Nick had watched Ethel as she was making ready to
handcuff the men, and was thinking he had never even
dreamed of so much beauty, grace, and courage being
combined in one person, when suddenly he felt his*feet
knocked, or rather pulled, off the roof.

He had quickly grasped the bars, and was climbing
up again, when he was struck a sharp blow on the head,
which for a moment stunned him.

Then his fingers were unloosed from the bars, and he
fell to the ground. i

Before he could scramble to his feet he was again
struck down.

Almost at the same moment he heard Ethel crying in
a voice of agony.

“Help, help! Oh, don’t let them!”

He roused himself and looked for his assailant.

Nobody was in sight.

He sprang upon the porch, and in a flash was on its
roof. ‘

Ethel’s room was in total darkness.

“Ethel! Ethel!” he cried, through the bars.

A distant, mocking laugh was his only answer.

He sprang to the ground and ran to the front door.

It was fastened.

He ran around to the side and listened, feeling sure
that no one could escape from either entrance unheard

y him.

Not a sound broke the stillness,

The house had suddenly become as dark and silent as
the grave.

He could see no trace of light.

What had they done ?

Couid they hope to slip out of the house unnoticed by

him ?

Might they have gone while he was climbing upon
the porch ?

“No; he had heard some one laugh.

Besides, they could not have carried Ethel away so
quickly but he would have seen them.

Had they murdered her and fled ?

They might have done that.

Oh, if they had!

Nick ground his teeth and vowed a terrible revenge if
that sweet young girl had fallen a victim.

He was determined to penetrate and search the house.

The danger of entering a house in which such fiends
were in hiding was clear enough to Nick.

He knew that in the darkness and gloom of a house
strange to him, and probably full of lurking-places, he
could have no chance for his life.

Nevertheless, he could not stand idly outside, simply
waiting.

 

 

He stealthily climbed upon the porch roof and softly
opened the shutters of the first window before him.

With his knife-blade he pushed back the catch, and
then threw up the window.

All this time he kept well on one side of the window,
so as to be out of range of pistol-shot.

He Sy lighted his lantern by means of the automatic
match.

Turning the slide, he directed the light full into the
room and peered in.

The room was empty.

Once assured of that, he stepped boldly but noise-
lessly in.

The door of the room was shut, but not locked.

Darkening his lantern, Nick stood beside the door and
threw it open.

Nothing followed, and Nick listened in vain for some
noise to indicate where the occupants were.

It required a great deal of courage to proceed and
me a search of that vast and silent house; but Nick

t.

Every moment he expected either to stumble over
Ethel’s dead body, or to receive a stab or pistol-shot in
his back.

He dared not turn on the light of his lantern for fear
of exposing himself.

It was an awesome thing to go stealthily creeping
through unknown halls and ropms, in the blackest dark-
ness, With only murderers and their victim for his pos-
sible companions.

From garret to cellar he prowled, feeling his way by
the walls.

Nota sound nor a sigr. of life did he find.

When he came to the room with the barred window,
he made a specially careful search.

Neither Ethel nor any of the others could he find.

All had vanished like ghosts.

What could he do now ?

However, they had gone, and wherever they had gone,
they were certainly beyond pursuit now.

It es a slight consolation to know that Ethel had not
Hi illed. There was still hope that he could find

er. I

Should he stay in the house till morning ?

There might be some places in the house he had not
noticed in the dark.

They might be in hiding thexe.

If he went away, what could he do?
way to trace them. L

He made up his mind to wait, and with that purpose
went into the room where he had first seen the plotters,
and sat down.

There was no

CHAPTER XXXI.
HOODWINKING BILLY.

Nick had not been seated I
hurried footstep coming along
the house.

The step came up the porch stairs and across the porch
to the front door.

Then followed a loud double knock and a single
knock.

“The signal,” muttered Nick.
friend Billy.”

He listened more intently than before.

There was not the faintest sound in the house.

Billy, for it was he, waited but a short time, and then
rapped again, this time trying to push open the door.

Another short interval was followed by a volley of
oaths andthe signal was given in a series of vicious
kicks.

«Hither they have left the house or are afraid to go to
the door,” thought Nick.

«What the duse is the matter in there ?” yelled Billy,
in afurious tone. ‘Open thisdoor or [ll kick it down.
It’s me—Billy Desmond—d’ye hear? Open, I say.”

And, getting no response, the angry ruffian proceeded
to put his threat into execution.

“’d like to take you in hand, my wild beast, and thor-
oughly tame you. I feel just like it to-night,” muttered
Nick, savagely, ‘‘but I suppose the best judgment is to
make use of you. Sol li get ott of the way and let you
find out what you can. Illstick by you, andI’m mis-
taken if you Gcon’t lead me to them.”

As he spoke Nick slipped out of the room and took ref-
uge in a closet at the end of the hall.

Billy’s furious kicks soon had the desired effect, and
the ruffian, more than ever angry, rushed into the house
cursing like a madman.

He went first to the room Nick bad just left.

Finding no light there, he called out :

“Hello, Jane !” »

Receiving no answer, he called again. {

He ran up stairs and called. He went down stairs
and called.

“Skipped !” he growled, as he came up stairs. ‘‘Wheré
are they? Ill pay ’em for this. That white-livered
skunk of a Dave leaves mein the lureh, and now the
whole lot of ’em’s gone. If it’s a planton me, I’ mur-
der them—every mother’s son of ’em, I will.”

“Oho!” thought Nick, ‘‘then Billy doesn’t know where
to find them. And they—my goodness! I forgot—they
think I lilied him, of course. So then, unless there is
some regular rendezvous, he won't know where to find
them.

“Wait! wait! Nick. What was that Mansfield said
about the Forty-third street house ? ‘There’s your chance,
now make use of it.”

Watching an opportunity when my was

when he heard a heavy,
e gravel walk toward

“That must be my

making an
by Nick slip-
e¢ aera a -
“Now then,” thought Nick, “i'm

in the house. They certainiy did~no fe out by the
doors ; both were bolted on the inside. hey could not
have gone by the *windows, for even if they-could have
escaped my hearing, they would have taken so long that
I must have seen them. If they are not in the house,
then,they have gone out by some secret passage. Not
at all unlikely, for they seem to have such things in
readiness. If Billy knewof the passage, he has forgot-
ten it. And that is not unlikely, either, he’s in sucha
rage. I'll see how much I can find out.”

He ran quietly toward the entrance of the grounds,
and began to make some hasty changes in his disguise.

It took him but a few minutes to convert himself into
a very good specimen of a hack-driver.

The moment that was done he opened and slammed
the gate, and then ran noisily along the path to the
house.

He scuffied over the porch and rapped the signal on
the door with a roughness copied after Billy.

Billy heard the signal, for heealled out, gruffly :

“Why don’t you comein? The door’s open. Where
the duse have you been ?”

“Hello!” shouted Nick. ‘‘Who are you ?”

«“Whoshould Ibe? Who are you ?”

“Come out here and see, if you want to know?”
growled Nick. “1 ain’t goin’ into no house as dark as
this here.”

Billy came along the hall, with an oath at each step.

«What d’ye want ?” he demahded.

“Are you Billy Desmond ?”

“Suppose Iam, what then ?”

“T ain’t supposin’ anything. I want to see Billy Des-
mond, an’ when Isee him I’ve got somethin’ to say to
him, that’s all.” ;

*“T’m Billy Desmond.”

“Maybe you are, an’ maybe you ain’t. Ifyou are, you
can name a name, It it’s right I'll tell you somethin’. If
it ain’t you can whistle for it.”

«What kind ofa job’s this?) What do I know about
your name 1”

“Allright, then you ain’t Billy Desmond, an’! bids
you a gooa-night.”

“Come back here. What's the matter with you, any-
way? Don’t [ tell you I’m Billy Desmond ?”

“Yaas, you do; but what's to hinder you a-sayin’
you're the President? 1 don’t know you. The man
says to me, says he, ‘Johnny, if he can’t say who the
message is from don’t you giveit tohim. Now mind.’
‘An’ if you can’t give me the name you ain’t Bill Desmond
—not for my money, anyway.”

Billy’s head was not remarkable for its contents, but
by this time an idea had come to life there.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, ‘‘is itgilbert ?”

«“That’s the ticket,” cried a “An’ this is what Gil-
bert says, says he, ‘‘Tell him we had a caller we didn’t
like, and that we'll sleep to-night in Forty-third
street.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure” exclaimed Billy.
this 2”

«Bout an hour or so ago. I druv’’em to the elevator
at Hundred an’ Fifty-fourth street.” :

“Where from—here 2?” y

“Naw. Iwuz goin’ along kind o’ slow like, when all
of asuddint the hull crowd on’em got right up like
ghosts. I don’ know where-they come trom. Way off
toward there.”

Nick waved his haud inasort of circle, so as to be
sure of covering all the points of the compass.

“Oh, yes,” said Billy, “I forgot about that. How many
of ’em was there ?”

“Five. Two women an’ three men.”

“One little man ?” +

“Yaas.”

Billy muttered a curse.

“All right,” he said, «They paid you, | s’pose.”

“I sh’d smile. You don’t think I’m a bloomin’ idjit to
go runnin’ around all night fer Billy Desmond fer
nothin’. Iguess not. Howsomever, I ain’t got no pride
*pout takin’ a trifle more.”

“Take it when you get it,” growled Billy.
broke. Got your hack here ?”

‘What d’ye take me for?
hon I put ’em up ’fore] came here. Ta-ta, Billy.

ope you got ten cents fer the elevator, so’s you won't
have to walk down to Forty-third.”

And Nick hurried away, as if anxious to get home.

He had evidently been right in his surmises.

There was a rendezvous in Forty-third street, and
there was a secret outlet from this house.

“When was

“Tm dead

Naw, I ain’t no mounted

CHAPTER XXXII.
HUNTING FOR ETHEL.

What was necessary now was to follow Billy if he went
to Forty-third street, which he was very likely to do, if
only to have it out with Dave for deserting him.

Moreover, he must prevent Billy going into the house,
or he would be sure to speak of the hackman and so be-
tray the fact that Nick was aware of their hiding-place,
supposing that they had really gone there.

illy was evidently not quite, as he expressed, ‘dead
broke,” for he walked over to the Nofth River, and there
took a train for the Forty-second street depot.

Nick made some trifling changes in his disguise as he
followed Billy, and had no hesitation in getting into the
same car with him.

He followed him into Forty-third street, and prepared
a sponge with chloroform as he went. ;

;

fed they're not |

 

Billy knew the house well, for he went directly to it.

He was half way up the stoop, when Nick ran up the
street after him, calling softly :

“Billy! Billy Desmond !”

“Well 2”

“Come back here, quick.”

‘“What'll lcome back for? Who are you anyhow ?”

Ps ag lowered his voice, and came down two or three
steps.

“Never mind who I am, but you ought to know.”
Nick assumed Mansfield’s voice. ‘‘Dave has given the
whole thing away. The fly cops dropped on us up above
there. We got out by the secret passage. They were
laying for us down here, and Gilbert and Mrs. Waldron
were nabbed.”

Billy had come down the _ stoop, and was walking up
the street by Nick’s side.

‘How did you give ’em the slip ?” asked Billy.

Nick had been glancing up and down the street.
body was in sight.

“Why, I——”

No-

“1?” he answered.

His chloroform sponge suddenly covered Billy’s mouth
and nose, and after a short struggle the ruffian became
as limp as a rag.

“Stay there till you’re called for,” said Nick, putting
ee an the sidewalk so that any passer-by would
see him. ‘

As he had hoped, it was not long before a policeman
came along on his beat.

Nick from across the street could see all that followed
when the guardian of the law came upon the prostrate
body of a man evidently dead drunk.

“Come, get up!” he commanded. He
kicked Billy.

“You won’t, eh? Well, I guess you will.”

And forthwith he began to pound the soles of Billy’s
feet with his club.

‘‘Ain’t you goin’ to get up?” he demanded, in a few
minutes. “I'll take you in.” 4

But Billy was not to be beaten or scared into getting
up, so the disgusted policeman lifted him and tried to
drag him. :

Billy, however, was a pretty heavy load, and the po-
liceman dropped him—not very gently—and went to the
corner and called for assistance.

Between the two policemen. Billy was removed, and
Nick was left master of the field

He now ran hastily up the stoop of the house he had
decoyed Billy from, and gave the bell a violent pull.

A stout, benevolent-looking woman opened the door.

“Does a Mr. Gilbert live here ?”

Nick asked this in a breathless, life-and-death sort of
way.

“Who wants him ?”

Nick's quick eye had caught sight of a head over the
baluster up stairs. He answered in the same fashion as
he had first spoken :

“A man in the Chambers street hospital; calls him-
self Billy Desmond. He keeps askin’ for Gilbert all the
time. I went up to High Bridge first. There wasn’t no-
body in the house he sent meto. Then he said come
here. I guess he’s dyin’.”

«What’s the matter with him ?” ;

It was Gilbert who spoke as he came down the stair-
way.

‘He’s stabbed fearful.”

“Who did it ?”

“He says he did it himself, cause his gal went back
on him.”

*‘How did he get to the hospital ?”

“Came himself, I think. I dunno. You'll go, won’t
you? Ican’t stop; I want to get home.”

“Perhaps I'll go.”

“Oh! He wanted me to say that if you didn’t seem to
want to go, to tell you that he’s got to tell somebody the
gal’s name, an’ if you don’t come, he’ll tell the hull thing
to the doctor. Good-night!”

Nick ran down the stoop and hurried away, only to
return, however, as soon as he heard the door close.

He took up his position opposite, and, as he had ex-
pected, Gilbert was not long in coming out.

Nick meanwhile had been rearranging his disguise to
look as smart as possible, and as it was nota very elab-
orate one, he soon had it ready.

Again he ran up the steps and rang the bell.

AS before, the stout woman opened the door.

‘Has a messenger from Chambers street hospital been
here to-night for a Mr. Gilbert ?”

“Yes, sir, not five minutes ago. Mr. Gilbert has only
just gone.”

“The messenger was gone so long that the sick man
became uneasy and was a little out of his mind. Talked
about being deserted, and vowing to have vengeance.
His oaths are simply dreadful.

“Tn one of his rational moments he asked for his wife,
and for some persons called Dave and Mansfield. He
said he must see them as well as Gilbert.

“He used dreadful threatsif they did notcome. He
seems to have something on his mind, and swears he
will make them sorry it they do not come to see him,
Are you Mrs. Gilbert ?”

“Ye—ye-es, sir.”

It was a chance question, and without any real pur-
pose except to seem natural; but Nick was delighted
with the answer.

“And do you know where these people this man Des-
mond talks of can be found? Iwas sent to look for
them, for the man is evidently dying, and I would like
to notify them.”

“7 know where they live, and, if you wish, I can send
them word,” said the woman, who had recovered her
presence of mind.

“swe yor-send st once?” i

“This very minute.”

“Thank you. Then I needn’t stay here. I am wanted
at the hospital.”

Again Nick watched, and presently Mrs. Waldron and
Mansfield came out of the house and walked rapidly
away.

Dave did not go. .
hice he afraid of Billy’s wrath for having deserted

m

Nick pulled off all disguise now; but made himself
look seedy and disheveled.

For a third time he rang the door-bell. The stout wo-
man’s face wore a worried expression when she opened
the door. ;

“Ts Dave in ?” asked Nick.

“Dave who ?”

Nick looked at the woman suspiciously.

‘Never mind,” he said, after a pause. ‘1 guess [ made
a mistake.”

He turned to go.

“Don’t be in such a hurry. What do you want with
Dave?”

“Oh, no, I can’t be caught that way,” cried Nick, with
a knowing look. ‘‘I don’t give myself away like that.
Ta-ta.”

“Stop, I tell you.
him every minute.”
“What're you givin’ me ?”

It’s straight. I know Dave.”

‘Prove it.”

“How can 1?”

“Who's his pals ?”

“Billy Desmond’s one.”

“Right you are. Nuff
When’ll he be here ?”

“T’m not certain; but pretty soon.”

“Got the gal here ?”

“What girl ?”

“Oh, come now. I’m onto this racket—I’m fly.”

«Who are you 2”

The woman was becoming uneasy.

Nick, too, wished to hasten. matters, lest somebody
should come and spoil his chance, so he answered cool-

“Get up!”

Dave isn’t in; but I’m expecting

said. I'll walk in and wait.

ly:

4 “WhoamI? Why, 1m the dectective who has given
that precious husband of yours and the rest of them so
much trouble, and if you will kindly look into the barrel
of this revolver you will see that I mean business.”

The woman sat like one paralyzed, and did nothing

but stare open-mouthed at Nick. ,

“If,” went on Nick, ‘you want to save yourself trou-
ble, you will take me at once to Etlfel Waldron.”
“She isn’t here. Jl take my oath she isn’t,” protest-

| ed the woman.

«You will please to lead the way through the house,
so thatI can satisfy myself. And let me warn you,
madam, that 1 am very much in éarnest, and though
you are a woman, if youtry to play meany trick, Pll
shoot you.”

“I give you my word she isn’t here.”

«“T'll take your word after ’ve made my search,” said
Nick, firmly enough, though he was somewhat shaken
by the woman’s manner.

Preceded by Mrs. Gilbert, Nick made a thorough
search through the house, not passing even the celiar ;
but no sign could he find of Ethel.

«Where is she hidden ?” demanded Nick.

He wasin an agony of fear lest she had been made
away with.

“Indeed I don’t.know where she is.”

“She was taken out of the house at High Bridge when
your husband and the rest fled.”

“But she got away from them.”

“Well,” said Nick, ‘‘] can’t find her here ; but you may
tell your husband frem me that if one hair of that girl’s
head is injured he shall suffer for it a thousand-fold. I
am not done with him yet; and tell him, too, thatl
can always put my finger on him when I want him.”

“Oh, sir,” pleaded the woman, ‘‘I would not dare to
tell him you had been here. He would nearly kill me.

The woman was certainly sincere in that, and Nick
was rather glad that his visit should remain a secret.

Perhaps, after all, the woman told the truth, and
Ethel was free.

He fervently hoped it might be so.

At any rate, there was nothing for him to do there,
and he hurried away.

Two important items of information he had gained.

One was a complete knowledge of the Forty-third
street house, and the other was the fact that Mrs, Gil-
bert was afraid of her husband, and, if Nick was not
mistaken, she also hated him.

—

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“SHE'S GONE.”

For a while Nick was of a mind to watch the house
and try to gain some more information. h

But he reasoned that they would all be on ‘guard
against him after the night’s performance, and there-
fore he went home.

Early in the morning, however, he was out in a fresh
disguise, and went to the vicinity of the house.

He took up a good position and waited.

His intention was to first follow the movements of the
various plotters, and after discovering what he could in
that way, go to the High Bridge house and set about a
search for Ethel,

2 org:

He would have preferred to commence his search first ;
but was afraid he might miss the very object of-his
quest by so doing.

it was tedious waiting ; for two hours and more passed
before anybody came out of the house.

Then, however, Gilbert came out with hat and coat
on, and first looking warily up and down the street,
went toward Fifth avenue.

The question arose at once—should Nick follow him ?

The temptation to do so was very great.

Gilbert was the chief of the band of miscreants, and
from his cautious manner he was evidently bent on
some rascally errand.

Nick decided quickly. He would follow him.

For an hour he followed Gilbert.

He was quite soon convinced that the man was only
trifling, and that he believed himself followed, even if he
had not seen Nick.

And then came the mortifying reflection to Nick that
he had been tricked.

He was positive that he had been suspected of lying in
wait there, and had been drawn out of the way for the
purpose of permitting the others to do safely whatever
had been laid out for them.

He was angry enough at himself, and felt that he
ought to have seen through such a transparent device.

However, it was too late to remedy the fault now by
going back to the house, for he knew the people he had
to deal with, and was sure that they would be prepared
for him.

He continued to follow Gilbert, hoping something

‘might occur to give him an advantage.

Finally he remembered his appointment with Kitty,
and reluctantly gave up his shadowing of Gilbert.

On his way to Union square he stopped at the station
D. post office and asked for letters.

His joy may be imagined when there was handed to
him a letter bearing the superscription :

“Samuel J. Johnson.”

He hastily tore it open and read :

“DRAR MR. JOHNSON: I wish I knew your real name,
but I don’t. Ihave to think of you always as my brave
detective. Come to see me as soon as you can. I es-
caped from them only afew hours ago, and I am safe
now. Itis midnight, but I could not rest until I had told
you I was safe, for | knew you would worry after that
dreadful scene last night. If it had not been for you I
would not be writing now. You have repaid me for
what I did for you, haven’t you? Please come as soon
as you can, for have such strange things to tell you,
and I can tell you everything now.

‘Yours very sincerely and gratefully, ETHEL.

“Pp, 8. Ask for me, and say your name is Johnson, for
the dear good lady who is giving me shelter has promised
not to let anybody else see me or know I am here. She
has been so kind, but I will tell you all about it when I
see you. Oh! Ihave so much to tell you about that
wicked plot. How could you imagine I had anything to
do with such a dreadfui thing. But I forgive you.

“ETHEL.”

Nick kissed the hastily written and somewhat mixed
letter, and smiling happily to himself, said:

‘“‘How glad she is! And what sweet, childishly joyous
spirit she has!”

Those were very lover-like thoughts for a detective,
and Nick drew himself up very suddenly, as if to remind
himself that there was no time for such ideas yet.

However, she was safe, and he could not help rejoicing
over it, even if he was a detective. h

Ethel had written the address of her protectors at the
bottom of the letter, and Nick saw that it was only a few
blocks south of High Bridge. on the west side.

It would take him some time to get there, and it was
important that he should see Ethel, for he could tell
from her letter that what she had overheard was of the
utmost importance to his case.

He hoped, indeed, that it would be all that he needed
ar to enable him to come down at once on the vil-

ains.

Nevertheless he felt that it would be wiser to spare a
few minutes to Kitty.

Consequently, he hastened to Union square, and
reached there just as Kitty did.

He made himself known to her as agreed upon, and
then, walking by her side, asked:

“Has anything bappened since I saw you ?”

“Why, sir, something very:strange happened yester-
day, and I don’t know if I did right.”

“Tell me what it was that happened and what you
did, and I’ll tell you whether you did right or not.

Nick was smiling as he spoke. He was in a very good
humor with the world.

“It was yesterday afternoon,” said Kitty, “that a mes-
senger boy came with a letter for Mrs. Livingston. I
took it up to her, and waited to see if there was any an-
swer. Sheread the note at first with a scornful air,
and then of a sudden she turned pale, and gasped as if
she were hurt. When she had read the note she seemed
to wait a momett to get command of herself, and then
said, quite calmly :

‘« There is no answer.’ ”

‘Have you any idea what was in the note ?”

“That's just what troubles me,” said Kitty. “I feel
just like a thief. 1 never did such a thing before, and I
couldn’t do it again.”

“What, Kitty ?”

“Why, I remembered what you said about everything
being a help to Miss Mabel, soI made am, errand into
Mrs. Livingston’s room, and managed to stumble over her
dress and: tearit. Then, of course, I parr. her to take
it off and let me sew it, which she did. nd then, when
she -was-out of the room for a while; I toek -the letter
out of her pocket and read it.”

“Cleverly done, Kitty—very cleverly done. And you
did quite right, too, as I will convince you before very
long. Can you remember what the letter said ?”

“Pretty nearly, for I have a good memory,” said Kitty,
tixinking of the time sne failed to open the safe.

“I don’t doubt it,” answered Nick, with a laugh. “But
now let’s have the letter.”

“Tt began, ‘Dear Madam,’ and then went on about
like this: ‘I regret to inform you that I cannot try on
your dress this evening, asI promised. I have been
obliged to change my residence, the doors in this not
being in good order, as you may have noticed yourself.
Until I inform you otherwise, I shall be at the old
place at H. B., which perhaps you may remember. Af-
ter this evening, Lhave hopes that we shall have no
more trouble with the customer who was so intrusive
last night. Very respectfully yours,

“ “JANE MANNING.’ ”

“Well, Kitty, you have a good memory to commit such
a long letter as that; and if you will perform afew more
re) services as this you will soon have Miss Mabel back

ome,

“It is important, then ?”

“Very important. Anything else ?”

‘Nothing, except—but1 guess that won't interest
ou.’
«Tell me, and I will decide that.”

“Why, it was only that | heard Mr. Livingston say to
Mrs. Livingston that he had found another clerk for Mr.
Moreland’s place.”

“Indeed, but that does interest me; for Mr. Moreland
is one of my most particular friends. Is that all ?”

‘No; he said Mr. Gilbert hud recommended him. He
didn’t know his name yet, but that Mr. Gilbert had said
he was from England, and was sent to him by some of
his most reliable friends in London.”

‘And what did Mrs. Livingston say to that ?”

“She only murmured something which he didn’t seem
to like, for he said, ‘Why, Gertrude, I thought it Weuld
please you. You know you said——’ and I couldn’t catch
anything- more but her answer, which was, ‘I am
pleased, dear.’ ”

‘Any more unimportant things to tell, Kitty 2”

“Was that important, too?”

“More so, for I knew all about the other.”

“You did! How could you ?”

Kitty was half inclined to believe that Nick was
boasting.

“Vl tell you some day.
there’s nothing more ?”

“Quite sure.”

“Vhen, good-by, and ever so much obliged to you,
Kitty. Do as well next time, please, and Ill make a de-
tective of you yet.”

“Tl do anything to help Miss Mabel, but I don’t want
a i any more detective work than I can help... Good-

y, sir.

Nick had been detained longer than he intended,
so he hastened at once to the elevated road and took
the cars for Harlem.

So it seemed that a cashier of Gilbert’s was to be
placed in charge of Mr. Livingston’s money and in-
terests.

1t would be a sorry lookout for the money, thought
Nick, if the plan were to succeed.

However, it would not succeed, so it was needless to
think about that.

But what was that reference to the ‘old place at
H. B.” in Mrs. Waldron’s letter to Mrs. Livingston ?

That was one of the things to be cleared up, But,
then, everything would be cleared up soon now, for was
not he going at this very time to see the person who
could give him the key to the mystery ?

Nick felt confident enough that he could supply what-
ever might be missing from Ethel’s story, or, anyhow,
that it would be but little trouble to do so.

At One Hundred and Fifty-fourth street Nick took a
hack, and was in a short time put down in front of an
old-fashioned, unpretending-looking little House.

He rang the door-bell, and asked for Miss Ethel Wal-
ron.

“Mercy!” cried a jolly-looking little woman, coming
from one of the rooms. “What do you want with Miss
Waldron ?”

“My name is Johnson, madam,” said Nick, with a
pleasant smile. ‘

“Johnson !” cried the little woman.

«Johnson !” cried the servant,

And both women looked at: each other in consterna-
tion.

“Yes, ma’am, Johnson,” said Nick, gazing anxiously
at the two women. ‘‘May 1 not see Miss Waldron? See!
here is her letter to me.”

“She’s gone !” faltered the little woman.

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]
ene i és J
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others upon
ourseives. f :
In this world a man must be either anvil or hammer.

Ihaven’t time now. Sure

>o~<

Cc. C. SHAYNE, manufacturer of Sealskin Gar-
ments and Fashionable Furs, will retail at lowest cash

 

wholesale prices this month... Send for Price List. 103 Prince
street, New York. 522,Nicollett avenue, Minneapolis.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hs

 

8

cae 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

nS he

 

 

THREE GRAVES.
BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

How did he live, this dead man here,

With the temple above his grave ?

He lived as a great one, from cradle to bier

He was nursed in luxury, trained in pride,
When the wish was born, it was gratified ;
Without thanks he took, without heed he gave.
The common man was to him a clod

From whom he was far as a demigod.

His duties? To see that his rents were paid,
His pleasure? To know that the crowd obeyed.
His pulse, if you felt it, throbbed apart, ;
With a separate stroke from the people's heart.
But whom did he love, and whom did he bless ?
Was the life of him more than a man’s, or less ?
I know not. Hedied. There was none to blame,
And as few to weep; but these marbles came
For the temple that rose to preserve his name!

How did he live, that other dead man,

From the graves apart and alone ?

AS a great one, too? Yes, this was one

Who lived to labor, and study, and plan.

The earth’s deep thought he loved to reveal ;
He banded the breast of the land with steel ;
The thread of his toil he never broke ;

He filled the cities with wheels and smoke,

And workers by day and workers by night,

For the day was too short for his vigor's flight.
Too firm was he to be feeling and giving:

¥or labor, for gain, was a life worth living.

He worshiped Industry, dreamt of her, sighed for her,
Potent he grew by her, famous he died for her.
They say he improved the world in his time,
That his mills and mines were a work sublime,
When he died—the laborers rested, and sighed ;
Which was it—because he had lived} or died ?

And how did he live, that dead man there,

In the country churchyard laid ?

Ob, he? He came for the sweet field air;

He was tired of the town, and took no pride

In its fashion or fame. He returned and died

In the place he loved, where a child he played

With those who have knelt by his grave and prayed.
He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride ; ,

He was one with the workers side by side ;

He hated a mill, and a mine, and a town,

With their fever of misery, struggle, renown ;

He could never believe but a man was made

For a nobler end than the glory of trade.

For the youth he mourned with an endless pity

Who were Cast like snow on the streets of the city.
He was weak, maybe; but he lost no friend ;

Who loved him once, loved on to the end.

He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor ;

But he never injured a weak one—never ; :

When censure Was passed, he was kindly dumb;
He was never so wise but a fault would come;

He was never so old that he failed to enjoy .
The games.and the dreams he had loved when a boy.
He erred, and was sorry; but never drew

A trusting heart from the pure and true.

When friends look back from the years to be,

God grant they may say such things of me.

EBONY CHIPS.

BY SHINNER HONNUS.
No. 6,—Love-Making In the Dark, and an
Interrupted Serenade.

POLYM UE “ee wt

Wath

by
Ln

Aunt Caroline Pattison has a daughter Rosa, a coal-
black, thick-lipped damsel of sixteen. Rosa’s nose is so
abbreviated that it might; be called a noselet, accord-

“Ya’! ha! ha! dar sat Blushin Crusoe an’ Gideon Pee-
dick a huggin’ an’ a hangin’ on to each udder tighter an’
aleech toa niggah’s heel! Ke! he! Oh, lory! boys,
you jis’ ought a seed how Ts dem fools lef go! Dey
war ‘bout de mos’ s’prized an’ sheepish lookin’ darkeys
you ebber sot eyes on. Day sot dar fo’ bout a minit a
wipin’ dere mouves on dere coat sleeves an a spittin’ an’
starin’ at each udder like two ole brack tom Cats, w’en
Mistah Peedick he oa up and an’ says;

«* -Cuss yo’ ugly pictah, w’at’s dis mean ?”

«But dat Crusoe diden’ wait to ’splain mattahs; he lit
right outen dat.

«Jis’ den I hollered, ‘Kill de niggahs !’ an’ den it ’curred
to Peedick dat ne mout be in de wrong pew, an’ he ’gin
to ’cratch grabble like de ole boy war aftah him. Crusoe
skipped out de back way froo de hog lot an’ wuk up de
hogs an’ dey gin torun an’ squeal, but Peedick skinned
’roun’ de house to’ards de road an’ run into de clo’es-line
an’ turned a double tum’le backset, an’ like to cut hissef
in two. W’en he struck de groun’ you could a-heer’d
him grunt foah miles.

“J jis’ rolled an’ hollered—I war so tickled I ’mos’
died ober it, an’ w’en I tuk de can’le an’ went to de
house an’ tole de Pattison folks ‘bout dat racket, Rosa
said it war de mos’ ludickerlous eppersode dat ebbah in-
spiahed in the wersimerty ob Coontown.

«Wile we war a-laughin’ an’ talkin’ bout dat spree,
we heer’d a knockin’ at de doah, an’ as I war pooty suah
who war dar, I went to de doah myself an’ opened it an’
dar stood ’Poleon Bindar, all dressed up, wid a bran’
new plug hat on. I’scused myself to de ladies an’ went
Out an’ tole Bindar dat if he’d "low me to advise him, de
proper t’ing to do would be to wait till "bout midnight,
an’ den come ‘roun’ wid his banjo an’ sarynade de gal
right undah her windah. Bein’ asI war fum de city,
he said he ’spected dat I knowed w’at war de mos’ per-
lite an’ high-toned, an’ he wouid do as I said, so we lef’
dar, an’ I went home.

«You see,afore dat I had imposed some bery fine poick-
ry—a.sort ob a-a ode—ode, dat’s it—an’ I had spent ’bout
a week ob nights larnin’ dat ode to Mistah Bindar, till
he got it all by hawt, an’ could git it off in fine style.
Binduar said it war a kine ob a solo, but if you’d a-heerd
him a-singin’ ob it you'd asaid dat it war ’sid’able mo’
obaso-high dan a solo. I jis’ beleebe dat de angels
mus’ hab expiahed me w'en limposed dat song. I tole
dat niggah to ’stonish de natives, an’ show de Coontown
folks how de s’ciety fellas coa’te@ dere sweethawts by
sarynadin’ ’em. '

“It had cl’ar’d off to’ards midnight an’ de moon come
out, an’ long a leetle aftah ‘lebben o’clock I sneaked
Obah to Missus Pattison’s an’ hid ahine de smoke-house,
whar I could see Bindar wuk off dat sarynade.

“Pooty soon long comes ’Poleon wid his ole banjo, an’
he sot down on a hen-coop right undah Rosa’s windah,
an’ frowin’ all de-de fection into his woice that he could,
he jis’ roll’d up his eyes like a dyin’ cat an’ ’gin to sing
an’ play dat ode.

“ “Oh, lassus it am berry sweet,
But Rosa she am sweetah—
If I should meet her on de street,
* Is’pect dat I'd be mos’ awful tempted to stop right
dar an’ eat her!’

“He coulden' git jis’ de right metah in de las’ line,
kase he'd fo’got pawt ob it, but de sense ob it war de
same, an’ it war pow’ful good poickry, an’ he strung de
chune out so as to fit de wo’ds. Den, in meltin’ tones,
he sung de cho’us.

** ‘Oh, Rosa!
My deah; sweet ey!
Heah yo’ lubber’s lub-sick sighs!
If you'll be mine,
Our han’s we'll jine,
An’ stick togeddah till we dies!’

“‘Jis’ as he was warmin’ up to his work, wid his heart
in his voice, dat all-fiahed cross ole billy-goat ob Missus
Pattison’s had dun got into de yawd, an’ he heerd de
music, an’ come a-tarin’ roun’ decornah ob de house
an’ says, ‘Ba-ah!’ in a kine ob a cole-blooded ’creech dat
’ud a jis’ made yo’ ha’ stan’ on end. Bindar got up
berry suddent-like, an’ tuk roun’ de hotse to avoid hab-
bin’ any onpleasantness wid bim, but de mis’able¢ole
goat kep on right aftah him, a-ba-ahin’ an a-buckin’ like
he war de werry ole scratch let loose, an’ aftah dey’d
waltzed ’roun’ de house about nine times, an’ sashayed
all ober de wood-pile, Bindar ’gin to git outen breff, an’
he bruk to’ de chicken-house an’ clum right up on de
root,

‘Dat confoun’ed goat stood dar a-lookin’ aftah him,
an’ darin’ him to come down an’'rassle wid him, but
Mistah Bindah wa‘nt anxious jis’ den fo’ dat kine ob
amoosment, an’ sot up dar a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ like
he’d a steam injine inside ob him.

“Den de goat went to monkeyin’ roun’ an’ got hol’ ob
Bindar’s new plug hat dat he’d onl ag durin’ de hurry
w’en he wacated de hen-coop, an’ dat hungry goat t’o’t
it war ‘bout time fo’ refreshments, an’ went to wuk on
de hat an eat de mos’ ob it up, ’cept a bit ob crape dat
War on de crown w’ich he hooked on to one ob his
ho’ns, an’ he went struttin’ roun’ den wid a heap 0’ sol-
emmousness like he’d heen to a funeral, or war a
mou’nin kase he diden’ cotch dat niggah.

‘Bindar shoo’d at him an’ swored at him, but he had
to set dar an’let dat mis’able on’ry beas’ hab his own
way ’bout it. Is’pozed dat dey had made ’nuff erfusion
to a wuk up de hull family, but I seed nobody a stirrin’,
ner nolight ner nuffin’, an’ I cluded dat Rosa mus’ be
so obercum. wid exstercy at his singin’ dat she’d dun
gone off in a—a transom, er swoonded. Ididen’ s’poze
dat he'd a felt much like singin’ aftah dat matinee, but
We started off agin, to sing de rest Ob Ue song to his dear
Rosa, but become so excited dat he los’ his grip on de
roof an’ ’gin to slide offen it, bit jis as he come to de
eabes an’ war bout to drap, de hind pawt ob his breeches
hooked on to a nail dat war a stickin’ up outen de boa’ds,
an’ dar he war all doubled up wid his head an’ feet a
hangin’ down jis like a big possum w’en he hooks his tail
on toalimb. He kicked an’ clawed, an’ cussed drefful,
but ’twan’t no use—he war fas’.

‘Dat goat war a steppin’ roun’ dar like he war de ring-
mastah ob de circus, an’ I ’spect he t’o’t Bindar war put-
fo’min’ on de trapeze, an’ he went up an’’gin to intah-
view him, an’ says, ‘Ba-ah !’ right in dat fellah’s lef eah.

 

ing to the rule of naming small things, but what she

lacks in nose she gains in feet, which are pigeon-toed |
and extravagantly exaggerated. She has also very un-

common eyes, for they both seem bent on trying to find

her nose. I hate to say it, but she is decidedly cross-

eyed; yet, strange as it may appear, Rosa has lovers.

Blueshin Crusoe and Gideon Peedick have been sigh-

ing for the privilege of throwing themselves at her feet,

¢e@ bask in the light of her smiles, as it were.

While at church one Sunday, Rosa sat in front of the
pulpit, facing the congregation, and arrayed in all the
‘giory of red ribbons, sunflowers, and yellow calico.
Crusoe and Peedick sat considerably apart, yet. such are
the vanities of love, and the delusions of cross-eyes, that
each darkey would have sworn by all the gods on high
Olympus—had he ever heard of them—that Rosa was
directing her bewitching glances at him, and him only.
The result was that each of those two love-sick swains

went home happy in the conviction that he was the
chosen one, when in reality the girl’s loving gaze was
aimed at Napoleon Bindar, who sat between the two.

As Gideon Peedick was unable to write, he had to
bribe Augustus to deliver a message to Rosa, the pur-
port of which will be made known hereafter. Blueshin
Crusoe. being anxious to show his love and learning at
the same time, resolved to send a note. After great
mental effort and waste of paper, he succeeded in com-
posing the following:

“Pier rosey i Taik mi penn in mi han Toe erform you
dat ize clar dun masht on yoo. i wood taik it az A grait
Favoh if yew wood kKonersen tue meat mee out undah
de graip wines too nite Bout 8 oclok foahi wan toe
Tawk wid yue.

“doo cum rosey mi sweat posey.

“yoor oan troo lubber
‘‘BLUESHIN CRUSOE
“N. B.—doan fale toe bee dar !”

After hiring Augustus to deliver this letter, Crusoe
waited impatiently for the hour to arrive when he ex-
pected to meet his charmer. We will let Jehu Titus,
who was a city darkey, describe what followed as he
told it one evening to a number of negroes who usually
loaf around Old Fatty’s tobacco store. .

«You see, boys,” said Jehu, ‘‘l’d been rus’icatin’ out at
Coontown fo’ a couple o’ weeks to kindah improbe my
hef. I war a boa’din’ at Keturah Culberson’s ‘till dat
niggah had de impodence to ax me to pay him fo’ my
boa’d; den ‘I lef’ him an’ went obah to Nickerdemus
Beanse’s an’ hung up wid him. Dat Sunday [ hooked
on to de racket right away fum de way dem two ’coons
war actin’, an’—ki! hi!—you jis’ bet I war boun’ to git
some fun outen it. You see, it war cloudy an’ pooty
dawk dat night, an’ as I'd been a pumpin’ ’Gustus, de
gal's bruddah, I cluded it war wuff some trouble to fix
up a plan dat'ud bring some ob dat out-doah lub-makin’
to a clumax. You bet I war posted ’sarnin’ w’at war
gwine on, an’ I got a box wid a lid on it an’ put a can’le
in it, an’ bout a xuawtah afo’ eight: { slipped out to dat
grape wine an' sot de box down bya stump right in
front ob de wines, an’ den I tied a string to de box-lid
an’ hid myse'f ahine de co’ncrib close by. Den I jis’
layed low an’ waited fo’ fudder ’welopments.

“aftah bit I seed a dawk objick come pokin’ ‘long
so’tah sly an’ timid-like, an’ den it went undah de grape
wines an’ sot down on a log dat war used fo’ aseat. I

is’ knowed dat it mus’ be Blueshin Crusoe fum de way
e had a snufflin’, an’ I kep’ right still, an’ pooty soon
heah comes anuddah dawk objick a steppin’ ‘long berry
Still an’ easy, an’ it went undah de wines an’ sot down,
too, an’ den I heah’d w’ispahin’.

« «‘Bress. yo’ sweet soul! am dat you?’ said one ob de
parties in a luxuberous wispah.

««sOh, my dawlin’—my lub!’ said de tuddah onein a
lub-sick woice.

«<Gome to dese awms w’at am aikin’ to squeeze you!’
said de uddah one.

«Oh, my precious lam’! res’ yousef in my booserum
right agin dis hawt w’at am floppin’ wid ermoshum!’
a tuddah one ina kine ob a gingah-bread-an-lasses
whine.

“‘Deah honey, my mouf jis wattahs fo’ tas’e youh
sweet lips!’ an’ den dey went to sighin’ like a couple o’
belluses, an’ a huggin’, and bussin’, and slobberin’ ober
one anuddah wasser’n two kittens.

“T had to stuff my mouf full ob co’ncobs to keep fum
snortin’ right out. Dey seemed to be drefful masht on
each udder, an’ war a gittin’ a pow’ful sight ob sweet-
ness outen dat racket w’en ’bout de time dem two coons
war jis’ a sloppin’ ober wid rapturousness I pulled dat

Bindar says, ‘Go ’way, gO’way—shoo dar!’ but de goat
says ‘Ba-ah—ah,’ loudah dan befo’, like he diden’ un’er-
stan’ de langwidge. Den he 'gin to zamine dat darkey’s
wool, an’ jerked out a few mouffuls ob it, an’ chawed
away like it war jis’ de kine o’ truck he’d been broughten
up on. ‘Lef go my haih—consawn yo’, lef’ go!” says
Bindar. ‘Yum, yum, ya-ah,’ says de ‘goat, an’ den he
*gin to tas’e ob one ob dat coon’s eahs, an’ chawed away
like he ’magined it war rubbah. He war berry fon’ ob
rubbah, dat goat war. Dat made Bindar jis howl, an’ he
called dat goat a ‘dod-gumd on’ry brute !’

“De goat diden’ lixe dat kine o’ sass, an’ got insulted,
an’ gin ter cuss in goat lingo, an’ butted him till his sus-
penders busted trom the flyin’ buttons, his pants parted
at the nail which had held him in mid-air, and Napoleon
dropped to de groun’ in about de wust plight you ebber
Saw a nigger in.

“By golly, jis’ to hear him swar’, and declar’ dat dat
would be de last time he’d eber go serenadin’.”

>@

FLORA LEE’S COUSIN.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“They are two of the prettiest and most amiable girls
1 ever saw in my life, and if you only could make up
your mind to like one of them, Paul——”

“It’s very easy to say ‘like,’ Uncle Ralph, but it’s quite
another thing to do it. And, besides, girls nowadays
are so deceptive—all smiles and honey to outward ap-
pearance, all thorns and otherwise disagreeable behind
the scenes. How doI know that Flora and Lilias Lee
are at all different from the great majority of their delu-
sive sex ?”

“Go and see them, Paul.”

“On exhibition, like the big wax dolls at a charity fair,
wreathed in their sweetest smiles and company man-
ners ?”

“Nonsense.”

«Very good sense, I’m sure, uncle.”

“J won’t waste any further argument on you,” cried
the old gentleman, testily.

“A very wise conclusion, uncle,” laughed Paul Gilling-
ham, ‘‘a pity you didn’t arrive at it sooner.”

Mr. Martin adjusted his eye-glasses, and took up the
newspaper. Paul Gillingham sat looking at the fire with
curious sparkles in his deep, gray eyes.

“Uncle,” he said, finally, “I'll do as you wish. Ill go
to see my cousins.”

«That's right, Paul—that’s right. You see old Lee is
very far from rich, and your property——”

«Never mind my property, uncle. Fortunately, no one
knows of our lucky speculations except us two. Let it
remain a secret for the present.”

“So be it, then, my boy. And when will you go to
New York ?”

“Perhaps next week; perhaps next month. I cannot
exactly set a time. But I will go, uncle. You may put
your heart at rest on that subject.”

And Uncle Ralph Martin’s beaming face was in itself
a sufficient expression of gratification to reward a much
greater sacrifice than that his nephew was about to
make.

*

* * * * * ® *

“Do you like this wreath of silver wheat in my hair,
Flora? Have I placed it becomingly ?”

Lilias Lee was standing before the mirror, which re-
flected a lovely blonde girl with sunshiny brown hair,
blue, almond shaped eyes, and a complexion fresh and
rosy aS a newly opened balsam-blossom. Her dress was
of white tarlatan, with a long, silver-gleaming sash, and
the grace of her every movement was free and wild as
the swaying of a mountain tree.

Flora was darker, and, perhaps, not so brilliantly
peor. but she had a-very fair, winsome little face of

er own, framed in by wavy bands of black hair, and
lighted up by fresh, crimson shadows on her round
cheeks. As she stood on tiptoe to pull Lilias’ wreath a
little ae down over the glistening curls, the door
opened.

“If you please, Miss Flora, there’s company down
stairs,” said a staid-looking servant.

“Company !” echoed the astonished girls.

“Yes, miss—your cousin, Amanda Ann, from White

 

string an’ jerked off de box-lid an’ let de can’le ‘loomer
nate dat couple. :

Glens, she told me to say, come here to stay, on her way
to Bosten, to save paying a hotel bill.”

“Tell her we can’t see her,” impetuously broke in
Lilias. ‘‘We don’t keep an inn.”

‘Hush, Lilly!” interposed the gentler Flora. ‘She is
our cousin ; we must not be inhospitable.”

“Yes; but acousin seven times removed, whom we
never saw—and to-night, too, when Mrs. Leonard's ball
comes off. What shall we do?” :

Reluctantly enough the two sisters entered the sit-
ting-room, where a tall, gaunt figure sat, with both feet
on the fender, and a pyramidal heap of bandboxes and
baskets beside her. A twisted green vail was tied,
bandage-wise, round her face, and her dress of faded
red delaine was made to look still more devoid of color
by the thick, cherry-colored blanket sbawl that she
wore. In one hand she grasped a huge cotton pocket-
hendkerehiah and the other held a willow traveling-

asket. *

‘How d’ye do, cousins?” she drawled through her
nose. ‘I’m Amanda Ann.”

Lilly inclined her head coldly, but Flora went up.and
offered her hand with timid politeness.

«“Won’t you remove your things, Cousin Amanda ?”

“T’ve took off my hood and rubbers—I can’t take off
nothin’ else, ’cause I’ve got the toothache. How be
you all? Goin’ to a fancy fair?”

“‘We are just starting fora ball. Will you go with us,
cousin ?”

“Flora, how can you?” interrupted Lilias, angrily.
“Such a figure !”

“Yes,” said Amanda Ann, complacently, ‘“my figure
always was calculated pretty tol’ably good, and if I had
my best black silk gownd with the flounce to it, I’d go
with you. But I’m most tuckered out, to-night, with
that everlastin’ railcar, and besides my tooth aches.”

She put one hand to her jaw. Flora’s soft heart was
touched.

“Shall I make you a mustard plaster, cousin, or will
you have a little Deppernn it i

«Do let her alone, Flora,” whispered Lilias, jerking im-
paeeily at her sister’s dress. ‘It’s time we were off.

f country people will make conveniences of their’rela-
tives, they must take things as they find them.

“I’m hungry,” sighed the country damsel. ‘‘Ain’t it
most tea-time ?” _

“We dined two hours ago,” stiffly answered Lilias.

“T will order some tea pr you directly, Cousin Aman-
da,” said Flora, ringing the bell.

“I hain’t had nothin’ to eat all day,” said Amanda Ann.
“There was sandwiches in the cars, but they were five
cents apiece, and the apples was two for three cents,
and that was more than they was worth. [ come here
’cause Uncle Siah Burling says they charge awful at the
taverns—as much as a dollar a day!”

“Flora,” said Lilias, sharply, ‘“‘are you going to the
party or not? Jshall notwait any longer.”

Flora colored and looked embarrassed.

“If you wouldn’t ming®Lilly,—our cousin is strange
here, and her toothache seems very bad, and——-”

«You would never be such a goose as to stay at home
for her ?”

“Yes, Lilias.” :

Lilias Lee turned away with a jerk which set the sil-
ver wheat ears in her wreath nodding like their proto-
types in an August breeze.

“Good-by, Cousin Lilias,” said Amanda Ann. ‘Your
dress is dreadful pretty, only I shouldn't s’pose it would
wash good; it seems slazy-like.”

Lilias paid no heed to the words; she passed haughtily
out, with flushed cheeks and lips tightly compressed.

“Sister’s a little short in the temper, eh ?” the county
cousin hazarded. *  ‘~

“Lilly is generally very ainiable. Here comes your tea.
Shall I pour it out ?”

For Hannah had brought in a liberally spread tray,

arnished with cold ham, white rolls, a tumbler of am-
r-clear jelly, and a plate of butter.

Amanda Ann turned her attention at once to these
substantials.

“Make your own bread ?” she asked, with her mouth
full. ‘‘Milk risin’s, or yeast ? or baker’s bread? Butter's
dreadful white—guess the cows don’t get White Glens
grass. How’s this jellyfiavored? Keep many hens ?”

Flora, who had tied a white apron over her black lace
dress, answered this volley of questions with the gravest
countenance she could command, explaining at length
the simple mysteries of their housekeeping, and trying
her best to make the strange apparition as comfortable
as circumstances wi allow. ;

“Yowre an awful pretty gal,” suddenly exclaimed
Amanda Ann, after a lengthened stare. ‘Cheeks as
ee as a piece 0’ chiny. that are kink natural to your

”

“Yes.”

‘Don’t paint nor nothin’, do ye ?”

But Flora’s half indignant blush answered the ques-
tion quite satisfactorily. As the clock struck eleven
she asked:

«‘Would you like to rettre, Cousin Amanda ?”
“Oh, bless you, no! Pm goin’ on by the midnight ex-
ess.” Bad 5) 4

“To-night—and alone ?”
“Of course Ibe. Who do ye s’pose is goin’ to hurt
me?” ;

And truly, a8 Cousin Amanda Ann rose to her full
eight, brandishing the willow basket, she did appear a
{1 ‘midable antagonist. ‘ ae a
-**¥You’ve been real polite to me,” she said, as
sie gave Flora’s hand a squeeze at parting. “I’m
rough, but ’m smart enough to know when folks treat
me decent. ( . When you come tosee me at

White Glens ILmake you Kingiy welcome, Good-by.”
So disap; “CSP ~ + baskets;-bandboxes,
and all, and when she was fairly gone, Flora Lee could

hardly believe that She had not been asleep and dream-
er * Py a, * *
The curtain of our story rises on another scene, six
months later—the elegant old family mansion at White
Glens, and two slender girls dressed in deep black, «with
heavy vails and pallid, tear-drenched faces, sitting alone
in the big drawing-room—Flora and Lilias Lee.

It was a story common, alas! as A BC. Mr. Lee’s
sudden death, leaving his family quite destitute, had
thrown the two poor girls on the cold charity of distant
relatives for support, ahd the cordially written invita-
tion of Paul Gillingham to make their home at White
Glens with his sister Amanda, was accepted without
hesitation. ¢

“How can we live with that outlandish creature?”
Lilias had asked, at first. :

“She was kind-hearted, I know,” Flora answered;
‘and, oh, Lilly, we have so few friends left!” ;

So there they were, just. arrived at their new home,
whose beauty and luxurious surroundings were a mat-
ter of no small surprise.

«Welcome, my dears !” erfed a brusque, friendly voice,
and Uncle Ralph Martin walked into the room and gave
each of the girls a fatherly kiss. ‘‘Where’s Amanda?
Oh, here she ‘is !”

A slight, very lovely girl of seventeen came from a side
door, dressed in the purest of white—a girl whose face
was perfect in its straight, classic lines, and whose easy
manner betokened much acquaintance with society.
Her welcome was quiet, yet very earnest.

“T have so longed for sisters all my life. Now I shall
have them,” she said.

«Amanda is prepared to love you very much,” Uncle
Ralph added. ‘‘You'll all be great friends, girls.”

“Ts this my Cousin Amanda Ann ?” Flora asked, with

* * &

‘the color rising to her cheek.

“J am sorry to say that my godfathers and godmothers
gave me that unfortunate brace of names, in baptism,”
answered the young iady, laughing. ‘Here is my
Brother Paul.” -

Paul Gillingham was even handsomer for a man than
was Amanda foragirl. His pleasant words of greeting
diverted the channel of conversation for the moment,
but Flora could not help returning to the topic which so
puzzled her mind.

«We were visited last winter in New York,” she said,
“by a—a lady who called herself our cousin, Amanda
Ann. but I am sure it was not you.” >

Uncle Ralph and the pretty Amanda stared. Paul
Gillingham smiled roguishly.

‘Will you give me that vail, sis? and the traveling
basket that belongs to cousin? Thanks!”

He tied the vail roun@#is face, put both feet up on the
fender, and adjusted the basket in his lap.

“Tm awful glad ( see ye again, cousins,” he said. “I
told you, Cousin Flora, you should be kindiy welcome at
White Glens whenever you chose to come.”

“Paul! Was it you ?”

“Flora, it was 1!”

Both sisters colored scarlet, but from very different
motives. Flora could not but be pleased. Lilias was
deeply chagrined and mortified, rememvering the very
cool welcome she had extended to the ‘‘country cousin.”
But Paul, rising to his feét and throwing aside the vail
and basket, said frankly:

‘“‘My dear cousins, you will pardon the escapade of a
man who never in all his life did anything like anybody
else. Amanda, too, my darling little sister—how shocked
she looks !—must forgive my lawless assumption of her
name. lam Paul Gillingham now, and as such you
must learn to like me, both of you.” ws

And they did learn to like him. Paul Gillingham was
very kind to both of them. but somehow Flora was the
favorite—gentile Flora, who had been so kind to ‘‘Aman-
da Ann” once upon a time.

And when, just six weeks afterward, Mr. Gillingham
asked Flora to stay with him forever as the mistress of
White Glens, and she asked him, wistfully : 4

“Oh, Paul, what made you love poor little me?” he
answered : .

“| fell in love with you last winter, darling, when yo
staid at home from a gay party to soothe the tooth-
ache of ‘Amanda Ann.’”

>-e~<
A MAGICIAN TRICKS THE GAMBLERS.

Not long ago Dalvini, the magician, was traveling on
a Mississippi River steamboat, and was asked to join in
acard party. Poker was the game, of course, and the
stakes, at first small, gradually increased as the limit
was shoved up and up toward the ceiling. Dalvini
played in miserable luck, and lost steadily. No matter
how good his hand might be, some one held a little bet-
ter. This went on until the conjurer had lost $700 or
$800, nearly all the money he had in the world, and a
sum which represented the earnings of along tour in

the West and South-western States. It was only at the
last minute that he discovered that he had been done
up by card sharps. Supposing all the time that he was
playing with gentlemen in a square game, he had neg-
lected to take advantage of his art as a Sleight-of-hand

 

 

erformer, and had played honestly throughout. Now,
owever, he determined upon revenge. Before going to

‘

bed he went to the rt and purchased eve
cards in the stock. Then he sat up all night in his state-
room doctoring these cards, and in the morning took
them back to the purser, along with a $50 bill, and told
that worthy to put them back in his stock. The purser
—whoever knew a purser to refuse an honest penny ?—
did so, and after breakfast Dalvini borrowed $150 from
the captain by putting up his watch, and invited the
sharps to renew play. In afew minutes they were at it

again.

“Gentlemen,” said Dalvini, “I suspect that this game
was not square last night, and that at least some of my
money was won from me unfairly. Iam now going to
make an effort to,get even, and I shall insist upon using
a fresh deck of cards every deal.”

Of course, the gamblers had no objections, and the
game commenced with that understanding. Dalvini
had every deck fixed, and the way that $150 pile of his
grew was acaution. In addition to his doctoring of the
cards, he rung in on them allof his wonderful sleight-
of-hand skill, and though he was one man against three,
he virtually cleaned out the crowd, got his $700 back,
and quit $1,800 winner besides.

etree mntet Bio

Pleasant Paragraphs.

(Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward’making this column an attractive feature of the
New York WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
vublication anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

st for acheral perusal, It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as bags Aya

pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects
remedied. ]

Will You Love Me Then?
A little mole is growing, John,
Just here beneath my chin ;
It gives me so much trouble, John,
I’m growing pale and thin.

Another one is coming, John,
Just here beside my ear,

And I shall be disfigured, John,
For life, 1 sadly fear.

And so T want to ask you, John,
Will e’er your love grow cold?

Oh! tell me now, my darling John,
Will you love me when I’m moled ?”

_ She Held a High Ufiice.

“Why, dear,” said Mr. Topnoody to his wife, as he
started down town this morning, ‘‘this is Masonic day
with us, and as I am to attend the meeting of the Gen-
eral Grand Council of the Royal and Select Masters, I
will not be home to dinner, and may not even be back
until far into the night, so do not be alarmed by my ab-
sence. We will be very busy, you know, my dear.”

«Oh, you will, will you ?” replied Mrs. Topnoody, firing
up. ‘‘The General Grand Council of the Royal and Select
Masters, is it? And you'll be out till late ?”

“Yes, my dear,” he answered, gently.

«Early, you mean,” she snapped. ‘Well, go on; but
let me tell you, Topnoody, that there is a Special Grand
Council of the Royal and Select Mistress right in the
house, and I’m the M. P. G. G. M., and the B. P. G. D. M.,
and the P. D. X. M., and all the rest of the meeting, and
if you come poking around that night-latch with your
watch key at 3 A. M., trying to wind-up the lock, as you
did once before, I 1l come down and open the hall with a
grand chapter on wives’ rights, that will make you think
that you have been riding a goat for a month. = Do you
hear? Now, go, but don’t let the festivities get to your
ae or you'll be sorry for it.”

Pa opnoody picked up his hat and went away
silently.
Broken Hearted.

Monti Montgomery is a young man with a heart, and

the other morning he appeared at the club greatly de-

jected.

«‘What’s the matter, old man ?” asked Roberts, a man
without a heart.

“T am bwoken hearted,” he said, mournfully.

“No? You don’t say! How did the fracture oc-
cur ?” F

“Well, don’t you know, Ihave been devoting myself
some time to Miss Richesse, and lawst night I pwoposed, |
don’t you know.”

“An, in , :

“Yes ; 1 took her hand in mine, that pwetty white
hand, don’t you know ; I looked into her lovely bwown
eyes; I told herlloved her moah than tongue could

deck of 1

| erally, for a girl of that
3d. A

checked material, slashed with black paten ie tention” /
which are worn red or blue stockings, striped ‘ 1 wh ae
hat or et is of brown straw, trimmed 1 a plaid fou-
lard handkerchief, ee twisted and tied, Theses
glazed gloves, long, thick, soft, and without any buttons,
complete the costume, : :

“Leah B. H.,” Portland. Conn.—lst. American ladies still
fancy the tight coat sleeves which have been in vogue so long,
though in Europe puffed and fanciful sleeves of several
styles are in fashion, It is altogether likely that for plain
wool dresses, coat sleeves will be worn all winter, and that
the fancy styles will be used only for evening, dinn
reception dresses. 2d. Removable hoods are ng ere pend
of the tailor-made costumes for street wear, and do not have
that rounded, bunchy effect which make hoods dis by
ave dete tel ck tll peetesty Mame

in and are sed so as to rfec vv
makes them almost universally becoming. a oe 4

“Ellie R.”—Ist. A pretty suit for alittle girl of ten is of
navy blue cashmere, made with a plaited skirt and blouse
waist, trimmed with bands and revers of black velvet, and
finished with a sash of the cashmere. 2d. The length of the
skirt depends a great deal upon the size of the child, but gen-
e, it hangs about three inches be- |
ts Sel ee aa

gto ma uality, finish,

Purchasing Raincy Will send it

low the knee. .
six dollars upward, ac
he New York WEEKLY
on receipt of the money.
“Effie,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Ornaments for the hair are fash-
ionable, but must be judiciously arranged to be effective,
Fancy shell pins, knots, aigrettes of ribl and some fan-
cy metal ins. gr * style called the “iad i
igh, wi and puffs, and an of small
or shell combs are set in at various angles, © 3
‘“Margaretta.”—In combining two materials, plain wool is
preferred for the basque and drapery, with faney striped
wool or velvet for the lower skirt, revers, and vest. When
the striped s is neat and inconsp! .it forms the
skirt and basque also, with the plain goods for vest, revers,
and drapery. gates
“Harry Oldboy.”—Ist. Fall overcoats are similar to those of
last fall. 2d. Winter coats are of rough cloth, single-breast-

ed, showing a silk facing, with braid on the edge or not, as
you please. They are a little longer, of rse, since cut-
aways are made a trifle longer than those of last season.

“Miss Daisy B.”—Collars remain as high as ever, but a nov-
elty has been introduced in the form of a turned down col-
lar, worn very high around the throat, some of these collars
being slit open back aud ront, so as to displaya of vel-
vet and a fancy metal clasp.

“Hattie H.”—The “Ladies’ Manual of Faney Work” con-
tains full information on the subject, and ee The
NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency wi ish it on
receipt of the price, fifty cents. ened

“Sophie,” New Orleans, La.—Striped and’ brocaded velvet
will be much employed for dressy toilets, and will be com-
bined with silk rep,-plain faille, and co’ led silk, a

“Mrs. Max,” Ravenswood, Ill.—We can furnish a “Business
Letter Writer and Book of Commercial Forms,” containing
two hundred pages, for fifty cents.

“Jennie B.,” Newark, N. J.—Nearly all basques are now
made with a postilion back, pointed fronts, and little or no
length over the hips.

“Abbie V.”—Smaill, flat, and inconspicuous buttons are used
on dress waists, and large, showy metal ones for outside
wraps and jackets. 5

“Lizzie S."—The price of the ““New_ nee Reckoner” is
thirty cents, on receipt of which we will mail it to you.

“Belle.”—We can send you a book entitled “Self-Cure of
Stammering” for twenty-five cents. > gee

“Mollie.”—“Amber the Adopted” is in book-form, and the
price is $1.50. ,

ue E. L. C.”—The “Guide to Authorship” will cost fifty —
cen

> a+

Items of Interest.

A stranger went early to church in a New Hampshire
town, and found the sexton busy sweeping and dusting.
Soon the congregation came in, making about a hundred

ae

| present at the hour for service. When the sexton had finish-

ed tolling the bell he walked into the pulpit and said the pas-
tor was away, and hence an extra duty devolved on him, and, —
without further apology or explanation, the sexton proceed-

 

uttah ; that she was beautiful, and good, and all the
eee to me, and | awsked her to maiwy me, don’t you
ow.”

«And what did she say ?”

“Not a dused word, don’t you know ; she just wung
one of those hawwid chestnut bells on me and walked
away with that wascally and fwosh lieutenant who has
bee pwowling around faw the lawst month, don’t you |

now.”

The Last Story Told. |
. A party of gentlemen at a hotel were telling stories |
one night recently of famous shots and how many |
quails, partridges, ducks. and other birds had been
Killed at a single rge. After listening to what |
seemed a willful exaggeration by different narrators, a |
stranger who ses present volunt ed his.oxperience ot |
only use of the fatal double-barreled gun as fol- |
OWS: c

“] went into the field one day totry gunning. The
only game discovered wWas*an immense flock of biack-
birds. I should say there were 10,000 in the flock. Slow-
ly I crawled up to them, and when not more than four
rods away the birds rose inasolid mass. I fired both
barrels, and how many do you think I killed ?”

Different guesses were made by the party, ranging
from twenty to one hundred.

“Not one,” said the stranger, ‘“‘but I went out with my
brother to look for results and we picked up four bushels
of legs. I had shot a little under.”

This was the last story told.

He Reached Out.

 

It had grown to be somewhat later than is agreeable
in the case of a dull companion, and conversation
flagged. This may have been owing less to a lack of
ideas on his part than lack of encouragement on hers ;
at all events, she yawned very perceptibly a number of
times.

“7 think,” he observed, breaking in at the end of a
long pause, ‘‘that a young man must be aspiring to suc-
eeed. He should not hesitate to reach out.”

“Very true,” she replied, listlessly ; then, with sudden
animation: ‘“‘Do you know what I would love to see you
reach out for ?”

Mechanically he followed her eyes, took the hint, and
reached out for his hat.

A Woman’s Aim.

De Baggs : ‘Nothing inharmonious in Bagley’s mar-
ried life, 1 hope ?”

De Kagys: ‘Nothing. Existence is to him a dream.
Why do you ask ?”

“TI saw a potato masher and a clothes-brush coming
out of his front door as 1 was passing yesterday, and
Bagley was on the steps.”

“That was Mrs. Bagley driving the cats out of the back
7 2} ”

Humorous Brevities.
It was summer ; and Long Branch. He came there;
we met. He was handsome and hasty, and I a co-

uette: He proposed; I refused him. Iloved him. But
then, I thought—don’t you see ?—he would ask me again.
But he didn’t!

The banana is becomin
Even dignified men go
ment.

Professor—‘‘Name a potent element in the art of
drawing »” Student—‘‘A mustard plaster.” The pro-
fessor collapsed.

A graveyard in County Cork has the following notice

very popular in this country.
own to meet it—on the pave-

over its entrance gate: ‘Only the dead who live in this

parish are buried here.” ;

An old farmer who wrote to an editor asking how to
get rid of moles, and received the reply, ‘Plow them
out,” answered back: ‘‘Can’t do it. It’s on my gal’s
nose.”

It is an evidence of great prosperity when the milk-
man orders a steam-pump.

“This suspense is killing me,” said the man who was
being hanged.
aes of good-breeding—Getting the prize at a dog-

OW.

eR, NSN sa) “Ss “LASS

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

' Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

‘Minnie L.,” Philadelphia, Pa.—Wraps are divided into two
classes, the quite short and the very long. The short wrap
does not differ materially in shape from a good many seen in
the spring, as it is still very short in the back, barely reach-
ing the waist, and longer in front, inclining torun down, '
boa fashion, in long furredends. The long wrap has some-
times straight, hanging drapery, and sleeves almost suffli-
cient to cover the figure of themselves. Seal plush will also
be worn, but instead of putting real seal ornaments upon the
garment, they are now exhibited trimmed with jet, to show

a marked difference from the seal-skin article, and to avoid
any hint of imitation. Among the more serviceable gar-
ments for actual wear, the walking jacket and English ulster
take the lead, The ulster ws every year a more oe
object to look upon, and it has finally’ attained a degree of
grace, without parting with any of its useful qualities. The
walking jacket is almost identical with that. of the spring;
a trifle more trim and jaunty in shape, Perbape, and rejoic-
ing in a greater variety of material and color. There is also
traveling cloaks, lon, ane to completely cover the skirt,
and mantelettes of silk or silk rep, prettily trimmed with gal-
loon and fancy fringe.

“Miss Olive.”—The traveling costume which is the most
simple and practical of the season.is that made of the style
of material employed for gentlemen’s morning suits, thin
fancy cloth, finely checked, in black or dark blue and white,
as it is proof against both dust and rain. The underskirt is
edged with a narrow fluting, the overskirt edged with

either mohair braid or velvet, the tunic caught up over, the
ips, trimmed or not with velvet, and falling at the back in
large straight full plaits, while the Amazon_ bodice,

 

 

ed with the service, and conducted it to the evident satis-
faction of the entire congregation.

Accompanied by her four children, Mrs, C. L. Cook was
in a small boat, crossing the river at Milford, Conn. The boat
had about reached the middle of the stream, when the baby,
nine months old, leaped from the arms of the eldest child, and
fellinto the river. Although the mother could not swim, she
jumped after the little one, caught it, and screamed for help.
When relief came the baby was almost drowned, the mother
entirely unconscious, and the other three children frantic
from fright.

While Charles Libby was arranging timbers in a shaft —
in the Desloga mine in Missouri, the scaffold gave way. He

tested head met tor the bottom, -but hic foot.cemght. he-,
tween a broken timber and the wall of theshaft. His boot
was strong, and there he hung, looking down the 100 feet
that were between him and death at the bottom, until work-
men above let down a rope, fastened it to his leg and drew
him safely to the surface. i

New Hampshire passed a law that when insurance
companies accepted premiums, and there was a total loss,
the companies must pay the full amount insured, and could
not force the insured party to accept, say, $3,000 for a $5,000
fire. In consequence of this law the outside companies de-
serted the State, and the insurance is nearly all done by
mutual corporations. ;

A bloodhound was put onthe trail of a*white convict
who had escaped from a gang working on the Georgia Mid-
land Railroad. The dog was afterward found manacled to a
tree with the convict’s shackles. Two new dogs were started
after him, and when they came up to him he made friends
with them, and traded them to_a negro woman for his
dinner.

There are four brothers in Middlesex County, N. J.,
who are all far beyond the average size. William Acken is
83 years old, six feet three inches in height, and weighs 250
pounds; Henry is 81, six feet four, and weighs 270; Samuel
is 79, six feet five, and weighs 225; Theodore is 73, six feet six,
and weighs 230 pounds. All are in excellent health.

Mr. H. B. Whittemore, who resides on a ranch near
Golden, Colorado, had $400 in the house, with which he ex-
pected to pay a debt. In the middle of the night he awoke
and saw a dark form gliding across the room. Thinking the
figure that of a burglar, he fired his pistol twice, and fatally
shot his own wife. :

A new advertising dodge in London is operated by
means of an instrument resembling a telescope aimed at a
star, at which the public are invited to look without charge.
Those who accept read an illuminated advertisement in the
end of theinstrument, which is not a telescope at all.

Gen. Crook, who is a philosopher as well as a soldier,
advances the proposition that “man is more or less savage,
according to the certainty with which his food may be ob-
tained.” Many besides Crook have noticed that the longer
the waiter is in coming the savager is the guest.

Frank Raff, aged eighteen, at Rockville,-Pa., made a
wager that he would eat a plate of ice-cream in a minute and .
ahalf. Hedidso. He then wagered that in the same space
of time he would eat three large ginger cakes. Before the
third cake was eaten he dropped dead. E ;

A fatal mistake was made by Garrett W. Brown, @
druggist in Anderson, Ind. Heintended to prepare a dose of
extract of dandelion, but carelessly substituted for it the fluid
extract of belladonna. The dose was for himself, and he
died of paralysis of the heart. ‘

A New Yorker recently inclosed a dollar to a Western
man who advertised that for that amount he would mail to
any one directions which would make food entirely unneces-
sary. By return mail he got the directions. They were:
“Take a dose of poison.” s

In some churches in Australia there are surpliced
choirs in which there are young women who are *habited in
surplices and mortar-board caps. They are said to look very
“stunning,” and the young men come to the services in great
force to see them. “Sid ;

A forty-year-old clock, in the possession of J: M. Means,
of Liberty, Mo., predictsrain. Just beforearain-storm,the |
bell, which is usually clear. and distinct in tone, has a sound
so dull and muffled as to be almost inaudible. =

Little Rosa Eckert, 4 years old, fell out of a third
story window, at Logansport, struck the pavement, remain-
ed unconscious for a few minutes, and than resumed her in-
terrupted play quite unharmed.

James K. Hilyard, of St. Paul, Minn., is one of the
few colored men of the world who have succeeded in rising
to the highest degree in masonry, having attained the thirt
third degree several years ago. h

Nellie Welch is the youngest telegrapher iy} *°
United States, Although she is only eleven years old”
full charge of the telegraph office at Point Arena, 1

Mr. Augustus Clark, of Syracuse, was trou, angi
corn. He applied some patent corn medicine” .
sulted, and his foot will have to be aT oi ie

A Boston lady passes much of her tir, ahs ie eine
to the wants of nine Newfoundland pups
ing up on the bottle.

Ishpenning, Mich, claims to hy “Ore Secret: soct-

 

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small hollow plaits at the back, is fastened with two rows of
smallround buttons. The boots or shoes are of the same

clicks Se weopetica tai yy ee
this country. :