“Buifalo Bill’s Last Victory; or, Dove Kye, the Lodge cen, by Ned Buntline, begins Next Week. Entered According to Aet.of Congress, un the Year 1886, by Street é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Oongress, Washington, D. C. Entered a the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Office Vol. 42. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 3! Rose St. New York, November 27, 1886. e Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. THE TWO ANGELS. BY IDA J. LEMON. I dreamed a dream as I sat in the twilight, Alone in my silent and flower-scented room, And watched the stars as they rose in heaven To hallow and brighten the evening’s gloom. I dreamed a dream in the hopeful youth-time, When life was joyous and labor was sweet, And hope seemed sure of its swift fulfillment, 70d was guiding the wandering feet. I thought that down from the peaceful heavens There floated full swiftly, that summer night, Two angel forms unto wiiere I was sitting, And flooded the darkness with golden light. And one was bright as the sun at noontide, Such radiant glory around him there streamed, His foided wings as the rainbow tinted, Ineffable love from the blue eyes beamed. But one was like to the night in beauty, His eyes were soiemn, and dark, and deep, His face was pale with the tears that bathed it ; And like a voice that is heard in sleep He spoke, so slow were the tones and hollow, And touched me once with his cool, soft hand: “Oh, child, I go; wilt thou follow, follow— To peace and rest in the silent land ?” But trembling turned I unto the other, Who murmured softly sweet words of joy ; Then gladly sank I upon his bosom, And life grew perfect, without alloy. But as he clasped me Still close and cioser, The shadow of death touched my rapture with pain, And clear his words, as he floated upward, Fell through the silence: ‘I come again.” > 2 x * * * * I dreamed a dream in the years long after, When life had proven not wholly sweet, And meeting seemed but to hasten parting, And tiiorns had wounded the weary feet. I dreamed as I sat by the open window, And watched the stars in the dim-hued skies, And yearned for the peace which had passed forever, With saddened heart and with tear-dimmed eyes, That once again through the silent darkness, The angel of death, as he came before, Swift floated unto my lonely chamber. “T come,” he whispered. I heard no more; But stretched out my hands with a weary longing, And as he clasped them I looked above, My sorrowful heart was at rest forever— For lo! Death’s face was the face of Love. ——_—__—_> @ —+—- [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] WAITING FOR HIM; THE WHITE HAND. By the Author of ‘Jennie Vail’s Mission,” ‘‘ The White Sapphire,” etc. (“WAITING FOR Him” was commenced in numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] No. 2. Back CHAPTER VI.—(CONTINUED.) Montalieu Dacre threw himself into Audley Clive’s business with so much earnestnéss, and exerted him- self so nobly to extricate him from his fearful position, that friends and enemies alike (he had more of the lat- ter, but political ones) admired his generous heroism. From first to last he devoted himself night and day to the rescue of his friend. He lavished the sympathy and respect of a brother upon him; he worked for him as no other lawyer in theland would have done in the face of such evidence as would have staggered any one. It was his fierce determination to clear the name of his friend. He said he should never have another happy hour if he failed. His fresh honorsas an M. P. were neg- lected; his political friends forgotten. Even the fair lady for whose favor he hadbeen so eager was over- looked. The day of trial came, passed, and Clive was con- victed. Everybody remarked how ghastly pale the counsel for the accused looked when the verdict wasgiven. Every. body pitied Mr. Dacre when he went and wrung the prisoner's hand as he was being taken away, and said, in an audible voice: “Pye done alll could, Audley. couldn’t do more.” iverybody admired him for the trust, misplaced as it was, that he manifested in the accused, and exalted his spotless integrity in proportion as they cried down the wickedness of the criminal. Upon the day succeeding the trial Mr. Dacre made his appearance at Stonyhurst, and was cordially welcomed by Mrs. Annandale, who haa begun to fear that he had transferred his attentions from Rosamond to the daugh- ter of Some more pushing matron. Jaded and miserably harassed looking, Montalieu Dacre entered the ladies’ presence, and instantly was questioned by pretty Rosamond. “Oh, Mr. Dacre, Where have you been ?” “In search of what I have not found, Miss Rosa- mond.” “What is that ?” “Proots of my client’s Innocence.” “Of Audiey Clive’s ?”’ She shook her fair blonde head. “You need not have expected to find any. I knew all along that jealousy had made him do it.” ‘It is the first case I ever lost,” said Dacre, gloomily ; “and the only case [ ever was personally interested in. He is convicted.” Miss Annandale, bending over a flower sketch, pencil in hand, by a buhl drawing table, raised her head, and gazed at him. “Convicted, did you say ?” asked she, slowly. “Yes, Miss Annandale, and condemned to seven years’ penal servitude.” “And you his counsel ?” Dacre stared in astonishment, as, indeed, they all did, at the strange, vibrating tone she used. “I did my very best, Miss Grace, It was Lord Vincent who supplied the chief evidence against him. The evi- one of the girl Primrose might have been set aside but ‘or him. ‘“‘What did Lord Vincent say ?” asked. Grace, whiten- Heaven help me, I ng. “He told the court that he was engaged to a lady whom he, Clive, had addressed, and by whom he had been dismissed only two days previous to the railway accident; that he, at the time, ignorant of Mr. Clive’s rejected suit, had met him in company with me at Hath- away on the following day—bad mentioned to us. both that he purposed coming up by the night train to Ash- ley Downs the night before the election, and that it had struck him Mr. Clive paid particular attention to thisin- formation. He told these circumstances to supply the only thing that was wanting—the motives for the at- tempted crime.” Miss Annandale folded and unfolded her hands over each other as if in pain. “Who put this into Lord Vincent’s head ?” demanded | said Dacre, turning away his eyes. | him, believing him innocent, but I cannot, after hear- | him. (Pade ee — at Z ip ee oe a ANS ool, ay) PUTIVITIN (oo “1 DONT WANT YOUR PITY! GO BACK TO YOUR | < . all Put A Y if 13) He TT ng f she, and her gray eyes, filled with a strange, sick dim- hess, turned on Rosamond. ‘He asked me if Clive had not wanted you to marry him, and I told him what I knew,” answered the young- er sister, gently. “You do not think an honorable man could do what Audley Clive is condemned for?” asked Grace, transfer- ring her attention to Dacre. “J have had reason to change my opinion of Clive,” “T did my best for ing his lordship’s story, believe so any longer.” “Tell me the evidence,” said Grace, still in that sharp, pained, vibrating tone, that caused her listeners to start. “T scarcely think you would be interested in all the details, Miss Grace,” said the gentleman, looking at her anxiously. ‘it is, I know, a very painful theme for you, who have unfortunately been concerned in it.” “JT do not shrink from it; why should you ?” “T had supposed, Miss Annandale, that there were reasons why a young lady of your delicate fastidious- ness——” “There are no reasons,” cried Grace, ‘‘why I should not understand your friend’s imprisonment,” and she caught up her quivering hands together as if to implore «There are the papers in which the trial is described,” said the gentleman, while a deep line planted itself be- tween his brows; ‘‘consult them if you wish to be up in the case; the subject is too painful for me.” «Where are those Pan that you speak of ?” Mr. Dacre stepped out into the hall, took them out of sey oT pocket, and returning, handed them silent- y to her. Grace sat down then and there, and still with that dumb smitten look, scanned over the “Caburn Bank Case.” Wading through the lengthy formalities and the ex- pon eoweiy speeches of the counsel, she took hold of these ‘acts: Audley Clive, the inventor. and patentee of a new method of laying rails, by which they could not be dis- placed unless by the proper key, was accused of dis- ere: the rails at Caburn Bank, which rails had been aid after his plan. Proved, that no one knew the secret of laying down the rails except the inventor and the workmen he had initiated. Proved, the hand that Miriam Primrose saw was not the hand of a workman. Proved, that his hand was the hand she saw. Witnessed by Lord Vincent that Audley Clive had mo- tives of jealousy for causing the train to be thrown over Caburn Bank. No one but the inventor could have removed the ralls by a simple iron bar; the thing could only be done by one who was intimately acquainted with the fasten- ings. Consequently Audley Clive was the man. He had tried to prove an alibi, and had failed. The man whom he said he had spoken to five miles from Caburn Bank at the time in which Miriam Primrose swore she saw the hand, was not to be found. His defense was utterly without proof to substantiate it. ‘‘A series of lame, improbable, and transparent fab- rications,” said the prosecuting attorney. Mr. Clive’s account of himself was that he and Mr. Dacre were returning from their electioneering to Ash- ley-Downs to be in time for the election. . That they stopped at Caburn Village that the candidate might hold a meeting. That Mr. Dacre left the village at nine o’clock to drive to Connleigh Ridge; having arranged that Clive should proceed to Ashley-Downs by the night train, which passed through at half past ten, That he, Clive, feeling disinclined to wait for the night train, set off walking a distance of five miles across the country to Escott, trom whence the upper-line train started at a quarter past ten. That he had met a man near the Es- cott station, to vg1om he spoke, and that if that man could be found he would bear witness to his assertion. That in consequence of having staid toolong talking to the man, he had missed the quarter past ten train, and had walked on to the next village about three miles off, from which, at twelve o’clock midnight, he started in a gig for Ashley-Downs, to be in time for the election. The story from this point appeared to be correct, the man from whom Clive hired the gig was produced, who swore to the hour, and the man. Clive, he said, seemed in great excitement, had been in his cups, he thought ; said he had missed the Escott train and muttered twice : ‘Tfit had not been for. the jade herself he would not haye come to this,” or something of that sort. His story was manifestly false from the point where he left the Caburn Hotel at nine o’clock until he hired the gig from Prance, at twelve o’clock. Circumstantial evidence was clear against him; he Was found guilty and sentenced to penal servitude for seven years. “So, in brief;'ran the report of the Caburn Bank case. Grace Annandale read it to the end, waded through its ‘legal phrases, and committed some of them to memory; weighed its arguments, and ‘noted its “hits’ against the prisoner; then she folded the paper very neatly, and very methodically, and passed out of the | room at last, from the anxious eyes of Montalieu Dacre. | paced her own gilded chamber like a caged ; She leopardess, the paper crushed hard against her bosom, her delicate nostrils quivering, her delicate brows stern and condemning. ‘Am Jinadream?” she broke forth, stopping with clenched hand like a beautiful Nemesis. ‘Is this the world I thought so beautiful, so peaceful, and so evenly balanced ? two, is condemned to sevem years of degradation ? Audley Clive a felon !” She sank down asifsmitten by the cruel truth, and wrung her hands. “He is wronged |” said the lady of ice. CHAPTER VII. A WOMAN’S. WHIM. “My dear Grace, this little freak of yours is, excuse me, rather an eccentric one to be altogether to my taste.” “Papa, papa! if the man is innocent he must not be degraded.” “That is his lookout. do with it.” “What? When we know him to be innocent ?” “But we don't, my dear.” Pale and unslept looked fair Grace Annandale, but her darkly circled eyes flashed brightly. “T cannot reason like a man, father, but I can feel like a woman. By the God of Justice, Audley Clive is wronged !” “Oh, come, come—how excited you are! [ am aston- ished, Grace, to see you take up this ground. What have we to do with the prisoner, whether he is guilty or inno- cent ?” “We have to see that justice is done to every one who is entitled to it.” “An extremely difficult task, my daughter. decline it.” «Papa, are we blocks of ice up here in our fastidious sphere? Must we see a brave man perish because he is not of us ?” “My dear, you don't understand these things. be peculiar; Vincent won't stand that very long. you your pearls set for her grace’s ball ?” “Oh, father,” said Grace, in a tainting voice, ‘‘I ask it as a boon, that you free Audley Clive!” Mr. Annandale frowned, and though the face was very genial normally, it was not genial then, “T must refuse so unreasonable a request,” said he, coldly, ‘‘on the ground that it would be in bad taste for your family to be implicated any further in that person’s affairs.” on bowed, and left her to finish the morning walk alone. Miss Annandale, not being so dutiful as she ought to have been, persisted in her freak. When Mr. Dacre arrived that evening tosee the fair Rosamond, the elder sister took him in hand. “Mr. Dacre,” said she, gently, ‘‘we must see that Clive has justice done him.” “Ah!” exclaimed the young member, opening his eyes. ‘Do you think he has no¢ had justice done him ?” “No, he has not. It-was a dastard did the deed—not Audley Clive.” We have nothing whatever to I for one Don’t Have le i What am I doing here—here in luxury, | while he, the blameless liver, and the honester of the | i qu HAPPINESS.” | Sarcastic smile crossed his mouth. “T very much fear that Clive is the man,” said he, ‘‘and that we can get no other person to fit his shoes.” “Tet us try.” ; Excuse me, Miss Annandale; I should prefer to let the matter rest. I have already endangered my profes- | Sional reputation for him. It is not pleasant to be ac- cused of collusion with such an ally.” Grace made an impassioned movement. with her ; hands. : «Every hour Iam waking up more and more. This is | not the world I have been dreaming in all my life. This jis a false, a cruel, a selfish world. Oh! will no one | help me ?” | “My dear young lady——” | “Yet he is innocent, and it is our duty, were he the | voiced. | most insignificant of God’s creatures——” 3 ‘You will find no one save yourself to believe that aoe “Oh, I needed this to Shake me out of my aimless and ' thankless ease! These idle hands”—and she held them out, pale and lovely as the glittering pinions of an ; angel—‘‘these idle hands shall be idle no longer. I will rescue him myself!” “Miss Annandale, this extraordinary resolve can lead But Mr. Dacre paused there, for she was gone. Later that evening, when Rosamond sought Grace, _ irradiated with joy. to tell her that Dacre had spoken | | | colored satin curtains shaded the light; and cotiches of the shape of dragons crouched under the curtains. If a constant study of all that is fairest in art could purify and ennoble the soul, Grace Annandale should have been a very Manon Roland for polished nobleness. She sat at her desk, where a gleam of the morning sun | fell blandly upon her pure, troubled face, and wrote that | drew his which ever and anon she tore up impatiently, and pon- dered out anew. She was for the third time glancing over her work sina a dissatisfied air, when a servant brought her a card. She rose, with a sudden, deep blush, and stood wait- ing until Lord Vincent had entered. “T wished for you, and you came,” murmured she, as he bestowed a delicate caress upon her hand. My lord bowed complacently. It was very nice to be necessary to such a fiancee as this. “Engaged with the muses? Want my humble aid?’ “I want your aid, though not in the cause of art, this oe I have discovered something nobler for you to O,”” “Thanks. I appreciate the honor.” He took possession of a satin divan, and as usual lazily londe mustache through his fingors. He liked this unique sanctum very well; she looked divine here. . 1p fact, she was most in her sphere when sur- rounded by the creme de la creme inanimate. “It is something,” pursued Miss Annandale, nervously, ‘that you may possibly object to.” “Impossible, if proposed by you.” She gravely acknowledged this compliment and lifted | the sheet of note paper upon which she had been writing. “TI shall read you what I ‘“‘My DEAR GERAINT—— ‘Hallo! You were writing to me.” ‘* «“Eyery man Sack of ’em,” answered the captain, in his natural voice, which was a rousing one. “In the dark ?” rfiuttered she, with knitted brows. “Good Lord, ma’am, thieves and murderers love the darkness, because their deeds are evil,” said Captain Hurly, and burst out laughing at his felicitous joke. Miss Annandale gasped as if an east wind had taken away her breath. : She never met with this in her own silver sphere. They stopped before No. 107, and the turnkey who ac- companied them unlocked the narrow iron door, and pushed it open. “Come, my man,” called the governor, cheerily. “Wake up! Here’s your triend come tosee you.” The cell gaped before her, dim and narrow, almost as the narrow door, and out of it leaned aface with eager eyes. “Ts that mother,” asked a tender voice. Captain Hurly marched off, leaving his turnkey to keep watch at a distance, which he did, chatting mean- time with the groom. . ’ Grace came out of the shadow, and stood trembling in the gray light. “It is I," she murmured, piteously, and surely in the gray light her slender hands were wrung together as she spoke. The man started, looked at her a moment in astonish- ment, and then turned his back. The cell was so narrow that he could have touched the walls on either side with his hands, and it contained nothing but a stool, a mattress and blanket doubled up at the farther end, a shelf, and a peg. Pte are you here?” asked Clive, in a low, dogged voice. “Because I want to—to do you some gvood—to make amends if I can—that is, if you will allow me.” “Miss Annandale, I don’t want your pity. Go back to your happiness.” The hard voice, the hard words smote her very heart. She had never been so spoken to in her life before. She 26 never known how hard a blow harsh words can give. She recalled her own words to Audley Clive when he had honestly sued for her love, and wondered at her own cruelty, since words can cut so deep. “Oh, Mr, Clive !” she said. faintly. “Tm not an edifying subject for you to try your hand on,” sneered he. ‘Better leave the jail-birds alone, Miss Annandale, and oup to old women, if you want to do the charitabl “You are not a—a jail bird,” faltered Grace, taking ee nety upon her lips. “What else am 1? Oh, my fine butterfiy, I thought you haughty and heedless enough. but Heaven knows I _ Mever believed you heartless until this day. Move back, I shut my own prison-door !” erly he waved her from him and pushed at the door; and she, with both pale hands outspread, t him, and thrust her sweet head into that loomy place, weeping bitterly. «Don't drive me away,” moaned Grace; ‘let me help —let me help you!” «What can you do ?” asked the man, with a gulp; and he stood back from the door, that he might gaze upon pallid, tear-blighted face. «You are innocent.” “Oh, Heaven! do you believe that ?” “Your God has told me that you are.” Silence, while the man gazed upon that shining visage, breathing heavily. “You must tell me howI can free you,” continued Miss Annandale, softly. ‘I have read the trial all over, but I can’t understand very well unless you help me. I am only a girl, you know.” “What could yow do, Miss Annandale ?” said the man’s unsteady voice. ‘You don’t dream of an escape out of here, I hope ?” with a scoffing glance at the iron doors. “No; but since you are innocent, and since I know it, there are two friends for you—your innocence and—and me, if you will allow me—and that is not so bad as hav- ing none.” “Innocence and Grace Annandale! Well, after this, ty always think of the two together. Now, lady, you’d tter go away, for your fine eyes were not made for . I take your sympathy, and thank you «Don’t send me away, please, until we have arranged how you are to have justice done you. Oh. Mr. Clive, if you would only believe that my heart is bleeding for you as if you were my brother!” « “Bless her, she is crying! Madam, I’m not your brother, nor within hailing distance of you, as you were pl to remind me, when I asked you for your love. You me that, and Ican’t relish being your protegee, now that I’m a jail bird.” “Not that—oh, do not say that! right to this cell than like it or not, sir.” 9 “You'll not find much entertainment inthe job. We're a@ melancholy lot, we convicts.” - Her dark, solemn eyes closed for a moment; a sort of shudder ran over her. “[ deserve these sneers,” said she, humbly. ‘I have been proud and sefish all my lite. My hands, which _ God filled with gifts, have been useless andidle. I re- on you with scorn; when I should have honored the ve I could not accept; and now you can bring it home to me. I deserve these sneers.” ‘ “No, you don’t!” cried the prisoner, suddenly, and utterly melted. ‘‘You are an angel—an angel, my dear !” And he dropped upon the stool, and, covering his face, shook with sobs. She did not venture near him, but, standing against the cold iron door, looked at him—looked at him through tears, and with her heart in her eyes—looked at him as if she would draw all the pain and degradation out of the poor convict sitting there, and fill him with hope and comfort. .. Then, when nothing had been heard for a while but the man’s choking gasps, and the lady’s low sighs, and -the lonely tramp of a distant turnkey down the stone corridor, he looked up, calmed asif her eyes had done all they wished, and began to talk on the subject she was so anxious about. He told her exactly how he had spent the night of the attempted crime—said that her rejection having ran- kled in his mind, he was fevered and wretched—that knowing Lord Vincent was to be on the night train, he could not run the risk of meeting him lest he should quarrel with him; so he walked the five miles to the upper line at Escott to come by the train there, rather than “make a fool of himself,” as he phrased it—that he met aman just outsidethe Escott station in a lull of the thunder-storm at a quarter past ten, to whom he talked some time. “And, oh, Lord!” said poor Clive, ‘‘if they had found oan chap to put in the witness-box I wouldn't be ere 1” “Perhaps we'll find him yet,” said Grace, brightly. «Where there’s a will there’s a way.” “Dacre looked for him, my angel. Dacre, before he turned against me to believe with the rest, raked the country for him. You needn’t go after Dacre.” “What was he like ?” “He was a little flabby-faced fellow, with a sandy goatee, and a limp.” “Did he tell you his name ?” “No. He seemed a little bit fuddled, and told me with a@ wink, that he was ‘on the loose,’ and that Ashley- Downs could make its own irons for one bout.” «What did he mean ?” asked Grace, awe-stricken. “There, yowre pale and I’ve frightened you! Dear, sweet, good lady, go away; you're not fit for this mud, that you are desirous of probing!” “I am fit! Tell me what Dacre said of it ?” «All Dacre could make out of that was that like man had escaped from some prison, and to mislead me, had mentioned Ashley-Downs. All the prisons about were applied to, in case any of their inmates had lately escaped, but to no purpose.” ‘“‘What more did the man say ?” «He asked me what time it was, and I struck a match and looked at my watch. That’s how I could tell so ex- actly that it was a quarter-past ten—the very time that rl swore to seeing my hand sticking through her fence. fter that he told me he had nearly been struck by a ftiash of lightning a few minutes before, and wanted me to go back with him to a place where he said he had seen the ‘ball of fire’ tearing up the grass. It was while rah to his rigmarole that the train moved off with- out me.” ; “Don't you think,” asked Grace, after a pause, “he ight have been a blacksmith,?” Why ?” “He said ‘Ashley-Downs may make its own. irons.’ That may not be prison irons, youknow. You say Mr. Dacre has gone in search on the supposition that he was an escaped felon. I think I shall go in search on the supposition that he is a blacksmith belonging to Ash- ley-Downs, who lad stolen away from his work to—to be dissipated.” ; “Yowll goin search! Don’t do it, Miss Annandale, unless the lord you’re going to marry goes with you to ward off the smut.” “Tt shall be done,” said she, half sadly; ‘‘and in the meanwhile, good-by, Mr. Clive.” She held out her hand in the deep dusk. “Good-by, lady,” returned the convict, in a smothered voice; ‘but you must not hold out that little shining hand to me.” “Oh, Mr. Clive, are you so unforgiving ?” “I’m forgiving enough. I want to take that sweet hand and arm, and snatch you all to my heart, and hold ou here, cell and all, for seven years. There, call me a ute, my angel, and go away.” She called him nothing, but she went away with a crimson face and tears in her eyes. AS she passed through the horrible place, between the black jail doors, set up like tall coffins, and the grim jail windows, dead as the doors of a vault, she thought with a shudder of her two lovers, as she had last seen them. The one, lazy, polished, elegant, drawling compliments across her mother-of-pearl work-table ; with a background of moss-green satin, and a fore- und of statuettes and porcelain fiower-jars. The other, despairing, wronged, degraded, flinging passion- ate scorn and passionate love upon her who had wrapped him inthe lurid storm ofruin, with a back- ground of white stone wall, figured over with the auto- he of thieves and murderers, and a Pear un of @ narrow iron door which shut him in, and showed Ho wont lock all the name society allowed him now— 0. the (TO BE CONTINUED.) ae Oe Prince Nicholas Tsherbatov, Flag Lieutenant pr sea Russian Navy, in speaking efficiency of the Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic, says: most excellent tonic.” Edwin Booth says: “It did me much .” General Franz Sigel says: ‘It benefited me very enh Invaluable in debility, dyspepsia, biliousness, sick eadache, of the Itis You have no more | Iwill help you, whether you ARLEPTE. The day is spent, and fields, new shorn, Are bright with fading sheen : Like blossoms left behind the corn, The maidens come and glean. Blue eyes and floating locks of gold Have caught you in their net; You smile and call me strange and cold You never knew Arlette. I met her when this life of mine Had turned from sweet to sour; There was no sparkle in the wine, No bloom upan the flower. I roamed away to bear alone The stings of vain regret ; The grain was gone, the reapers flown, When first I found Arlette. The glamour of the ‘‘sunny South” About her beauty lies ; A mellow cheek, a scarlet mouth, And dark, beseeching eyes; A daughter of the soil, as sweet AS Summer buds dew wet ; No trait of our town-bred deceit Has ever touched Arlette. With half her charms some girls might win A fashionable fame ; How came she with that Southern skin And soft old Norman name ? We talked, I questioned, she replied, Till I forgot my fret; For bitter thoughts and angry pride All fled before Arlette. How ends the tale? To your surprise There is no end to tell! IT left no tears in those dark eyes, Although I loved them well. Her picture hangs within my brain, Fresh and unsullied yet; No empty vows of mine shall pain The heart of true Arlette. But when my harvest field appears AS bare as it can be, She comes, and finds some golden ears Of life’s good grain for me. My old belief in truth and trust She brings back sometimes yet: You smile again: ah, well, you must ; You never knew Arlette. e > (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] THE Old Detectives Pupi OR, THE ‘Mysterious Grime 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 XLII. INTERESTING QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. “Well,” said Nick, “She’s gone-—that is certain; but it need not interfere with our bargain. Do, in good faith, all you promised, and I will keep my promise.” “T am ready,” said Mrs. Gilbert, with an alacrity that indicated to Nick that she had not expected him to keep to the agreement now that he had discovered Ethel's absence. © “Tell me then,” he said, ‘‘what you know about Mrs. Waldron’s relations with Mrs. Livingston.” _ ‘ «Well, I don’t know much about that. I was never trusted. All I know I overheard unknown to them.” -“But you must know how Mrs. Livingston comes to be mixed up in this affair.” “J know this much, that Mrs. Livingston is in Mrs. Waldron’s power, because when both were young Mrs. Livingston murdered a child that was born to her. ; that sHe has Sworn nestedet-up disgraced and outlawed woman.” “How does your husband come to bein with Mrs. Waldron ?” “He and Billy Desmond—Mrs. Waldron’s real name is Desmond—met while both were serving a term in Sing Sing. When they got out they worked together. — husband is wonderfully smart, and he would plans while Billy and Dave executed them. was an old pal of Billy’s. .1 suppose Mrs. Waldron saw how smart my husband was, and so she let him into this thing. All she wanted was revenge; but the rest are working for money.” «“‘How about Mansfield ?” “He’s Mrs. Waldron’s son.” «And Ethel ?” “Mrs. Livingston’s daughter.” “What ?” “Mrs. Livingston’s daughter. The missing girl, Mabel, is not her daughter at all.” “Who is she ?” «A foundling. Mrs. Waldron stole the real baby, and put Mabel in her place. Mrs. Livingston knew it but did not dare tell of it.” ; «What did Mrs. Waldron do with Ethel ?” “Brought her up, intending to make her a shame and a disgrace to her mother; but she could never corrupt er.” “What did you propose to Mrs. Livingston ?” Mrs. Gilbert hesitated. “You are not going to stop now ?” ; “No,” she said. “{ might as welltellall. I told her I would restore both her daughters, the real and the false, make her enemies give up damaging letters, and either have them sent out of the country or effectually silenced in some other way satisfactory to her.” “And you were to do ali this before receiving the money ?” “Yes” “May I ask how ?” A cunning smile passed over the woman’s face. “Mrs. Livingston insisted that nothing wrong should be done to save her.” SSWeLP?. “T agreed to that, but said thatin that case she must pay me the money just the same no matter who seemed to be the one who saved her, so long as the result was her safety. She agreed that no matter who did it she would give me the pitas 8 the day all of my promises “ ae no matter how it came about.” “Well 2” “Well, my plan was to do exactly as Iam doing now, only I hoped to have first got a promise from Ethel. I was going to tell you everything.” “But how would that accomplish everything you promised ?” “Why, I knew from what I had heard that it was be- lieved you had the only damaging letter,and that you had Mabelin sate keeping. Then 1 was sure that the mo- ment you knew enough you could clap the whole lot in jail for other crimes, or more likely, scare them all out the arte “H’m! You made a very nice calculation. Do you know what the plotters suspect as the cause of Mabel’s flight from home ?” “Mrs. Waldron was with Mrs. Livingston that day, talking with her about the affair, and threatening her, and it is suspected that Mabel overheard the conversa- tion, and learned both that she was not Mrs. Living- ston’s daughter, and that Mrs. L. was a murderess. The original plan was to make Mabel marry Mansfield, and so get a better chance at the banker’s money. All these things coming to the girl’s ears might easily drive her from home.” “T should think so. taken ?” “T don’t know, except that Mrs. Waldron did it.” “And the house at High Bridge ?” “TJ don’t know anything about it.” “How can | find you to pay you the money ?” “T will be here. You will keep faith, then ?” “So what you have told me is true.” “Itis true. At any rate, I haven't tried to deceive you. Jam honest.” How was that hundred thousand CHAPTER XLIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. Nick knew there were many truths in what Mrs. Gilbert had told him, but he had no means of knowing how much falsehood was mixed with them. He admitted that her story would explain many of the acts committed, but why might not the story be con- cocted with that very end ih view ? He returned to New York, determined to use the in- | formation as the basis of investigation, but to believe | only as much of it as he could prove. | The accusation that Mrs. Livingston had killed her in- ; fant was unfortunately borne out by the letter in his | possession. | Or, if she had not killed it, she had seemed to charge ! sang pes with the bloody task, and that was quite as bad. | As for the part about Ethel and Mabel—well, he would | not think much about that yet. He could not get rid of the uncomfortable impression | Ethel’s letter had made.on him. 4 Nevertheless, he would not permit himself to doubt | Ethel yet. His first act on reaching the city was to go to Station D and see if there was any letter for him, “} also know that, Mrs. Waldron hates her so much ersuntil-sne-ig alg 2h g ae her very first act would be to write to that post- Oifice. The delivery, however, was closed when he reached there, and he had no choice but to wait impatiently un- til morning. He was at the delivery window the next morning as soon as it was opened. To his surprise, it must be confessed, there was hand- ed to him a letter in the unmistakable handwriting which in spite of his gloomy suspicions sent a thrill through him. ; ; The letter was very short. Itran: “DEAR Mr. JOHNSON:—I am at Mrs. Ross’ again. Please come to me as soon as possible. ETHEL.” He read it and shook his head sadly. Three things he had noticed. The letter was dated the previous day ; the postmark on the envelope was dated also that day 6:30 P. M.; the letter was written in ink at least forty-eight hours dry. If Ethel was in Philadelphia shortly before four o’clock yesterday, she could not have reached New York, gone to High Bridge and got a letter to station D by 6:30 the Same afternoon. However, he thrust logic and suspicion one side and took the cars for High Bridge. | Inashort time he was for the second time ringing Ross’ bell. Hannah opened the door. She did not recognize Nick. ‘Is Miss Ethel Waldron here 2” he asked. «Who wants her ?” Little Mrs. Ross primed with suspicion asked_ the question. “Ido. Iam Mr. Johnson.” “Go about your business, sir,” cried the good little woman, indignantly. ‘I happen to know Mr. Johnson.” “Tam the same man, madam, who came to see Miss Ethel before. I was disguised then. Here is Miss Ethel’s letter to me.” ‘‘Maybe you are Mr. Johnson,” said she,"“‘but how’s a body to tell? But that’s no great consequence now, anyhow, for she’s gone.” “Gone! ‘Then she has been here 2?” “Yes, sir, she arrived here from Philadelphia a little after seven o’clock last night. She expected you all the evening and when you didn’t come she could hardly sleep ali night. She said she was afraid you might have been killed, and so she went away early this morning to look for you.” ; : Poor Nick! He said ‘‘Thank you,” and turned away -with a heavy heart. He went down town again brooding all the way on the infatuation with which he clung to Ethel in spite of every fresh proof of her perfidy. : ; What her object could be in sending him on so man fools’ errands he was unable to guess. But he would think ot her no more. There was an- other way to bring the case to a successful end now, and he would employ that forthwith. He hastened to Union square, reaching ther€ in time to keep his appointment with Kitty. «Well, Kitty, what news to-day,” he cried. “Not so very much, sir, but a little.” “Ah! Well, let’s have it.” “Mrs. Livingston got home last night about half-past eight. She looked so bright and cheerful that Mr. Liv- ingston seemed to wonder at it, and asked her if she had any good news ? “She said no, but that she had a feeling somehow that Mabel would be found soon, and she could not help feel- ing cheered. ; “He said he wished he could get some such comfort from his hopes. “That was all of that; but this: morning she said to him in a careless sort of way: , “4 ‘On, Gerald! has the new cashier taken his place ‘i *« ‘No,’ he answered, ‘‘but I expect ay.’ ‘* T should think a foreigner would a native for that place,’ she said. “He looked at her in a surprised sort an: a « ‘Why, Gertrude, I thought you——’ - .. ‘Oh, yes, I know,’ she interrupted, ‘bd y always whimsical, and I have heen so mueh troubled lately, Gerald, dear. I wish you would make some ex- cuse to put the young man off for two or three days, will you? I will tell you my reason then.’ “Mr. Livingston looked still more surprised, but he is so eo. his wife that he’d do anything for her, so he only said : : « «Very well. Gertrude ; but you know I need a cashier very much. Young Lane is filling his own and that posi: tion too, now, and itis uch work for him.’ «*T won’t interfere | , Gerald,’ she said, and then she kissed him ; something I haven’t seen her do before since this trouble came, though I hadn’t thought of it. Why, What’s the matter?” Nick, pale as a ghost, had suddenly started up from the bench they had been sitting on. and was Staring wildly across toward the Fourth avenue side ot the ark, i x “Oh, heavens! Can it be,” he murmured. Then turning to Kitty, oe n an agitated voice : “I must go now—excuse 3 “Oh, you age ill!” ee yale cried, clenching der ro 0 ie “No, no. fists fiercely as if to ee am well; buy you no ome. , ; Kitty wonderingly left him, and he, still with his eyes toward Fourth avenue, walked ra in that direction. His gaze was fixed on a couple—a map and a woman— Lab had just crossed Fourth avenue and entered the ark. “ii Nick, without any caution, wa was close behind the pair. y ; «7 will, Ethel ; indeed I will,” the man replied. The man was Mansfield. Nick could stand it no longer. He sprang savagely forward, thrust the young man aside, aud in a voice hoarse with passion, exclaimed : 4 «Ethel Waldron !” She turned, uttering a low cry. The two stood face to face. CHAPTER XLIyY. EXPLANATION. Mr. Johnson !” : There was ajoyous eagerness in Ethel’s voice, and radiant happiness in her face, as, after the first excla- mation of terror, a look of recognition passed over her features. “Oh, Iam so glad I’ve found you!” There was such a winning sweetness in her manner that Nick needed all his seli-control to enable him to answer coldly : “T am glad to have met you, even though the meeting was accidental.” An expression of amazement. and pain sprang into Ethel's eyes, and a deep flush overspread her counte- nance. “Why do you say accidental?” she asked. my letter that I would be here at ten o’clock.” “Which letter ?” cried Nick, with scornful irony. Ethel looked. at him wonderingly for a moment, and there was a plaintive quiver of the red lower lip as she asked, with child-like simplicity : ‘‘Have I done anything wrong, Mr. Johnson ?” “You are better able than I to judge of that, Miss Ethel,” answered Nick, sadly. ‘I have retused to be- lieve anything against you until now, when I see you with that man whom you, as wellas I, know to be a miserable scoundrel, talking to him, too, in a tone of tamiliarity and affection which certainly argues very little dislike for him.” “Oh, if thatis all, Mr. Johnson,” said Ethel, witha sigh of relief, and Nick indignantly thought, with a twinkle of mischief in her innocent blue eyes, ‘I think we can be triends yet.” She put out her daintily gloved little hand, and said, demurely : “Affection and familiarity cannot be wrong toward a brother.” Nick drew back coldly, refusing the proffered hand. *T have yet to learn that he is your brother..” Ethel flushed indignantly, and said, with an air of of- fended pride : “You are unreasonably unjust to me, Mr, Johnson. You condemn me.” But there she suddenly looked up at him in lier most guileless and child-like manner, and said, sweetly: “I can’t afford to lose my only triend. I will explain to you, as humbly asif I had been really guilty, and then you will explain to me, and it will be all right.’ Who could have resisted her? At least Nick could not be harsh. He said, kindly : “I am willing to explain.” “Oh, but I must first. It was not quite true when I said Harry was my brother; but then I always thought he was until just lately. I wouldn’t have spoken so kind- ly; though, only he had just promised me he would tell you all about the wicked plot. You will, too, won’t you, Harry ?” “Yes,” said Mansfield. But he still kept at the same respectful distance from the angry young detective, who had turned upon him a threatening glance. “Tam ready to expose everything, and,” he added, with a deprecatory smile, ‘I think I can explain what seems so strange in your conduct to Mr. Johnson.” “No doubt,” said Nick, shortly. “But,” went on Mansfield, giancing uneasily around, ‘my life is in danger every moment I stand here.” “You are hardly worth the killing, 1 think,” said Nick, scornfully. , Mansfield looked helplessly at Ethel. She looked anxiously at Nick a moment, and then said decidedly : ‘Harry is right, Mr. Johnson, whether you believe it or not. Take us to some place where he will be safe, and then he can tell you what be has to say. It you will persist in believing evil of me,” she indignantly brushed a tear away, “I cannot help it. But, for the sake of in- nocent people, you ought to listen to what he has to say.’ Nick was moved, in spite of all his resolution. He turned to Mansfield. “Walk ahead of us to University place, left-hand side. I will tell you when you reach the right door.” Mansfield did as directed, and Ethel took her place at. Nick’s side, timidly looking up at-his stern face, They walked silently for a few paces; then Ethel said falteringly : ‘You are very cruel to me.” Nick looked into the upturned face, saw a big tear on the long eyelashes, a pleading look in the blue eyes, “Tf said in - He argued that if Ethel had come to New York to find he it iy 4 iked right on until “he | *° make “Oh, Harry,” he heard her say, affectionately, “do it | | for my sake. I wish you would.” * * and a pathetic trembling of the full, red lip, and groaned : “Oh, Ethel, Ethel, it is you who have been cruel. Iam not afraid to tell you., You saved my lite and made me love you. You made me trust you as I would an angel from heaven; and then you played with me. Iran after 7 from place to place, holding my life cheap for your sake. set my blood on fire. spoke ill ot you. I have persisted in trusting you, and find myself exposing my weakness to your secret scorn. Well, 1 have told you, but it is over now.” Ethel’s face changed from crimson to white, and back again wy crimson, aS Nick made his frank and vehement avowal. t Her face was cast down, and she was sobbing when he finished. : ‘‘Mr. Johnson,” she began. “Don’t mock me!” interrupted Nick, savagely. name is not Johnson!” “I don’t know any other,” she said, meekly. “It is not, necessary that you should.” There was a short Silence, and then Ethel spoke again : ae there be any harm, sir, if I tried to justify my- self ?” “My Nick looked down, and was sure he caught a smile lurking around the lips that had but a moment before been quivering so pathetically. He angrily crushed back the feeling of pity that had almost risen to life in his breast, and answered: “Tt would be useless.” “But, sir,” would not mind if I tried ?” “JT cannot prevent you from talking.” should really be innocent, would it not be only fair to let me justify myselt ?” “Oh, yes !”—very slowly. “And,” she went on, with wonderful meekness, ‘‘would ié not help matters a very little bit to mention some of the things that need justifying ?” “particularly as what I shall doin the future is hardly likely to afford any gratification even to you. You did save my life.” , “Shall I justify that ?” “No, but you may regret it, if you wish.” “Not yet; but please tell me what Iam to justify.” ‘Tf you will let me, I will.” And Nick, in a very concise manner, laid out before Ethel all that he had learned about her, and why he most suspected her good faith. When he was through she gave a ishment. and exclaimed: «Well, if you had not put it so clearly before me, sir, I could never have known what a hardened wretch one of my age could be. Look mestraight in the eyes.” She stopped him right there. and with an impetuous toss of the head, looked indignantly up at him. They were on University place, where, fortunately, there were few people to notice them. “Now, sir, tell me, are you not ashamed to suspect me of any one of those dreadful things? I am ashamed for you. I will not justify myself. Love me!” There was a world of scornin the exclamation, and a great deal of dignity in the way Ethel turned and walked on after Manstield. Nick was terribly puzzled. His heart and his feelings pulled him one way, and his judgment the other. She said she could explain, why didn’t she do it then, instead of seeming to scorn doing so ? Nothing more was said by either until Nick cated to Mansfield the house. ae “Next to the top floor,” said Nick, briefly, as they came up to Mansfield. ; When they were in his rooms, Nick pointed out chairs, and speaking to the young man, said sternly : cuca as brief as possible. I know what you are going say.” «You cannot know that, else——” «Perhaps I had better convince you. Are you not go- ing to tell me that Mrs. Livingston isin Mrs. Waldron’s power because the former is practically guilty of the murder of her child ?” Mansfield started. ‘And are you not going to say that Mabel is not Mrs. Livingston’s child ?” Again a start of surprise. «And that Ethel Waldron is ?” “No, Iam not going to say that. “What ?” from Nick. And from Ethel : “Oh, but, Harry, I heard mother—that is, Mrs. Wal- dron—say I was.” wrarites 4 «But you are not; that story was made up to impose on both you and Mrs. Livingston.” ex “Then I am your sister, after a There was so much dismay Mansfield bit his lip, and Nick young girl. ’ ’ “No, you're not,” said M know who you are; only mother, neither is Mrs. Livin “Well, never mind that,” me why you have sudden want to give wp your comp “You are wfong to ak in t warmly. “You ought to be willing to help Harry re- form instead of taunting him.” Nick smiled, and looked sarcastically at Ethel. he turned, and said: “JT guess Harry and I understand each other too well y pretense of virtue, don’t we ?” sé we do,” was the sulky answer. n, out with it.” what I've got to tell you, since you know little gasp of aston- as Ethel is not,” . exclamation that quickly at the ‘suikily. Nick, quickly. ” Then | as you can the whole history of “Well, mother has alwa at eC. just as briefly , Livingston for at letter you “Well, even then she hated 1 ingston’s—Mrs. Dalton she was t ae “She waS married to Dalton, then ?” “Yes. You knew about that, too?” “Mostly, yes; but goon. Where was Dalton ?” “Dead. There had been a secret marriage, and when Dalton died it seems mother made Mrs. Dalton think the marriage was a mock one. in some asylum. “Then, after a while, Mrs. Dalton married Mr. Living- ston, and then she wrote that note asking mother not to let the child live to rise up a witness against her. “What she meant was not,to let the child ever know who her mother was. “In the meantime the child had died, but mother pre- was to kill the child and that she had actually caused the child’s death. husband, and so she is in her present scrape. “For you see-there is the letter against her to prove that she was at heart a murderess, and it would prove it. too, spite of anything she could say, don’t you see ?’s “She was furious when mother went to her, saying she had killed the child, and then she was horror- stricken when mother showed by her letter that there could be but that one meaning. “That is why she has given in so easily. She feels as if she were in reality guilty of the child’s death. «After that mother and Mrs, Livingston had nothing to do with each other until Mrs. Livingston’s second child was born. “Mr. Livingston was in. Europe at the time, and mother contrived to see Mrs. Livingston. “She carried a young baby under her cloak, dosed to make it sleep, and right before Mrs. Livingston’s eyes changed the children, threatening to charge that she was a murderess if she made any outcry. “That child died too; perhaps mother helped it; but anyhow Ethel isn’t the one. Mother has said so. ‘] think. mother hoped she had. ruined Mrs. Living- ston’s life, and it made her furious to see that, spite of everything, she was happy. “Then she decided on this plot. “She would have tried it sooner, only she was caught in some counterfeit money scheme and was sent up. That’s when you were sent away to boarding-school, Ethel. “When she came out, she got mixed up with Gilbert, and took him into her confidence, and when they had things fixed to suit them they began. “Shall I tell you all we’ve done ?” “No, I know that; but I want some explanations. Why did you and Ethel goto the bank to change the thousand-dollar bill ?” Mansfield looked hesitatingly at Ethel. “Go on,” she said. ‘‘I know it is something wicked, but I forgive you.” «Well, we were upset by Mabel running away, for part of the plot was tor me to marry her. “There were several reasons for taking the money. We wanted it; Gilbert said we could mix Mrg. Living- ston up with us by making her help us take it; and then the plan was to throw suspicion on Moreland so as to get him out of the way.” «How did you know the money was there ?” “Dave found it out while he was spying around.” “How did you get Mrs. Livingston to help you ?” ‘‘Mother went to her and threatened her. She said she didn’t know the combination, Mother said she must find it out from her husband. She was so savage that finally Mrs. Livingston admitted she had it in her own safe.” ~ “Go on about Mabel,” «Well, as soon as we found she was gone, and that Mr. Livingston had hired old Sim Carter, Gilbert got up ascheme to divert suspicion, for he was afraid of the old man’s shrewdness. And he was right, as it turned out, “1 had already been studying up Moreland, but it was necessary for some one to do Mabel. “Gilbert said Ethel must do it. “We told him she wouldn’t; for though I guess she suspected from the secret doors and electric bells and everything else, that something wrong was going on, she had no suspicion of the real facts, and was, indeed, as innocent as a child. «Gilbert, however, is like Satan for plans. He said it could all be done without Ethel knowing what she was doing, and so it was. “We got a picture of Mabel, and I showed it to Ethel, telling her she was my sweetheart. «Ethel was delighted, and wanted to know all about The mere mention of your name was enough to | I did not believe them when they | even when I have sworn to put you out of my heart, I | with an emphasis on the sir, to show she | was not forgetting that she did not know his name, “you | “But suppose, just by way of a wild fancy, “that 1 | “JT willdo my best to amuse you,’ said Nick, coldly, | had indi- 5 “IT don’t | on is not your | “Tell | € so virtuous as to | panions. speak in that way, sir,” said Ethel, | ; When Mrs. Liv- So that when the child | was born Mrs. Dalton got mother to take it away to put | tended that she understood the letter to mean that she | “Mrs. Livingston is perfectly innocent from the start, | but she kept the secret of her first marriage trom her | VOL, 42—No. 4. her. I told her all sorts of things, and finally said I would like to introduce the two to each other. ‘Ethel was ready in a moment, and J pretended to be going to take her, when I suddenly exclaimed that Mabel knew Ethel was an actress and was delighted about such things, but couldn’t believe that disguises could be as perfect as I said Ethel’s was. “Little by little I persuaded Ethel to try if she could make herself exactly like Mabel. “T had everything ready, and explained that fact by saying I had taken the things to be cleaned. “Gilbert in the meantime had discovered where Sim Carter’s bank was, thinking the old man would first hunt up the bills. ‘IT then got up my disguise, and Ethel and I started out as she thought to play a joke on Mabel. «When we were near your bank I pretended to sud- denly remember that mother had wanted a thousand dollar bill changed. I easily peruaded Ethel to do it. “Then we gotin a hack, which Dave drove, and went up to Gilbert's house on Forty-third street, where I pre- tended Mabel lived. “Of course Mabel wasn’t in, and we drove down town again. ‘Billy Desmond had been posted by Gilbert to report to me that old Sim was in the bank, and would prob- ably go to Livingston’s bank to question Moreland. Gilbert is awfully keen. “Of course Billy only whispered that to me, and told me how else I was to do, “cA little later I pretended to be terribly alarmed be- cause Mabel’s father was following us. “I told her she must save Mabel from disgrace by getting out and running away. “She’s so awfully good she’d do anything to help any- | body, so she did just asI told her to, and mighty near | the oid man was to nabbing her. ‘Fortunately she ran up the stairs of the first house, ee eoter who had been on the look out, was waiting for her. ; nA “You know, I suppose, how the old man discovered the secret door ?” Yes,’ answered Nick, sternly, foully murdered atterward.” “Oh!” cried Ethel. who had been listening with an ex- pression of horrified interest to all this, ‘then you-are “Mr. Johnson,”’ interposed Nick, quickly. “Why, you said—oh, yes.” Ethel seemed to suddenly understand. {TO BE CONTINUED.} “and how he was >~e~< [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ] WIFE AND WIDOW The Bride of the Alps By LUCKY RANDALL COMFORT, Author ot “Twice an Heiress.” “The Widowed Bride,” etc. j [“Wife and Widow” was commenced in No, 42. Back num- | bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XLI. AN UNEXPECTED APPARITION. “Who are you?” savagely cried out Lord St. Manfred, as Leonard Stuart advanced into the room, his eyes fixed with a sort of stern, pitiless-reproach ‘on Cerita’s face, “Zam the husband of that woman!” was the slowly uttered answer. ‘If youcareto know moreI am ade- ceived, heart-broken dupe! And you may rejoice from the bottom of your heart, Lord St. Manfred, that I am here in time to prevent you from sharing alot as miser- able as my own.” “The man is crazy,” said Lord Severncliff. * «Take him away, somebody. Thatisright, Mrs. Fortescue Ray- mond; sprinkle a little eau de cologne over her forehead, She will come too presently. A fainting fitis nothing very unusual, and one can hardly blame the young lady for being terrified by so abrupt an intrusion.’.” Captain Stuart turned calmly toward the aged mar- uis. 7 “You have forgotten me, my Lord Severncliff,” he said. ‘Iam Captain Leonard Stuart, of her Majesty’s th Artillery, and Ihave more than once had the pleasure of meeting youin the drawing-rooms of Lon- | don society. AS a soldier andasa gentleman, 1 must request you to assume a different tone toward me;_ ‘3 The marquis had put up his eye-glass, and was star- ing intently toward the new-comer. “Ah—ah!” he muttered, as asort of light seemed to break in upon his brain. ‘I do remember Leonard Stuart—old Stuarts’s son, of Russetlands. To be sure— to be sure! Pray be seated, Captain Stuart; and any explanation that you think fit to offer for this very sin- gular intrusion——” ok “The explanation is simple enough,” said Stuart. ‘I heard that my wife was about to be married to your nephew, the Viscount St. Manfred. One does not con- template such a very peculiar complication of af- fairs as this without some little natural effort to save an honorable gentleman trom being disgraced, 2 woman from the crime ot bigamy !” “Js this true ?” gasped Lord St. Manfred, advancing a step or two toward Captain Stuart. ‘Can you prove it? | Or, by the heaven that is aboye us both, you shall pay | dearly for every libelous word that you dare to utter!” “You speak violently, Lord St. Manfred,” said Stuart, slowly, ‘‘but I, who know the provocation, can pardon you. it és true. Cerita Elmsley was married to me at | Valgrun by the Reverend Mr. Ardelyn, the only Protest- ant pastor settled there, on the tenth day of last July. T have here acopy of the marriage record entered in the | register of the Protestant church of that place, and if | any other testimony is needed, the lady herself will give | it, as she is now recovering from her Swoon. Answer | me truly, Cerita, in the hearing of God and man, are you or are you not my wedded wife ?” “J am! I am!” she shrieked, hysterically, covering her | face with her hands, asif to shut out the unwelcome | vision of the tall, pale man opposite. ‘But, oh, Eugene, | do not turn away from me so coldly. As God is my wit- | ness, I believed him to be dead !” “Nor was it through any fault of yours that I am still alive,” quietly subjoined Stuart, while Lord St. Mantred recoiled from Cerita’s outstretched hand. “Deceiver !” he exclaimed. ‘You never told me that you had been a wife! You would have kept me in ig- norance of this as of other things. Captain Stuart has spoken truly: it was fortunate for me that his appear- ance has saved me from a crime of which I tremble to think, a marriage with a treacherous liar.” He silently offered his arm to the Marquis of Severn- cliff, who had risen, coldly averting his eyes from Cerl- ta’s appealing face. “Uncle.” he said, ‘Jet us go. The very air this woman breathes is contaminating to honest lungs. We have been blind, but our sight, thanks to Captain Stuart, is restored. We have been in a dream, but we are wakened at last.” And the Marquis of Severncliff and Lord St. Mantred passed out of Cerita Elmsley’s sight forever. To her dying day she never set eyes on either of them again. Left alone with her wronged and injured husband and Edmund Athelhurst, she sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing luridly across the floral decorations of the table which separated them. “Edmund Athelhurst !” sne shrieked, fairly carried away by the plenitude of her passion, ‘‘this is your do- ing. I hate youforit! Doyou hear? Hate! I would murder you if I could !” “It is my doing,” he retorted, coldly and sneeringly, “that you have wrought out your own doom. Mine, that you are an exposed plotter, a defeated adventuress. I swore that I would avenge the memory of the friend whom I believed to be dead—thatI would hunt you down. I have kept my vow.” Mrs. Fortescue’ Raymond had risen, and was begin- ning to shake out the snowy muslin flounces of her dress. : “You will pardon me, Miss Elmsley—Mrs. Stuart, per- haps it would be more proper to say,” she commenced, in her soft, falsetto tones, “if I resign at once my posi- tion as companion to one whose position is so entirely misinterpreted. I-——” “You, too?” sobbed Cerita, blindly groping with her outstretched fingers, as if to grasp the hand of at least one friend;-but Mrs. Fortescue Raymond kept carefully out of her way. “Itis essential,” she resumed, clearly emphasizing each one of her syllables, ‘‘that a person situated as I am should avoid even the appearance of evil. My quar- ter is not yet up, but you will, of course, remunerate me pro rata. I wish you a very zood-evening, Miss—excuse me, Mis. Stuart.” And Mrs. Fortescue Raymond, imitating the notable example of the rats that fled from a falling house, rus- tled in a stately fashion out of the room. Pale and ghastly in her rosy silk and golden orna- ments, Cerita sat staring at the husband, who, to her fevered imagination, had risen out of the sepulchral shadows of the grave. : “Whence do you’ come ?” she cried out, shuddering. “How happens it that you are not dead? Where have you hidden yourself all this time? Why have you been silent until now ?” He looked at her with a cold, calm scrutiny which seemed to burn down into the very depths of her cow- ardly soul. “Do you really ask from any actual motives of inter- est ?” he questioned. ‘Or is it mere careless curiosity that prompts this inquiry ?” “From curiosity,” she doggedly made answer. “I see, Leo Stuart” (could it be possible, he thought, that the lips could pronounce those words, which had once such power to thrill his listening ears, and never quicken a pulse within his dead heart ?), ‘that I am no longer anything but a memory to you. You are still less to me |” { 1% | i: bs tet abitnae ag % ae : sraaaed, struck me a b) VOL, 42—No. . woes THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 5 “It is well that we should thoroughly understand one he responded,. with the utmost composure; hurst, who had been disturbed by racking ap- ons lest the fair siren should even at the last a ver her husband’s heart, re r indifference of his tone. y study to gratify your very sity. site to her, and pouring out a the dregs. Cerita watched vements, a strange nervous while. Strange! while the man d despised him; now she be- ym any woman might ex- {z' CHAPTER XLII. __ CAPTAIN STUART'S TALE. fancied me dead, Mrs. Stuart,” said Captain Stuart, with a mocking curlof the lip. ‘Well, it was not so very unnatural a delusion, considering all the circumstances. To all intents and purposes I have been dead—and I have fe LY She was knew from the scintillating light in her -was intently absorbing the meaning ¢ at he uttered. e said, leaning back in his chair ed arn e Edmund Athelhurst stood a little in the ‘1 3 elbow on the marble mantel- iece a yes | onthe strange pair, ‘“‘the morn- t me from you to scale the snowy heights of rfrau, A AO ane away, aS you said, the week on that must elapse before you would consent pany me back to England. Isee that you do; all forget it, if live to the age of Methuselah. r shall forget—would to God that I could—the hopes, the lofty aspirations, the radiant visions of uppiness to c t buoyed me up that summer ning, ; he steep mountain paths and heels whom you had in my : not start ; you s0@ th at [know itall. In the houry life and death hung trembling in the an ¢ jawed misereant’s will, Bonato Segredo me all, and exult For I could have died like a man, even the death of a dog that awaited me; butl could not endure to hear that th on whom the whole at- fection of my nature was lavished had sént me forth, .Without a pang, to die—that she had actually plotted to get me out of her way ; that she had bribed with. os undrél jhose place was at. th exulted in my agony. reached a steep , my guide told me, we ile of the way. I tollowed his Pe of doubting him? He “stand peer Means ) gt t young t a in the Beets ct the the staff whose other end was in Bonato o’s hand, I called to him for help, he threw him- self flat on his face on that table land above,so, that I could but just see the evil glitter of his. eyes... . *Quic credo ? I called out, ‘how ioug’a an ce ie himself ? e { ere? ate his sinister efordeath! You “Sent i ‘Mademoiselle Cérttathas ut of her way, and I do it of the jostle which you bridge over the Val. gricuitouly, beca 2 weal does like the honey on a pretty ‘lip Cerita hired me with a kiss. [shall Ol ou had a hundred liv ad of one, and wi e etic, dog! : staff from my head. I know che Ghaien shat into the ) that yawne the violence of the blow, but he succeeded in both. Earth and sky alike seemed to sway before my eyes; 1 reeled and te a as it seemed to me, through t succeeding depths of a bottomless abyss. oo “So I . Now you will hear how I came to life again. ; } or “The cold stars we ni é when ‘ake y own Stripped what he believed attired himself in my garments, ntly; | was covered with bruises. on my) That was it then worth to me? _ + sButdfbstopped to recall ail the thoughts and s nsa- tions ot | when I lay there, with th rs shin a upon Gimough the opening in the cliffs v liev: throu, eve I should go mad. It is enough to say that. 1 lived igh it all. | “By and by I recovered sufficiently to struggle into a sitting re, and S$ myself in a few of the brig- and’s de , garment, gy deatees I crept along the scbyunesiae thats cose. ' aware that the longer I lay Still the more difficult it would be to move. “Toward noon of the Same day—to me it seemed an eternity of agony of mind and body, rather than a few hours—i found, lying on a snowy ridge, with its stark dead fted to the sky, and a fearful snarl reveal- ing its yellow teeth, the corpse of Bonato Segredo. He ha evidently made a misstep—probably owing to the contents of the brandy task he had abatrhet person—and thus met, by a sort of retributive ven- geance, the horrible death to which he had fully in- tended to consign me. I shudderingly passed him by, aiter pausing only long enough to repossess’ myself of my seal-ring and the little money he had taken from me. So it happened that the corpse of theglead brigand was attired in my clothes, a circumstance which led all who were interested in me to believe, that mine was the body that Jay crushed in the unattainable depths of the Jonge “On, on, I dragged myself, sometimes shouting ina im to the faces that I fahcied watching me ed trom my fevered é ‘ everywhere; sometimes hurrying trom imaginary de- mons who grimaced at me over the steep precipices whose awful ty surrounded meée‘as with a living tomb. There e times when J wished, nay, longed for death; and yet, when night came again, and the ac- tual prospect of death stared me in the face—a slow; lingering end by starvation—I shrank involuntarily from it. And eyen while striving to frame some half- forgotten prayer, I lost consciousness once more. «When [ came to my senses again, I was inItaly. I had lain ill of araging brain fever for weeks; and it was not tor some time that Iwas able to comprehend the story of my rescue from a death too horrible to contem- late. ‘ : ; «I was found by a half-grown lad, the son of a wretch- ed widow who kepta sort of inn on the banks of a little stream hard by—a boy who was in training for the pro- ’ fession of mountain guide to the tourists who sometimes enetrate even as far as that in the height of the season. n his reckless, mad-brained climbings he found me lying, with clasped hands, om the ground, so near the verge of a precipice that it was a miracle I had not fallen over and been dashed in pieces on the rocky bed of the river below. He\could not move me himself, or rather, he dared not make the attempt, but he summoned to his stance an old sea-captain who chanced to be staying at the house—a kind-hearted old Italian. What to do with me they knew not; the widow could not keep me, even if she would have undertaken the care ofa sick man, for my incoherent ravings soon betrayed that I was in\a fever. «* Come, then,’ said Pietro Montesi, the name of the old man; ‘if the poor stranger is to die here, he cannot do more than die if I take him away. SoTll take him home with me and see what is to be done.’ ‘With the aid of Cesaro, the boy, he constructed a litter of sticks and hemlock boughs, and together they carried me down to the village, some miles away, where the crew of his vessel were waiting his movements, and so I floated away to Italy, unconscious whether I was in the body or out,of it. «Heaven reward the good Montesi for his kindness to one whom he tancied totally without triends untila month ago, «As soon as Twas able to travel by slow stages, I set out tor home, and here I am, just in time, as it seems, to defeat the realization of my wise’s plans. Do not rn thatIam here from any desire ever to look upon your fair, false face again,” he added, with a con- temptuous bitterness, from which Cerita shrank as from a blow. ‘‘Had I wished to see you, I should nat- urally have turned my steps toward Valgrun, instead of London. But when I heard of the mischief you were about to work to an honorabie and unsuspecting gentile- man like the Viscount of St. Mantred, I could not but interfere in his behalf. Ihave done so, and success- a You have failed, as you deserved to fail.” ; e rose and bowed her a cold adieu. «Athelhurst, come !” he said. She started up. ek “Leo!” she cried, implorin the door echoed her words. He was gone. yut only the closing of CHAPTER XLII. THE END. As the principal actors in a drama form a.tableau_ be- fore the audience just as the curtain is about to fall, so we gather together the various marionettes in our little show to pronounce a final verdict on them befure the tale draws to its close. Great was the clamor and confusion among the va- . rious tradespeople who had so liberally supplied material for Miss Elmsley’s much talked of wedding trousseau “without money and without price,”*when the awful rumor that the match was “all up,” and that Miss Elms- ley herself had mysteriously disappeared from the scene of action gained ground. ‘ If she had only been obliging enough to leave part of the goods behind, it would not have been quite so bad, they thought, but she had taken with her all that she could possibly lay et on, and jeweler, mercer, and nvodiste were alike ‘‘left lamenting.” No one seemed to Ls fe know or care whither she had gone—she had disap- peared utterly out of the horizon, like a falling star, and left no trace behind, Mrs. Fortescue Raymond, of course, could not be held responsible for the debts of her patroness’ contracting, particularly as she herself had not been paid, but she shared, most liberally, in the public obloquy, and heart- ily regretted that she had ever been induced to become the “friend and compahion” of the beautiful and not-to be-depended-upon Miss Elmsley. ; ; . Lord St. Manfred did not take the matter to heart so much as his fond sister, Lady Sylfant, feared that he would. He did not particularly fancy the avalanche of gossip that followed Miss Elmsley’s sudden departure, but he had the good sense to perceive what an escape he had had. So, not choosing to be pitied as one who was “lovedand deserted,” he married Miss Gabrielle Etherington, and the only thing the fair bride regretted was that she did not know where to send wedding cards to Cerita Elmsley. ‘IT should so like to have seen her face when she opened them,” said Gabrielle, mischievously. Edmund Athelhurst married Miss Alicia Stuart, and old Carlotta, righteously indignant at the conduct of ‘Mademoiselle Cerita,” took the respected and respect- able position of housekeeper in their new household. Leo Stuart lives at Russetlands, a broken-down and prematurely aged man, with a tendency to melancholy, which can scarcely be wondered at by those who know the sad history of his blighted life. Lady Isola Rutledge is daily improving in mind and in body in the sunny atmosphere of the home in Grosvenor square. 3 Edgar Berkeley is a little misanthropic still, but Lin- da declares that the next pretty face that dawns on so- ciety will prove an effectual cure for his ailments. “Only think, Edgar,” she says, laughing, ‘‘what a pretty ene you would have been inif she had married you. Husband number two, you would certain- ly have been called all the rest of your days.” _. Dr. Delatour is still doing his Master's work in the sreat i ution at Bressy; Gretchen and Pierre are still ont irreling one day, and throwing themselves into each otlier’s arms, with tears of contrition, the next. Marie Trenard lives happily among her half-witted ‘children,” as she tenderly persists in calling them, and despairs of no one since the marvelous dawn of sense and reason on the darkened brain of beautiful «Petite D’Audreville,” as she is still called in the legends of the mountain gos- sip. - Adrienne Dufavre has taken the situation of ladies’- maid to -the present Viscountess of St. Manfred. M. »} Montiletti’s “little bill” for the petit diner never has been | settled yet, and probably*never will be. As for the proprietor of the Silverstein Hotel, his faith in human nature has received a shock trom which it will never recover. «‘And one that called herself a lady,” he repeats, over and over again, in a sortof mild soliloquy, ‘‘and looked like a princess. Weill, well, the older we grow the more we realize that it isn’t best to trust to appearances.” Meanwhile the subject of all this not particularly com- | plimentary comment lives under the dilapidated roof of the “Hunting Horn,’ waiting as of old on the few chance customers that happen to come that way. It is / no enviable life that she leads, for Gilbert Elmsley has drunk himself into a state that alternates between Sleepy stupor and fierce bursts of passion and brutal ferocity, and she is sometimes the butt of her father’s unreasouable anger, sometimes the household drudge. ‘Whether any rumor of the actual state of affairs has got afloat or not, Cerita does not. know; but she is con- scious that people regard her with a mute, unspoken suspicion—that sheis avoided and left to herself, like ) with the plague. . among the desolate wildernesses of the Alps, in a solitude that is almost worse than death, the girl who shone for so brief and brilliant a season in Lon don life—a girl who so nearly wore upon her beautiful brow the glittering coronet of a viscountess—is drag- ging out the rest of her days. “Sic transit gloria mundi,” says the ancient Latin proverb ; and Cerita Elmsley’s sun has gone down while it is yet day. And among all that she has known, there is not one , } to pity her. (THE END.] hl oc: is RES UNTIMELY TIPPLING. Moderate drinkers engaged in pursuits calling for judgment and acumen, and who use liquors “during business hours, end, with scarcely an exception, as a. _ financial wrecks, however successful they may be in with Thousands who retain their he. h and are neverranked as yictims of intemperance, 1 e their property, wreck of tippling habits during business hours. These men are not drunkards, and only close observers can detect nevertheless liquor gives them false nerve, makes them reckless, clouds the judgment, and soon involves them in bad purchases, worse sales, and ruinous contrae Sooner or later itis shown that the habit of tippling during business hours is a forerunner of bankruptcy, Let every such drinker review his business transactions for a series of years, and answer whether this statement is not true. ‘ oform or ether, cool thought, followed by a depression corresponding to the amount of the dose. What man would expect to succeed in business if he were accustomed to take, while at work, even very slight whiffs of ether, chloro- form, or laughing-gas, and keep himself all the time more or less under such beclouding influences? Such a man, even it able to preserve his health, would grow reckless, loquacious, and soon prove no : clear-headed rival. Liquor is an indispensable wherever victims are systematically fleeced, and its ef- fects are seen also in the rivalries of legitimate busi- ness. The professional gambler keeps a free bar, but never drinks himself when atthe table; and, while a sober, clear-headed, honorable merchant, dealer, or op- erator would not endeavor to ply his rival with liquor, i he would gain great advantages trom the latters, selt- | sought indulgence. Liquor shows its victims not only in saloons and gambling dens but about boards of trade and stock exchanges, and in every line of business re- quiring a clear, cool head. Moderate drinkers who at- tempt to do business with even slightly excited brains are the men who are all the time making losses and go- ing to the will. Oa DRYING TABLE LINEN. Always taketable cloths trom the line while still damp, repeating the shaking and snapping process as long as time and strength will permit. If allowed to become en- tirely dry on the line there will be wrinkles in table linen that it will be difficnit if not impossible to iron out. Care must be taken as to how they are hung up in the first place. Do not let them be dragged all out of shape by hanging trom a single clothespin or being thrown over the clothes post, making a projecting cornerthat it will be next to impossible to get out without wetting the cloth all over. When they have been thoroughly shaken join them evenly ona straight firm line. Take care that the pins are clean, and the line aswell. They should never be allowed to whip or flapin a very high wind. Fine linen is often seriously injured by this. A quiet day and a bright sun is the best time for doing up tine goods of this sort. Never dry them indoors or by the fire if it can be avoided. They cannot smeilas clean and have ‘“‘the exquisite odor of clean clothes” that a tamous knight of old preferred to all other perfumes, ~—o+___ WOMEN—MEN. Women jump at conclusions and generally hit; men reason things out logically and generally miss it. when a man becomes flurried he feels for a segar. — Some women Can’t pass a millinery store without look- ing in; some men can’t pass a saloon without going in. A woman never sees a baby without wanting to run to it; - man never sees a baby without wanting to run from it. A woman always carries her purse in her hand so that other women will see it; a man carries his in his inside-pocket so that his wife won’t see ’it. A man of fashion hates the rain because it deranges the set of his pantaloons; a woman of fasbion hates it because it deranges her complexion. When a woman wants to repair damages she uses a pin; when a man wants to repair damages he spends two hours and a halt trying to thread a needle. -e~ A DECEIVER DISCOVERED. It is related of a well known Macon man that he re- cently went to Griffin and attended church with a young lady on whom he was very sweet. When the contribu- tion box start d out on its rounds the young man took a five-dollar gold piece out of his vest pocket and dis- played it insuch a way that the young lady saw it. She mildly rebuked his extravagance, but he said he often contributed that much, ne when. in strange churches. Watching his chance he slipped the gola coin into his pocket and slyly took out a silver quarter which he as sly] iy d into the box when it reached him. This fixed the impression on the young lady that her beau was generous and held the church in high es- teem. At the close of the services, as was the custom of thechurch, the amount in the box was announced, The total was $3.75. Griffin has no charms for the young man now. i. >-O~4 ' ; CONSUMPTION CURED. An old physician, retired from practice, having had placed in his hands by an East a missionary the formula of a simple vegetable remedy forthe speedy and permament cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat and Lung Affections, also_a positive and radical cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after havin tested its wonderful curative powers in thousands of cases, has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows. Actuated by this motive and a desire to relieve human suffer- ing, I will send free of charge this recipe, in German, French or English, with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this paper, W. A. NovEs, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, N. ¥. standing the physical “tier health of their ulgence.- their business, and are thrown into bankruptcy because the influence of strong drink in their deportment; but | Liquor acts on the brain in the ‘same manner as chlor- | th producing a stimulation which affects | o -always was thoughttul. When a woman becomes flurried she feels for a tan: TENDER AND TRUE. BY DINAH MARIA MULOCH. Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so tender, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! Never an unkind word should grieve you, I’d smile on you sweet as the angels do; Sweet as your smile on me shone ever— Douglas, Douglas, tender and true, Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few ; . Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, i Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? I never was worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the likes of you: - Now all men beside seem to me like shadows— Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! -o~ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] | ld ab EZ) tite ; Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,” *“Waggie, the Charity Child,” “Alice Blake ; or, The Ferry-House Meeting,” “Eveleen Wilson,” etc. {“LirtTLE SUNSHINE” was commenced in No. 44. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXXII. LILLY DAVIS AGAIN IN TROUBLE. A drive of some fifteen minutes brought them to the Hackensack River, having skirted which ajshort distance the driver halted and opened the carriage door. A boat, with the oarsin it, and a man standing beside it, was drawn up on the bank, and the Imp offered his hand to assist Lillyin. This having been accomplished, the Imp exclaimed : ; “Now, Denny, sharp’s the word. Let’s get home as quick as possible, or there’ll be trouble.” «Ay, ay,” replied Denny, sententiously. ; Lilly looked at the m $s he spoke, and was almost frightened at his hideou le was a buillet-headed, bull-necked, broad-shou ow, with a flat nose, large mouth, great thi |aface so seamed and scarred as to almost give appearance of a tat- tooed New Zealander. The Imp seemed to divine he said, with a grin: Sed, Peed “We call him Handsome Denny, ma’am.. and he is handsome in his wa “es his beauty ain’t nothin’ to his workmanship. He is the best hand at the work he has to do you ever saw, ain’t you, Denny “Yes; and I'll give you a taste of n that you won't relish,” growled , keep your tongue in yourhead.”) «“Talk’s cheap,” retorted the Imp; ‘ou know, good LO n’t dare touch me, whatever I might hould the governor would discharge you couldn’t find. such a man as day. But don’t let’s get up any 0 ine’s thoughts, for : ality some day an, “if you don’t we ‘chin-music. The young lady mightn’t like it. How is the ‘poor sick man, Mr. Davis? Is hevalive yet ?” “He was when I left the house,” growled the “Oh, dear, 1 hope I shall be in time wines HE “My poor, unfo father! It would be d mM nen He s 1 the man, with wha e; ‘or, if it ain’t come 3 arrive shortly after you get there.” ' The boat struck the bank as the man, spoke, and as- sisting Lilly ashore, the Imp asked : me - “Do you cross the river again to-night, Denny?” “Not as I know of,” replied the man; “my orders are to make the boat fast and then report.to the governor. I believe he has work for me.” f “JT shouldn’t wonder,” replied the Im and then he added, turning to Lilly: ‘2 way, if you please.” Again Lilly felt a thrill of terror as yy along a path, and through a g med to her that there was somet e speed and conduct both of her g sive-looking creature who had roi them. across the river. She had gone too far noe eg to retreat, had she felt ever so great an incl to do so, so she summoned all her courage and followed the Imp in si- lence. ‘ 24% pg The path brought them gag < e , in the center of which stood 4 somewhat dilap i frame building, mounting the steps of which, the Imp was about to knock at the gh which, however, opened suddenly, and the figure ofa sinister-looking woman, past middle- age, stood before them. es “T was watching for you, Imp, to save you the trouble ot knocking,” She said, looking first at the boy, and then fixing her keen black eyes full upon the face of the girl, who shuddered in spite of herself as she met their gaze. “Thank you, Mother Clinker,” returned the Imp; ‘‘you How is sick man ?” ‘He is about the same,” a ed the old woman; “and I suppose this young lady »daughter he want- ed so much to see.” ia “Jes’ so,” Was the sententious r “Come in, my little beauty,” ¢ dressing Lilly, in a tone which wa and cordial, but which sounded to ing of araven; ‘‘your papa will be and so will the rest of us. We are ain’t we, Imp ?” poe es ‘You bet,” replied the boy. — Fat S “Please lead me to my father at once,” pleaded Lilly, in a tone almost of terror. i ¢;Ot course I will,” rejoined Mother Clinker, with a hideous grin; ‘this way, my little darling! Ob, won’t your papa be glad to see you! [ shouldn’t.wonder, now, if he should get better right away as soon as you are 9 r. ued the hag, ad- t to be flattering ly like the eroak- glad to see you, to see you, beside him. I’m almost certain he will. Come along, darling e along, pet!” And thus mumbling, the old hag le y up a flight of stairs, and passed through the ,to the front room. Here she knocked gently upt tone as she could 4 eo: : “Can we come r. Davis? Your daughter is here!” “Yes ; come in,” was the reply, given in a tone of well- assumed weakness. ao ey the hag opened the door. saying as she me door, calling out, in as soft a so: “Go in, young lady. I will leave you alone with your father. The meeting will be an affecting one, I know, and I never could bear such sights, I am so tender- hearted.” ‘ Lilly entered, closing the door after her, and advanced to her father's bedside. His head was enveloped in a white napkin and the covering drawn closely up to his chin. Ilt.was impos- sible to get a very full view of his face, but Lilly could not help thinking, so far as she could see, that he did not seem wasted much, and she ventured to say so. “No, my daughter,” he answered, with the same as- sumption of weakness which had at first characterized his voice, “mine is not a sickness that wastes the body much; itis more of a dropsical character. But I shall be better now that you have come. Indeed, I feel bet- ter already.” , “Oh, lam rejoiced to hear it!” exclaimed Lilly, in a tone of gratification, ‘‘and I hope and believe that with my nursing you will be entirély restored to health, and if such should be the case, you will promise me, father, will you not, to become a reformed man and lead a proper life in future? It is so dreadful to pursue the course which you have been pursuing !—a course which, if persisted in, must inevitably lead to your utter de- struction, both here and hereafter, and involve me, your only daughter, in your ruin. Promise me, father—oh, promise me that you will become a better man if God, in His mercy, spares you !” P The girl’s tones were earnestly pathetic, and, as she ceased speaking, she Gropped on her knees at the vil- lain’s bedside and buried her face in her hands. “T never was good at playing the hypocrite, especial- ly when there was any sniveiing or praying to be done !” suddenly exclaimed Luke Davis, tearing the vee trom his head and jumping to the floor fully dressed ; “Tm no more sick than you are, and as for repenting, and all that sort of folderol that parsons and their dupes talk about, why I chalked out my path in life a many years ago, and shall follow it till ’m called upon to pass in my checks. We’ve all got to go then. What comes after I neither know nor care anything about”: For a moment Lilly was absolutely paralyzed by ter- ror. She saw in an instant how great was her danger, and for a time her limbs refused to support her, and her tongue lost its utterance. She knew it was necessary to act, however, and gathering strength from sheer des- fake she ju to her feet, and fixing her clear, lue eyes defiantly on the villain before her, she asked in a voice terribly calm : ‘May I ask, sir, what your object in inveigling me here could have been ?” ; “Of course you may,” returned Davis, dropping his gaze to the floor, and writhing under the look of scorn and contempt with which the brave girl regarded him. ‘and I will tell you; it’s only fair that I should do that. You see, the plan was not mine, and I would not have favored it if I could have helped myself, but I’m only a subordinate here, and am forced to do the biddiny of my superior. The fact is, the captain got an idea in his head that you might be induced to blab if left to the counsel of your friends, and so he insisted that this lit- tle 1wse should be practiced, to make you safe!” “Tsee,” said Lilly, with terrible calmness; ‘‘and now that you have got me here, what do you purpose to.do turther ?” ; ‘Well, our intention is to keep you a prisoner here, till after the day set for your trial is past, and the med- dling fool who interfered in your behalf is obliged to pay your bail bond. Then, if we cannot induce you to remain with us, we purpose to let you go, if you sol- emnly swear never to betray us.” “If you cannot induce me to remain with you!” ex- claimed Lilly, with asneer. ‘‘Why, man, is your knowl- edge of me so limited, that you think I could, under any possible circumstances, be induced to remain, volun- tarily, among a band of thieves?—for such, of course, are the tenants of this house.” ‘Now, little girl,” said Luke Davis, with great coolness, “TJ don’t wish to see you any worse off than you are at present, and if you wish to avoid further trouble, you Will listen to reason. You are not in a den of thieves— you are merely the companion, for a short time, of ladies and gentlemen who live a gay and festive life on the proceeds of hard labor of alight and genteel kind. It you are reasonable, no harm will come to you. On the contrary; you may succeed in capturing the heart and hand of our captain—as fine a looking fellow as ever the sun shone on—smart as a steel trap, and rich as a Jew. But if you are inclined to be belligerent, I won’t be re- sponsible for the consequences. You are surrounded by those who, although perfect ladies and gentlemen, are at the same time wonderfully determined, and some- what unscrupulous when opposed. Every avenue to escape is shut off, every passage guarded, and so com- plete is our seclusion here, that we might keep you a prisoner for years without the fact being known, for there is not a detective in the United States who knows of our whereabouts. You will readily perceive, there- fore, that your proper course is to accept the situation with as good a grace as possible, and not compel us to treat you inhospitably.” «And you profess to be my father!” exclaimed Lilly, in a tone of ineffable scorn. <‘‘I’ll not believe it! There is some jugglery about the matter! My mother would never have married such a villain !” «Your mother died before you were three weeks old,” replied Davis, quietly, ‘‘and I was avery different man at that,time from whatIam at present. Why, bless;your dear soul, I was a member of a church then, @nd hada Bible-class in the Sunday-school. To look at me now, you would hardly believe that, would you ?” “Tf you are indeed my father, may God forgive you!” exclaimed Lilly, in a tone of agony. ‘But you are in great error if you imagine for a moment that I will sit supinely down in this den, and allow things to take their course, without an effort to better myself. I will make one struggle for liberty, though I lose my life in the effort!” And before Luke Davis could stop her, she had dashed with the speed of lightning through the door and down the staircase, uttering a piercing scream at every step she took. She had reached the hall-way below. and was rushing toward the door leading to the open air, when suddenly she was seized from behind by a pair of strong arms, and carried, as though she had been an infant, into the front parlor, the door of which was instantly locked and bolted, and she was deposited gently in an easy-chair and contronted by the ruling spirit of the iniquitous den, the splendid-looking but terribly debauched and vicious Jack Haines. ‘Not so fast, my pretty one!” he exclaimed, playfully. «Why, it isn’t possible that you were about to leave us so unceremoniously! Why, I haven’t even been intro- duced to you yet, when I expected to spend some months in your sweet society. By the way, as there is nobody present to do me that favor, I will introduce my- selfi—my‘name is Haines—the Hon. John Haines, at your service !’ And the beautiful villain bowed with well-affected courtesy. é “You shall bitterly rue this outrage!” exclaimed the unfortunate Lilly, with blazing eyes, ‘‘if you do not in- stantly set me free!” “Outrage! What outrage2” exclaimed Haines, in a tone of well-affected wonder. ‘‘My dear young lady, I have offered you no outrage, I have merely prevented | you from acting very rashly, and seated you tenderly in an easy-chair. , significantly; | ow, this ysterious in: anced : e and the repul- tive I should have invited you here long ago. Why, do you know if I had allowed you to pass through the door yom undoubtedly have fallen into the jaws of a ferocic Siberian bloodhound, who is so ungallant as not to recognize beauty when he sees it, and have been torn piecemeal before you could scued.’ n have bee: have met a brute fiercer than yourself!” with bitterness, ‘‘nor one halt so much had rather die by the fangs of a dog e atmosphere with you!” - roung lady,” returned Haines, m shouldn’t speak that way of 3 you know me better, Why, nost. tender and docile fellow in the world where concerned. All who know me give me credit _am certain of that!” pretty!” exclaimed Haines, as with himself—*‘she is beautiful! ab- ow, who would have thought that Seallawag as Luke Davis could be the father loveliness! My darling,” he continued, ad- y as though she might have been his affl- “It | had known you were half so attrac- But bet- terlate than never. And now we must be married as ‘Speedily as possible. We shall goto Europe for a wed- ding trip. « We will make the tour. Iam familiar with every inch of the route, having gone over the ground half a dozen times already. You shall see gay life both in London and Paris—gay life among the nobs, I mean. Ihave money enough to loada ship. Ishali travel as a count—you as my countess. We will visit the Spas— Baden-Baden, and all that sort of thing. You shall squander a cool million at play,it you like. And you shall have diamonds, carriages, and a wardrobe that would make an Eastern princess mad with envy! What says my pretty one? When shall it be, eh ?” Jilly had no heart to answer him now. She was ut- terly crushed, and could only cover her face with her hands, and sob bitterly. “Well, don’tcry, pretty one,” continued Haines, in the same tantalizing strain; ‘‘beauty in tears was al- ways too much for me, and if you will only cease weep- ing, 1 will give you twenty-four hours for reflection be- fore I say another word about marriage. But, in the meantime, I couldn’t sleep to-night—I really couldn’t— it I did not rifle one kjss from those red, rosy, pouting lips!” As he spoke he stooped over the girl and ad- vanced his lips toward her mouth. Quick as lightning she perceived the stockjof a silver-mounted pistol pro- ns, she unin a! _| truding from an inside pocket of his coat; and, with the bound of a tigress springing to defend its young, she seized the weapon, and, jumping some distance from him, leveled it directly at his head, exclaiming fiercely as she did so: ‘Now, sir, open that door. and let me pass freely from this house, or this moment is your last!” Jack Haines was more surprised than frightened at this sudden change of affairs. He did not dream of danger, for he did not suppose that a weak,timid girl like Lilly would dare to pull the trigger. He imagined that the mere’ sound of the explosion of a pistol would terrify her into insensibility. But he little knew the stuff of which she was made. Highly sensitive, refined, and modest, she would, under ordinary circumstances, have shuddered at the idea of shedding*the blood of the vilest of brutes, but the idea that her honor was at stake out- weighed every other consideration with her, and ren- dered her as fearless of heart and as steady of nerve as the bravest soldier that ever lead a forlorn hope. “Return the pistol, my little beauty,” said Haines, after he had regarded hera moment with undisguised admiration ; ‘it is no plaything tor a baby like you. It may explode accidentally and hurt you.” And as he spoke he took one step toward her. With nerves unshaken and eyes blazing fire, Lilly leveled the pistol directly at his head, as she said: “Beware, sir! I should hate to shed a single drop of human blood, even though it came from a carcass as vile as your own, but Heaven has providentially po this weapen in my hand to be used in the most no0ly of purposes, and by the spirit of my dead mother, whose influence I now feel about me, I swear that if you advance a step farther, I will,send your coward soul on its long journey! Iam buta king girl, but you know how well I can keep my oath. I have kept one in favor of your iniquitous band, and I shall keep the one which may compel me to slay its despicable leader.” “By Heaven, you are game, after all!” exclaimed Haines, in a tone ot admiration; ‘I believe you would shoot!’ “Tt lacks but one minute of five o’clock,” returned Lilly, calmly, at the same time casting her gaze, fora single instant, on the clock which was ticking on the mantel-piece; ‘if, when that clock strikes, 1 am not outside of this house, tan life-current shall stain the carpet where you stand, and may Heaven have mercy on your guilty soul!” Jack Haines was both a brave and a desperate man, but he was not disposed to court death in such a way as that in which it now threatened him. He knew the girl would keep her oath. At first the idea occurred to him that he might, by making a sudden dash at her, distract her aim, and thus escape unhurt; but one look at her brave, determined eye, and steady hand, con- vinced him of the fallacy of this supposition; and, with a smothered imprecation, he unlocked and unbolted the door, and throwing it wide open, said: “The game is yours, birdie! Pass out!” “7 am not so shallow as to be caught in such a trap,” returned Lilly, scornfully ; ‘you must pass out first, nor shall I cease to cover you with this pistol, till you have opened the hall-door, and allowed me to pass out.” The villain saw that his 7wse to seize her trom behind had failed, so he preceded her to the hall-door, which he was about to open, when suddenly Lilly uttered a pierc- ing shriek of anguish, and, turning round, Haines pee ceived that Imp, the boy, had stolen cat-like behind her, and snatched the weapon trom her grasp. I t if tor nothing else. However, you'll do me jus- tice when we are better as ed—l am sure of that.” | «The criminal courts you justice when they “Ha! well done, Imp!” exclaimed Haines, in a tone of exultation, ‘‘you shall be rewarded for this!” And, with a bound, he again seized the unfortunate and now defenseless girl. Lilly gave one piercing shriek of utter despair, and then moaning. ‘Lost! irretrievably lost!” swooned dead away in the arms of her triumphant captor. Haines was about to bear his insensible burden again into the parlor, when suddenly there came three dis- tinct raps on the hall-door, followed by a peculiar whistle. “Itisold Flint’s signal!” exclaimed the chief of the counterfeiters, in a tone of surprise. ‘‘Whatin the name of all the fiends could have brought him here at this time ? Open the door, Imp, and I will hold the girl in the draught a moment—perhaps the cool air may revive her.” The boy did as directed, and the next moment Jack Haines was knocked senseless by a powerful blow from the clenched tist of Ernest Hartley, who, seizing the in- animate form of Lilly Davis, carried her into the parlor and laid her gently on a lounge, muttering to himself as he did so; “I know not who you are, unfortunate girl, but I do know that you have been brutally treated or you would not have lost consciousness. I will assist in the capture of these fiends, and then you shall be attended to.” Leaving her fora moment, he joined the detectives, only to find, however, that brief as was tue period since they had entered the house, every member of the des- perate band, save Lord Mortimer Littleton, who had somehow made his escape, was under arrest and in irons. , So sudden had been the attack, and so entirely un- expected, that the counterfeiters were taken completely by surprise, and before they could recoyer from their panic, were put beyond the power of any but a feeble re- sistance. The instructions of the crafty and unscrup- ulous Flint had been carried out to the letter, but that worthy took excellent care not to trust his own precious body within the precincts of the den, well knowing that his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase if one of his late vicious companions could compass his de- struction. He had remained in the boat, and there awaited the return of the expedition. We need hardly say that Ernest Hartley’s surprise and joy were beyond expression, when, upon returning to the assistance of the lady whom he had snatched from the embrace of Jack Haines, he tound: in her his af- fianced and dearly cherished bride. CHAPTER XXXIV. TONY TUCKER MAKES A SPEECH. The day set for the trial of Lilly Davis and Ernest Hartley arrived, but it did not bring with it the hopeless" despair and heart-crushing agony which the guiltless young couple had supposed it would when they were first arrested, for warm friends’ had flocked around them, cheering and inspiriting them with words of sym- pathy and consolation. Moreover, their mysterious iriend, the Polish baron, had convinced Hartley long be- _ fore that their discharge was certain on the day of trial, and that the conviction of the guilty parties was equally certain. 4 i Hartley, much as he had disliked the baron at first, was thoroughly assured of his triendship for both Lilly and himself after an interview, to which he had been summoned at the district attorney’s office, immediately ‘after his liberation on bail. } But why the foreign gentleman manifested so deep an interest in their weltare he could not divine, ner would. his mysterious patron give him the slightest information with regard to the matter. When questioned, he was either stubbornly reticent, or gave answers of so evasive hte ate that nothing could possibly be made of. them. Fey ; Hartley at last grew tired of attempting to unravel the mystery, and determined to practice patience; and let matters take their course, confident as he was.that everything would be made plain in time. The court had assembled, and the accused, with their counsel and friends, were present to await whatever action ae taken in their case. Jennie Brown and Tony Tueker were, of Course, there among a host of others, and the latter was more than usually demon- strative,and garrulous, ag «Thunder, Mr. Lawyer !” he said, in an undertone, to the counsel of his friends, *‘I hope you'll call me for the first witness. I’m bustin’ to tell what I know about Little Sunshine and her lover. If I don’t put it to the jury strong, you can just take and go to work and shoot me! MThat’s what the matter !” “You will not be called upon at all,” was the lawyer's quiet rejoinder. : ‘Thunder }. you don’t mean that ?” exclaimed Tony, in a tone of bitter disappointment. ‘What's the reason I won't be called upon, I should like to know ?” «Because there will be no trial,” was the reply. ‘The district attorney has decided to enter a nolle pros., and that Sor end the matter, so far as the accused is con- cerned.” “A nolle what ?” exclaimed Tony, indignantly. ‘You go to Jericho with your nolles! Ain’t a-goin’ to be no trial, eh ? And here [ve been all night last night study- in’ my speech! 1 didn’t sleep a wink for thinkin’ it over, and now you say there ain’t a-goin’ to be notrial! I ain’t a-goin’ to stand it nohow! J’li make my speech, if I get hung for it!” | ‘Do behave yourself, Tony!” exclaimed Jennie Brown, impatiently ; <‘you are always making a laughing-stock of yourself. How are you going to testify if you’re not called upon ?” “But I will be called upon,” persisted Tony, ‘and I will make my speech or die! I never like to do any- thing agin your wishes, Brownie, but this ’ere’s a mat- _ter of principle, this ’ere is. I’m a goin’ to let these lunk-headed lawyers see that they can’t cough me down when I’ve got a good cause—that’s what's the matter!” There was a trial for assault and battery on at the time. and when that was finished the case of.Lilly and her lover was next in order. Tony was suddenly very still. He was evidently meditating deeply on some weighty matter. Presently the counsel for the defense in the assault and battery case called as a witness one William Jones. Now, it so happened that the said Jones was not in court at. the time, and, to the horror of Jennie Brown and the great amusement of Lilly’s counsel, Tony Tucker moved forward to the witness- stand. The lawyer was so deeply immersed in his case that he did not notice Tony’s refusal to be sworn, nor did he, upon looking up, discover the difference between Tony and the witness whom he had called, but began at once by saying: “Now. young man, tell all you know concerning this matter.” “Tm a-goin’ to do it!” exclaimed Tony, emphatically ; “you can take and bet your branes ontoit. The fact about the matter is, that these ’’ere prisoners never orter been arrested’at all. What kind 0’ fellers are you big wigs and lawyers, anyhow ? Why, you're a set of lunk- heads—that’s what’s the matter! You know all about law, you do, but mighty littie about justice! It don’t make no nary difference how innocent a feller may be, if you once get him mixed up in your law rigmaroles he ain’t got no more show than a rat in a trap with a dozen Scotch terriers waitin’ around to go for him when the trap is opened.” This style of speech had taken both court and counsel so utterly by surprise, that Touy had proceeded thus far before they had the power to interrupt him, but now the court thundered out, angrily : «Silence, sir! How dare you use such language on the stand ?” “Ha! ha!” laughed Tony, ‘it cuts, does it, old buffer ? It’s so seldom that you get anybody here that’s got pluck enough to tell the truth, that it makes you squirm. I know these ’ere prisoners like a book, I do—both of em, and I’m proud to know ’em. There ain’t a finer feller atop o’ the earth than Ernest Hartley, and there ain’t a Sweeter angel livin’ than Little Sunshine. In fact, there ain’t any gal out o’ jail that can hold a candle to her except my Brownie—I’ll bet you fifty cents there ain’t. They’re high percoon, both of ‘em. You're a; pretty set of snoozers to deal out law, ain’t you? Such sardines as you orter be sent to State prison yourself, instead of gettin’ off your chin-music here and spendin’ the people’s money on your fine clothes, and diamonds, and things. I’d like to have my wWay.With such galoots as youare, and ’'@ make you change places with some o’ the poor fellerS you're a sendin’ to the ‘jug. You're a pooty set o’ roosters, ain’t you? I’m a talkin’ myself now! Why——” “This is outrageous!” again thundered the magis- trate. ‘Is the business of the court to be interrupted by this vagabond ? Officer, arrest that person and lock him up till further orders! Ill see whether this court is to be respected or not!” “Vagabond!” shrieked Tony, glaring at the magis- trate. ‘‘Now, ain’t you a nice old pup to be callin’ me a vagabond! I work for a livin’I do. And what do you do when the court is out ? You go around here to Denny MecCann’s gin-mill and get your hide as full as it’ll hold of pison whisky. Why, I’ve seen you goin’ home as tight as a biled owl. And you call me a vagabond. Tl teli you what Ill take and do with you—I’ll——” Here Tony was seized from behind by a stalwart officer, who, in spite of his struggles, bore him shrieking from the court, vociferating all the way that he could “warm the judge, jury, witnesses, and the whole court, if they’d only give him half a show, and he'd take and bet fifty cents he could.” After peace was once more restored the business of the court proceeded, and in another half-hour the case ot ous ae and heroine was reached and promptly dis- posed of. re The district attorney at once entéred a nolle prosequi, and the accused were honorably discharged by the judge, who in.a few well-timed remarks complimented them both highly, expressing the deepest regret that they had been placed, by the force ot circumstances, in so unpleasant a position, and the most lively satistac- tion that the affair had ended so ereditably to them. At the intercession of his friends and.the district at- torney, Tony, quite humbled and chop-fallen, was brought before the magistrate and discharged with a severe reprimand. “{ didn’t say anything but the truth, any way,” he muttered to hone as he wended his way homeward ; “but the truth don’t suit exactly in these ’ere courts— that’s what’s the matter. Oh, won’t Brownie give me bally-hoo when I go to see her to night—won't she though? Ill bet fifty cents she will!” (TO BE CONTINUED.] —r@e~« Horsford’s Acid Phosphate In Nervous Headache, Fever, and Impotence. Dr. A. S. KIRKPATRICK, Van Wert, O., says: “T have used it with the most brilliant success in chronic nervous headaches, hectic fever with profuse night sweats,impotence,nervousness,etc. «eg THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. VOL. 42—No. 4. NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 27, 1886. RON aeaaeemeeeauer aa eae | Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3 mon’ Coe me. . %cl2 copies. ee... . “ne Geen. «6©$1:00| 4 copies . = . . . «= 10.00 1 Toe ee wes 3.0018 copies . esting snuiegtceaars MD Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis- _ We employ no traveling agents. All tetera Gould be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y. Another Realistic Story, $5.00 a if WITH Luiwineg Characters! Real Scenes! Actual Hwvents! Pictured With Life-Like Fidelity. ots, ts 5% i ‘The wonderful success ‘of our last story of LIFE oN ie THE PLAINS, with its vivid scenes drawn from nature, _ has induced us to follow it with another from the same _ masterly delineator of the PERILS AND £XPLOITS ‘Bufalo Bil and Texas Jack, GREAT AMERICAN SCOUTS, le We shall therefore begin, next week, the publication of a vigorous sensational story, teeming with STIRRING DRAMATIC SCENES, R24 te» a we ENTITLED Ny Me ‘groan in bitcerness of § onder how a race of facts thus obtained, it will be judicious for you to keep out of the reach of the said neighbor’s boot-toe. He knows just what every body should do, in given circumstances. Tell him that your wife or child is taken suddenly sick, and he will tell you just what medicine to give them. Perhaps his prescription will kill them, but in that case he suddenly discovers that he knew they would die anyhow. Tell him that you suddenly need to borrow some money, and he will tell you just how to do it, but all the money you will have at the end of your trip will be what you had when you started. Tell him you want to invest a little cash that you have saved, and he will straightway ns you the points of a first-rate thing; he knows it is first-rate, for he has looked into it, and knows what he istalking about. But if you get your money out again you will be luckier than other men who followed his advice. lf you work in the same shop with him, you will hear something new every day about what the proprietor means to do, and how much money he is making, and what he does with it, but if you shape your own plans accordingly you are likely to end in being the most sur- prised man in the establishment—and the angriest, too. He is a great fellow to get up strikes, and he seems to know so much that all his fellow workmen follow him, but sooner or later they learn that he always selects the wrong time, and they have to suffer the consequences. He always knows which of two or three mirers a girl is proudest of, and he often has so much to say on the subject that the fellow really favored—who is never the one he had decided upon—hears of it, and gives u his suit, to the great discomfort of himself and the girl, while the rascal who is to blame does not suffer at all for it—not in this world. Of course his own wife and children think him a won- der, and do not understand how he is constantly losing his old friends, but after many years they learn why, and just at a time, too, when they most need a level- headed man to lean upon. He seems, at first, to be so much ofa fellow that his neighbors confide in him, and act on his advice, and put him into office, or set him up in business, but before they get done with him they lose more faith in human nature than they ever can get back again. Sometimes he airs a big political theory so industri- ously that itis simply impossible not to believe there is something in it, so he is elected to the Legislature or to Congress ; not long afterward all the rest of the State or country is wondering how so many fools could possibly have been concentrated in a single district. The trouble with the man who knows it all is a lively imagination that he has not conscience enough to con- trol; he comes by a new notion as quickly as a saint by an inspiration, and imagines, perhaps, that it is the —_ sort of thing; which it isn’t, in any single partic- ular. Next to a jail or lunatic asylum, the proper place for the man whp knows it all is beside the stove in a tramp’s lodging house, where nothing he says can make his hearers any worse off than they already are. If his clothes are so good that tramps won't believe him, he ought to be put to work in the office of some newspaper that doesn’t care what it prints, provided the story is entirely new and told with a straight face. There, sooner or later, some slandered person will break a club over his head or give him a horsewhipping— merited attentions which his customary victims are too good natured to bestow. The first being who knew it all was discovered in the Garden of Eden, and he succeeded in having the original inhabitants turned out; this breed hasn’t improved a particle since then, as every one who listens to him will discover to their sorrow. ALWAYS UNHAPPY. BY KATE THORN. How many people are always looking on the dark side of life. They live in the continual anticipation and expecta- tion of something evil to come. They are unhappy 10ok- ing for it, and they are unhappy if it does not come as they expected. You can’t suit them anyhow. If to-day is a lovely day, they don’t enjoy it, because they expect it will storm to-morrow. They are looking for wars, and revolutions, and riots, and comets, and earthquakes, and famines, and cyclones, and fires, and floods, and small-pox, and : knows what. ey couldn't be comfo: themselves and eve round them unhappy. Ivis their trade. They fail to see the brightness in the sun- ? shine or smell the perfume of the flower, because th sun is liable clouded, and the flower will di They are the people who are always i / try—about the ‘fa They sigh when they hear y digment-boun¢ directed her servant to say to all such applicants that she was “not at home,” or that Miss Medusa borrowed the girdle last week, and had not returned it. Venus was a desperate flirt, and encouraged the attentions of both married and single gods. Her scandalous conduct furnished many a sweet morsel for the members of the Wednesday Evening Sewing Circle to dissect. Venus had several husbands living at one time, and not a single divorce to her back. One of these husbands, Hepheestus, was old, ugly, and lame, but it is inferred that he had more money than a California bonanza king. At a grand cake-walk, a prize of a golden ae offered to the most beautiful lady and graceful walker present, was carried of by Venus. Venus had her good qualities as well as her weak spots. She was ever ready to assist her unfortunate lovers, and she punished with the utmost severity those who re- sisted her power. Ifa young and haughty goddess ole. she is no better than she ought to be,” Venus would re- sort to a peculiar revenge. With the aid of her magic following Sunday evening the vain damsel would sit in the front parlor, arrayed in her blue silk, and wait, and wait, and wait for her Charles Augustus, but he would cometh not. lf our dry-goods stores sold magic girdles possessing a similar power, the proprietors would be obliged to employ a dozen policemen at each door to keep back the crowd. Ladies of uncertain ages, revel- ing in single blessedness and corkscrew curls, would have a magic girdle if they had to go without a new fall bonnet and turn last winter’s dress, and the woods would! be full of ro men who had fled from the wrath to come, as it were. The most remarkable thing in the career of Ven a professional beauty is the fact the stage and essay the role of “Juliet.” ae - THE WONDERS OF ELECTRICITY, BY PROF. M. RUDOLPH. No. ~ i na up he! 4 Pa What is lightning? 1s the oft-asked question, as we see the blinding flash.dart from the dark cloud to the earth, followed by the deafening and terrific crash as though two mighty worlds bad dashed against each other in their wild flight through space. Not only in its more terrible manifestations is it an object of in- tense interest; but even in its silent play on a calm sum- mer evening, it arrests our attention, when the light- nings under one part of the heavens, seemingly, answer to those skirting the opposite horizon, as they dance along the darkened sky. No more wondrous creature of the great Creator is known to man, among inanimate bodies, than this mys- terious something, which we, in our simplicity, call electricity. Imponderadle—that is, having no appreci- able weight, even when collected in the largest possible quantities—yet it has power to rend to splinters in an instant the sturdy oak that has withstood the tempests of a thousand years. Nay, even the adamantine rock is shattered to atoms by its resistless force; while the quiet, harmless, grateful atmosphere, under its unseen influence has power to hey pad path through the mighty forest, twisting fr rroots, as though they were mere straws, the 6 rebs of the groves, and prostrating them in utte ; Invisible—save wh a few other phenomena—yet it pe » SS, even in the terrific thunder- it is the most busy with all the great ng its absolute operations of want of wei motion of There is knowledge that g as this invisible, vithin the scope of our present ves us so vivid a conception of a spirit eightless, yet po 1 something which we call el pity. us. see ous force is prod j, and here wes begin with what W. a “ uble if they were not making is marvelous, — amount Thus, if a vated her nose at her, and disdainfully remarked, ‘‘Pooh! girdle she would cause the proud young thing’s young | man to fall desperately in love with herself, and on the | call care us as she didn’s go on. ub. “same wond projections, as these always tend to throw off or dis- charge the electric fluid, Even small particles of dust upon electrical apparatus often interfere very seriously with electrical experiments, as each one of the parti- cles is virtually a minute point, and acts as a discharg- ing conductor. Hence the necessity of vente ak all elec- trical apparatus perfectly clean while experimenting. Having your rod of glass, or wax, or resin, warm it by the fire, or by hard rubbing with a piece of old silk, or woolen cloth, or, better still, with dressed cat-skin—all perfectly dry—and then apply it to various light sub- stances as before directed, with this difference, however, that they be larger, and heavier, and they will be as readily attracted as before, and the luminous appear- ance much more distinctly seen. , - Now, by contriving some simple and inexpensive means for accumulating or storing up electricity, still more striking experiments can be performed : as larger and brighter sparks, louder reports, and greater heat- ing effects, and more power to send bodies asunder, as /we so often see in nature. Bi 28 sme an apparatus can easily be provided, and is os THE LEYDEN JAR, from the name of the city where it wasinvented. To make this vay powerful apparatus, take a thin glass jar of, say, half a gallon capacity, such as we see on the shelves of apothecaries, and line the inside, bottom and sides, to within about three inches of the top with tin- foil. It is not material that the foil should at all points be in close contact with the glass on the inside, though it is as well if it can be conveniently done. Cover the outside in the same way, only let the foil adhere closely to the glass, both on the bottom and sides. Now fit to this a stooper of dry wood or cork, and through the center of the stopper thrust a piece of copper wire, with a clean brass or iron chain attached, of sufficient length to rest.on the bottom. A small brass ball should be on the top of the wire, which should project above the stopper about two inches. The apparatus is now ready for use. To charge it, rub the resin d electrophorus vigorously with the cat-skin, and on ie ly the tin-foil disc to the resin plate as before, touching t with the finger before raising it, and then, holding it by the glass handle, apply it to the Leyden jar, and a spark will be seen to pass. Repeat this three or four times, andif the atmosphere be dry, you will accumu- =e a = considerable charge in the jar. To prove this, make : by bending a quarter-inch rod of brass or iron, abou ten inches long, into the form of a semicircle, and then pass it through a handle of dry wood at a right angle, and so as to be firmly fixed, and wrap the handle with metal rod should be carefully and smoothly rounded so as to leave no sharp edges. Now, taking this @ S er by the handle, apply first one end of it to the on the outside of the jar, and the other to the me at the end of the wire in the jar, and a brillian will be seen, and a sharp snap, or report, be heard. weather is favorable. : i If the jar be very highly charged, you can strikingly illustrate some of the effects of lightning by sending A SMALL THUNDERBOLT through a sheet of paper. To perform this very interest- ing experiment, when the jar is fully charged, stand a small piece of dr ron the of the stoppe the paper will isan against the ball and project abou two inches de ond it on each s first place the ‘lo end of the discharger as tin-foil of the jar, and then carefully bring the to the ball—the paper, of course, being between th and the discharger—and there will be the usual report, and the paper will be found to be perforated, the hole being ragged on one side. The paper, in using but a single jar, must be thin , but with large batteries, as we shall: hereafter see, a book of three or four hundred pages may as easily be perforated. But such a battery unskilled amateurs should ‘never attempt to handle, as it might prove to them a terrible engine of destruction, having power, as. it has, not only to kill, instantly, a robust man, but even an ox, or an elephant. In our next article we shall give a series of brilliant and striking experiments, showing also both how to make and to use the cheap apparatus necessary in performing them, and all of them illustrative of the great principles and phenomena of this most wonderful of all the sciences; showing how lightning is produced in the clouds, and why it darts to the earth, etc. AS we Continue this series, we shall see that this most- dreaded, and truly terrible force of nature is, neverthe- less, one of the most useful and beneficent in its opera- tions, and that the aspect of our entire world would be tly ch , and greatly for the worse, but for this ‘ul, though Sometimes terrible, creature of our all-wise Creator, and thus shall we see that even the a’) evil we sometimes experience is, by our loving All- paper, overruled for our good. > \ EPH HANKS’ YARNS, BY SOLON SHINGLE. 3 _ Eph Hanks, who used to live in Pottsville, was one of t| the greatest story-tellers 1 ever came across. Give ise of the | A DISCHARGER ate three or four thicknesses of old silk. The ends of the } This may be repeated any number of times when the } know, fur game wer’ powerful thick thar, and | tellin’ jist how tur that bullit did go. I went a wagon and two yoke of oxen to draw the g and the critters had a load to ,you kin never seed ’stonisheder peo 1 I got back. Yes, boys, the A little bitters, ef you “Give h his bit GOSSIP WITH READ CONTRIBUTORS. wae _—_ ¥, - 3 * a Communications addressed to'this department will not be noticed unléss 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 ment which we intend to make a Every question here propounded fairly, even though it take a great at the facts. No expense or pains the answers to questions absolutely r ‘ we C. L. B., Long Island._To make meringue pound of sugar, half a pound of butter, one the yolks of six eggs, one nutmeg, and half a ° , eggs until they become thick ; then put the but eggs into the flour; lastly, add the nutmeg an Mix the dough well, flour the bos ; h thick ; cut it into cakes, 2 t let them touch. 5B 5 y O W., Boston, Mass.—1st. To ounces of washing soda n dissolved, add to itone m be clea Annie 8s. 4t 48) t a ot ecan furnish you with a Book of riddle or fifty ents. L. @. B.; York, Pa. F ag islands, so called, are produced by accumulations ot drift wood, among which drifting sands’ and earth collect andform a soil in which plants take ’ a ee 1 eee 7 root. Masses of these great rai occ lly detached specie upon Mm oe as of apts “any th _ ria diffi cu ; ‘. 2x aneng. ne 18iar their introduct Such islands hi from the mouth Maylay Archipe: Janauscheck, Jersey City.—Ist. Hel woman of her time, according to Gri of Menelaus, fled with Paris, the son of Priam, to Troy, and the Trojan war was the consequence. Paris was killed dur- ‘nate alage of Troy, and Helenthen married Deiphobus, anc son of Priam; but when the city was tak trea I introduced the eeks ; ° : » Menelaus, who, 0; r. accounts | ‘ into =s : gave her. aif me state attributing the Qu been killed in the war. Shec bathing, tied to a tree, and Thorn Rose.—ist. Cultivation of | papers will help to make your c those whom you meet in polite society. 2d. good voice you should cultivate it as muc! Sapa ey Ses rome ee 10ly mu ac Sstri to O sho Pies future. Engage in some task e de cloth clothes, dis- e quart of boiling . legends, and the wife | ; A t nite sae wana ica paint PP ia tures” can dare spend the in such idle f iin _ him a chance, and he'd sitand talk from sunrise until | time, and the depression of spirits ¢ , . Ze broken in a dark room, a feeble light is seen, and if a} Nee ae will pass away despite the of t but when you get into a de with one ef silk or woolen garment be thrown off during dry, cold sunset. ’ you quote. ia we weather in a warm room, crackling sounds will be Eph prided himself on being a great hunter, too, and ing and minute sparks be seen, if the room be quite ris 8 Be used to tell hunting stories which astonished the natives. ter keep your eyes open. B. W. C.—Central Park, this sity he people who are fer cep sour always unha made in 1851 by Andrew J. D a he mee vrEINE, By NED BUNTLINE, © Anthor of “RED DICK,” “ROVER WILD,” ‘NAVIGATOR NED,” etc. The author of this thrilling narrative, in simple and vigorous language, depicts the adventures and perils of the Brave Scouts whom Uncle Sam found such effective allies in the efforts of our troops to teach the hostile red men the utter folly and hopelessness of a prolonged contest with the peaceful settlers or travelers who are protected by the United States government. The artful stratagems of the savages, and their pecu- lar mode of warfare, are pictured with vivacity and earnestness, by one ‘‘to the manner born ;” and to read the description of an Indian fight from Nep’s graphic pen, is almost equal to witnessing the conflict. The story abounds in exciting situations, and is full of vim and vitality, and has the further merit of being strictly true. It will well repay perusal. Do not fail to read the- opening installment of “Bur- FALO BILL’L Last VICTORY” next week. >@ PEOPLE WE ALL KNOW. BY ELLIS LAWRENCE. No. 12.-THE MAN THAT ENOWS IT ALL. Tf all the genuine wisdom in the world were divided up, the average per Man would be scarcely enough to keep anybody from walking into a ditch by daylight; and yet it is hard to find a village, or shop, or office, that does not contain a man who knows it all—or thinks he does. 2 Tramps are disgusting, thieves are bad, and liars are worse; but the man who knows it allis worse than tramps, thieves, and liars combined, for he has sucha taking way with him that nobody suspects him until he has done more mischief than a hundred honest men can repair. fs No matter what men around him may be talking about, he puts in his word, and does it with so much earnestness that everybody supposes he means all he says. Perhaps he does, but 7f he does, he shouldn’t be allowed to run at large while lunatic asylums are nu- merous, and itis so easy to get into them—and so hard to get out. . = If he catches you in the act of reading the morn- ing paper, and trying to think out the rights and wrongs of some leading item of news, he pro- ceeds at once to enlighten you, and talks so fast that you have to believe him, for the time being, and disbe- ae all as soon as you have time to think it over quietly. He would do the same if he found you reading your Bible. He knows more than all the commentators com- bined, or he will make you think he does, and you will have to unthink it all afterward. He knows all the intentions of the President and cabi- net before they have been in office enty-four hours, and he will tell the whole story to any one who will listen to him—tell it so well that nobody feels inclined to question it; but if you bet according to the informa- tion he gives you, prepare to wear your old clothes an- other season. He had a full-sized theory of the Charleston earth- quake before that disturbance had ceased to shake down houses, and the people who accepted it pretty soon found it as shakyas if a dozen full-fledged earth- quakes had been playing football with it. He knows what your neighbor’s house cost, and where he got the money to build with, and how he met his wife, and how long he will live, and where he was born, but if you are careless endugh to repeat any of the a Sih Sin e du people you want to stee ai tho a 4 not have anything to ° them, The unhappiness is contagious; their atmosphere ing; there is malaria init. Let them alon groan it out to their heart’s content. vn to try to brighten them up; they will no ened. 4 They would not be happy in heaven. They wouk fault with something, and think that their angeli¢ w were not quite so well-proportioned as the wings of some ee other angel. * We pity their children. We pity their cats and dogs, We pity the very houses they live in, for all the blinds will be closed, and the life-giving sunshine will appeal vainly to be let in, and the free winds of the hills will nore to whistle merrily around the corners of that ouse. There are many sad things in life. We all know it, just as we know that the earth which smiles with flow- ers is full of dead men’s bones; but there is no need of rattling these bones continually before the community. It is no benetit to anybody, and it does not certainly benefit the bones aforesaid. It has been divinely appointed that through the decay of his body the soul of man shall attain its full perfec- tion of strength and glory; and if we saw it as we should. see it, there would be nothing toa mourn over, any more than there is when we plant the sorruptible grain of corn in order ‘to raise the strong’ and beautiful plant which yields us corn a hundred-fold. A cheerful spirit is a blessing; it is a perfect bonanza in a neighborhood; it is worth more than all the anti- bilious pills inthe world; and if it could be bought with money, there would be none of it left in the market twenty-four hours after it was advertised. MORSELS OF MYTHOLOGY=No. IIL. BY J. H. WILLIAMS. PRS 8 VENUS. Venus was a professional beauty, although her dresses were not made by Worth, of Paris. She didn’t have a trunk or a bandbox in the house. When she decided to make a tour of the watering places, she didn’t have several dressmakers employed several weeks building her. cos- tumes so that she might have twenty-four changes a day, and fill the bosoms of Fifth averiue. belles with envy. She never consulted the pag fashion book. The theme of conversation, when she met three or four of her female friends, is hard to conjecture. They must have discussed the beaus, ing else. Nowadays they discuss the fashions amd beaus—and nothing else. When a young man called to take Venus out carriage riding in his red dog-cart, she didn’t keep him waiting nearly an hour until she had made a suitable toilet. Her motto was, “Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.” And Venus wassvery vain of her comeliness. In the absence of pier is she would go down to the lake and gaze into its mirrored depths for hours, con- templating her loveliness. She had many admirers. On St. Valentine’s day she got more love missives than all the other girls in town, and Dan Cupid, the letter- carrier, Was so overworked on that day that he threaten- ed to strike for higher wages if the post-office depart- ment didn’t put an assistant on his route. The Olym- pian wives were awfully jealous of Miss Venus. When one of them found a sweet-scented note from the beauty in her husband’s inside coat-poeket, he would hear of it, and before the lecture was over he yearned to join an expedition to the North Pole. i The magic power of Venus’ beauty was so great that even wild animals were charmed by her presence, and ae around her like lambs. One day she visited arnum’s show, and the wild animals made such frantic efforts to break out of their cages to press around her, tnat the man who stirred them up with a long pole re- turned her admission money and persuaded her to leave the tent. Venus left, and the baby elephant, cameleopard and sacred cow followed-her half way home before their absense was discovered. This is reliable, it true. And it may be true. We have seen young ladies so beautiful that donkeys and puppies, charmed by their influence, pressed around them. Venus was possessed of a love-begetting magic girdle which was more potent in winning the love of the male sex than all the love powders ever concocted by the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. This girdle she could loan to others, and its power would go with it. a ahs applications for the loan of the girdle from homely old maids who had had designs on the pan- taloon gender, became so numerous and annoying that Venus was compelled to resort to subterfuge. She In damp weather these experiments cannot be per- fringe asthe moisture inthe atmosphere acts asa conductor of the electrical fluid, and carries it off, thus preventing i ation in sufficient quantities to produce sensible results s& _ Very many | without the e of com experiments can be perf nsive apparatus. Thus, rub a with India rubber, ¢ ‘the side rubbed, place it on and it will adhere for some er, Or of any similar shrub, or of thoroughly dry, suspend it or Stick of wax, by a long hair dof aw silk, and then having, sleeve, or silk cloth, or cat- nh the surface of another eke pith ball, and it will at first be attracted, but, af short time, it will be re- pelled, as the electricity of the ball and of the glass be- come similar in character. Now take a piece of sealin wax and rub it with a woolen cloth, and present it to the pith ball, and instead of being repelled, as on the last application of the glass, it will be at first attracted, but afterward repelled. Now if the glass be again ofany kind, or by friction uponé skin, excited electricity piece of glass, place it ne brought near the , instead of being repelled, as it was on the last application of the waz, it will be attract- |ed. Allthis proves A the electricities of the glass and resin are diffe that, therefore, there are | ' These have bee! | glass; and resinow vitreous is now m d vitreous, as when excited on when excited on wax. The . generally called positive, and the ding to the theory of Franklin, re is but ome electrical fluid, but und in excess and is then positive, S than the natural quantity, and a and well-established law, that bodies. charged wi re electricities repel each other, and those char; vith unlike electricities mutually attract. Upon this principle electrical bells are made to ring so long as the electricity is passing over them, the metal balls or clappers being alternately att and repelled as the electricity is changed, as we | de experiment successfully, the pr now ‘ HOW TO MAKE A CHEAP ELECTR To do this, take a quantity of comme sufficient to make a round dise, or plate about fifteen inches in diameter, and say two or three inches thick. Pour this into any mold having a smooth and level bot- is then negative. It isa general when cool and having also a taken to have smooth. ; a Now make a spo and even wooden disc or plate of about one and a half inches in thickness, and about an inch smaller in diameter than the disc of resin, and cover its twos S and edges with tin-foil. - Before putting ~ e foil, insert in the center of the wooden disc a strong glass bottle, or 4 long, narrow or nine inches in length, fastening it securely by pour- ing into the cavity that receives it, and around the bot- tle, melted resin mixed with finely powdered brick dust. This makes an insulated handle, You are now ready to experiment. Rub briskly the surface of the resin disc with a piece of dry cCat-skin, and then place upon the resin surface the wooden disc with the tin-foil covering, and it will be immediately charged with electricity. fo prove this, let the disc be taken by the glass handle, one fin of the left hand being for a moment first placed upc upper surface and lift it from the resin. It ° ound to be fully charged with the electric fi rove while one hand holds it handle, let the knuckle of the other be aj d, and there will be a spark passing, and a slight but sensible: shock will be received. Wri. amy By touching the disc first with the ings. the negative ve electricity re- fluid passes to the body, and the mains upon the tin-foil disc. dele a This experiment may repeated several times by simply placing the disc with tin-foil open the the resin, as in dry weather, it will retain its electricity for a con- siderable length of time; but, as before remarked, in damp weather, or, in a crowded apartment where the air is loaded with moisture from the breath of the com- pany, the experiments will be likely to fail. Furthermore; if the finger be not jirst placed upon the tin-foil disc before raising it from the resinous plate there will be no success, as the disc will be then, at once. ina neutral condition, and no spark nor shock can be obtained. The cat-skin is not always indispensable ; a silk or woolen cloth will often answer, but not as well. The instrument thus constructed is called an electro- phorus, that is, an electricity bearer. . If it is not convenient to make an electrophorus, pro- cure a glass rod, or a stick of sealing wax, or of resin, about two inches in diameter, and say twelve or fifteen inches in length. Let it be cast perfectly smooth if made of resin or wax, having no small points or sharp yee tom, as the wooden cover of a cask or large bucket, and: ‘ place it on a small, solid table | f th and even surface, care being | : upper surtace of the resin even ’ tumbler of about two inches in diameter, and say eight |. He said he had hunted “clar from old Kaintuck to the Rockey Mountains,” and didn’t ask odds of anybody, when it to ‘shootin’ at game, runnin’, sitten’, standin’, npen’, or flyin’.” Besides, Eph had had several adventures with Indi- s, which were quite remarkable, as he told them. One cold night last winter, a crowd of us were setting around the stove at Blevins’ grocery, among whom was Eph, in one of his happiest moods. 1 knew by the pe- culiar blink of his eyes, and the twitchings of his mouth that he was getting ready to say something. So I thought I'd help matters along, and said: ‘‘Eph, old boy, are you dry?” «Dry! why I doubt ef I ever was so dry sence I had the measels,” was the response. “Blivens, give Eph some herb bitters,” said I. The old hunter threw the liquid down his throat, & | smacked his lips, and remarked : | «Bust me, but that’s the stuff arter all. I’m goin’ out fur deer termorrer, and that drink won’t sot me back any, by Ned! Talkin’ about deer, tho’, boys, I kin tell a a ttle story wich may sound big, but it’s a fact, by Ned! ; «“Let’s have it, Uncle Eph, by all means,” said I. “Well, it happened when I wer’ a youngster, an’ I durn near forgot it. One day I wer’ a mowin’, an’ it wer awful hot. The thermometer stood at about six hundred, I guess, mebbe more. Mam, she briled eggs fur dinner in the sun, and biled coffee, and fried meat by jist sittin’ the skillet and coffee-pot on a big rock out o’ doors. Yes, boys, it wer’ a hot day shore. I would much rether a been layin’ in the shade at the house, but dad said the hay must be cut, and as he wanted to get the cornincrib afore the snow flew, he couldn’t spare enny of the hands to helpme. My scythe got dull, andI had jist took itoff the handle to grind it, when I seed three large deer, two does and a buck, a commin’ acrost the field right to’ard me. So I laid low fur ducks, and let em come ascloste as they would. Up they walked to within about fifty yards o’ me, when I jumped up and tuk arter’em like siu, with the scythe- blade in my hand. After runnin’ about three hundred yards I overtuk ’em and kliled the hull three.” “That tale will hardly go down with ws, Eph,” said I, *no man ever lived who could catch a deer in a fair, square race.” “I guess not, either,” he replied; “but you see, the about four feet deep, and had a thick crust on he deer broke through and covufdn’t run, while I ik right up to em with my snow-shoes without nk . 1drug’em ail three home, and they was the fest critters 1 ever sot my eyes on.” #1 thought you was mowin’, Eph,” said Bill Jenkins. | #Mowin’! Did I say anything bout mowin’? I don’t rec’lect whether I wus er not. Mebbe I’ve got the story kinder mixed like; but, ennyhow, I got the deer, that Tll swar to, and I tanned ther hides and sold ’em fur a dollar and a half a pound. Buckskin wer buckskin them that’s a tuff story, but Eph Hanks ’d never tell a lie fur the small matter o’ three deer, never.” J winked at Blevins, and he set up another glass for who swallowed it, and continued : «You ort to hev been thar, boys, to a seed the turkeys ther was in Kaintuck at that time.” “Turkeys ?” said 1, patronizingly. «Dead loads o’ em. One mornin’I started out jest a leetle afore day fur a turkey roost wich I knowed wer up on Persimmon Crick. The sky wer cloudy, and it looked like snow, which I wished would cum, ’cause it'd be all ther better fur turkey shootin’. When 1 got tothe creek I got down, watin’ fur to hear a gobble. In "bout five minutes I hearn suthen go pete, pete, pete. Turks, ses I, and, shore enough, if thar didn’t stand a big flock o’ turkeys right afore mein the path. I pulled up my rifle, fired, and sich a flutterin’ I never afore in my life, er sence. Wall, I kept pickin’ up turkeys until I had twenty-seven, all in a pile, as fine birds as you ever seed, and all o’ em shot thro’ the head.” ‘© A big shot, Eph, said I. : ; “Wall, I reckon; but that wusent all of it, by a sight. You see, the turkeys wer all in a line: that’s ther way I *counted ferit, and I thought I’d goin ther direction of ther bullit, and see whar it hed lod I wanted to kinder trace it up, like. I hedn’t gone fur before I picked up two squirrels, dead in the path, with bullit holes through thar heads. «When I hearn a splashin’ noise in a pond jist ahead o’ me, and blamed ef thar wasn’t th wild geese kicken about, with thar heads shot off.. ‘Thunder, sez I, that shot beats’emall. Sol pulled the geese out, when I seed suthin’ at the further end o’ the pone wich looked like a dead hoss. I went up toit, and thar lay the splendidest elk you ever seed, and close by two rab- bits and a fox, all shot through the eye.” “That was.a line shot, Eph—a most wonderful shot,” Said I; ‘‘and if y else had told that story, I would have said it was a blasted lie. Did you go on any farther to follow up the effect of that shot ?” “No, sir. I wus content when I cum to theelk. That Satisfied me. The game mought a bin strewed alon through the woods fur two or three miles fur all days, boys, you kin bet. Es I said afore, you may think White scape gardener, and was first officially recommended by Mayor A. C. Kingsland. The park came into posi the city in Feb. 1856. Preliminary surve i same year were followed in April, 1858, y he adoption of plans, and the appointment ‘of F. S. Olmstead as. SupSTInKen Gent, and architect-in-chief. Work on the park was commenced on June 1, 1858. eee Lady Adelaide, Indianola, Iowa.—The *‘Court of Love” was in France, from the twelfth to the fourteenth century, a tri- bunal com of ladies of high birth and talent, who decided questions of gallantry, and whose decisions were acquiesced in by courtesy. last imitation of se courts was held at Rueil. it is state@, at the instance of Cardinal Richelieu. The decisions were made according toa code of thirty-one arti- cles, written by Andre, royal ain of France, about 1170. Mrs. G. L. N., North Carolina.—To make a dozen good tart apples, cut them into t water, and let them simmer about h over an earthen pan, turn the apples into it, an drain ; but do not stir the apples after the out. Let it stand and settle about half an a pint of the juice to a pound of white sug utes, and strain it into molds or jars. Cordelia, Lonsdale, R. I.—To make a lemon pie, grate the rind off two lemons; peel off the white skin ; chop the lemon up fine; add two cupfuls of sugar; beat up two eggs, and stir it all ther. Roll out athin paste; line atin plate with it, and fill it half full with the lemon ; then roll out an- other thin » cover it, and fill up the plate with the prac enow bak cover it with a rich puff paste, and bake it twenty minu ‘ . Miss Lottie S., Long Island.—ist. The silver articles, if worn, should be replated. 2d. Beef-marrow is used to keep the hair from falling out. this department. Glycerine diluted with fresh lemon juice will whiten and st the S. F.—Consols is a term denoting a considerable portion of the debts of Great Brit nown as the three per cent. con- soliduted annuities. y constitute a transferable stoek in which there is daily speculation, and the vary price is taken as an index of the value 6: Tr public Constant Reader, New Orleans.—Charleston, 8. C., was.vis- ited by a very slight shock of earthquake on May 19, 1754; by a violent oneon April 4, 1799; by a slight one on Sept. 10, 1811; by a violent one on Dec. 16, 1811; by slight ones on Jan. — 2% and Feb. 4, 1812; Feb. 7, 1843; and Dec. 19, 1857 M. C. M—Thomas A. Hendricks, Vice-President of the United States, died_ at Tne on Wednesday, Nov. 25, 1885. Itis su that he died from instantaneous paraly- sis of the brain and heart. L. C. B. and E: L. B.—The population of Boston, Mass., ac- cording to the census of 1885, is 390,406. In 1880 it was 362,839. The State of Massachusetts has a population of 1,941,465; a gain of 158,380, since 1880. _ ; R., Ithaca, N. Y.—The President’s House in Washington is officially styled the Executive Mansion, arly the It is a mile and a half from the capitoL M. M., Philadelphia.—ist. Your penmanship needs to be improved for office work. Practice writing dai: "2. Still ouse, alive. 3d. Thanks for your complimentary Jennie M., Boonville, N. ie Charity Hospital, Blackwell’s I pital, 8 West Sixteenth street. S. T. J, Hudson, N. Y:—Judge George G, Barnard, of New York city, was removed and disqualified, for co: on -in- office, on Aug. 19, 1872. ee Inguirer.—The information may possibly be obtained b writing to the Vermont State Treeoarer, Wm. H. ae Address, Montpelier. Joseph A. B.—The first Jew admitted to a seat in the House Ce ue England, was Baron L. N. Rothschild. Date, ’ ~ DL. L. C., Buffalo, N. sa i % En statue of 1 Shorty Gm Bedlow> Ialand was laid on Aug: A. R. A.—The American yacht America at the regatta at Cowes, Eng., August 22, 1851, won “The cup of all nations.” R. W.—Corlear’s Hook is at the bend of the East River just below Grand street, and opposite the Brooklyn Navy Ya: G. M, R., Yorkville.—Frequent benebios of the hair back from the forehead may in time have the desired effect. B. J. G., New Haven, Ogen< Ehapopsiation of Charleston, S. C., in 1880, was 49,984, Debt $4,129,202. B. C..T.—The horse ag called the epizootic, prevailed in the Northern States in 1872. Ned B., Lowell, Mass., April 25, 1844, came on Thursday; 7, 1848, on Friday. . ¥ : ae C.S. C., Portland, Me.—Business addresses are not given in this department. # S. S. B. C., Sharon Springs.—ist and 2d. No personal Knowl- edge of them. nr" " A, N., Jefferson, Texas.—We know of no State that sanc- tions it. ‘ 5 Constant Reader Joe.—Write to the postmaster at the place | named. : 2s \ to nce sash ween ( y tls mma tee 8 Me 7 ee” nite alta Sl ia | ay why the Lords of ‘immortal more than ‘ A nurse, a simple nlrse ; tothe unthinking Only a and “—-. ‘thing but a‘name ; A patient woman in her round of-duty, and dying all unknown to fame. , &messenger of mercy, | sent unto our suffering race, ulet ae: and tender band of healing, est pity on her gentle face. When all the world lies wrapt in quiet slumber, Save the poor sufferer moal his bed, Whose watchful eye with Christian love keeps vigil Through the long night Witpalicent, softened tread ? Only a nurse, in duty all unshrinking ; such Before 's stouter heart would quail ! that sw fair girl, in sorest trial her post, nor will her courage fail. error-Struck encounter, ‘selfish, coward dread; | etor hasten to the rescue, ching by ‘stricken bed. wil “A Heart's ’ > was commenced in “No. 4%. Back suhaaatained of all News Agents.] | ay , ry with me,” said Helen, sitting down g her reluctant hand. “I w not mourn over a trifling qua ‘ se t , often happen, and are next day forgotten.” What do you mean ?” said Violet. “I have not quar- Sea ; nes oa with a ee cking smile. yur pardon. I forgot that I was aon with one who has been nursed in the satin lap 6f nobility. 1 : if, amd I ‘have the passions of my : lation, but as a sharp frost reams of the spring-time. aid Helen, noving’ her fast. “I did not My inference that you were crying li nd you. lwas mostr as Isaw your husband pcrom this ttle dover’s 1 with a black vomenat He was not here.” «Pardon me; he was—l saw him. I could have touched him.’ “But he ha ne out from t—on business.’ ’ ea So en perhaps it was not you with whom he , and you did not cause the black cloud.” se om claaye puzzle me,” Violet, fixing her in- Jus eyes on Helen’s handsome, dark, but secret YY hase Be ta vee a ain” ‘aid Mi SH tead “You me very ‘ iss Hope, s - ily. ‘I consider that it is Miss Ambrose whom your hus- band met, and with whom he has quarreled. He has had an infatuation for her.* I heard she was here, and opcemeee they were mee ,» and I came here to warn you; for, as I told you, I want to be your friend. I think you tried to be kind 4 § I am very sorry for you.” “If your Semne is so kind,” said Violet, «I think your acts are very unfo . Surely you cannot make me eomfortable by com to meyw ‘Leigh. If there are unpleasant. not hinder ; it were much better m. do not expect to be happ be at peace. 9 Apes aaa would ignere your husband’s unfaithful- ness 9 ‘Hush !” said Violet, angrily. ‘‘Youare now slander- ings are merely surmising. Surmise good, not evil, if youare a good woman! A man may surely re- Pana : tance without»being accused of unfaith- od Helen, holding her fast by both hands. -“T would endure in silence,” said Violet, firmly. » “What! for aman who does not love you, whom you do not love? When you might free yourself by a di- voree !” “Stop, wicked woman! Do you think for any cause I woul@ make my name, my home, the line I have enter- ed, a cause for public scandal, the talk of all Engiand ? When nothing else is left me, I can at least patiently en- ure. : Utd kee you might free yourself, and marry one you ve 2?” : “Weak and foolish as { may be,” said Violet, rather-to herself than to Helen, “‘£ should never fall so low as to desecrate marriage in that way. What you sug- gest is wicked, shameful.” .“And youare resolved nething shall part you from Lord Leigh ?” : “Nothing but death.” ‘ “And yet, there is one wnom—forgive me, but I saw together at Berne, and read your story in your faces —whom you love, and who adores you, and would gladly make you his——” i “Only in honor, and as God could bless,” said Violet, white to the lips with the agony of her spirit. “I know whom you mean. Once we were engaged, but it is all over now. Understand me, there has not been a word or a thought between us two that his mother does not know, or that God wouid condemn, or that Lord Leign could resent. My part is taken. I.am Lord Leigh’s wife, and I shall try to be a good, kind wife. If you ever loved him, as you say, you should be, glad of that.” “T am too much of a woman ever to be glad to see any woman sacrificed,” cried Miss Hope. “You wili die; I see it in your eyes; you are pining away.” “That does not frighten me; I am glad of that.” Helen began caressing and kissing her hands. “How noble and good you are! Forgive me; I was only you. You are quite right, you are angelic. Oh, how I wish that such sweetness and faith could save Lord Leigh! They could, if he loved you. But love was not in’ his view of marriage. The Lords of Leigh marry for money, and for heirs. He has the money; and if he had the heir, you oy die, and he would forget youinamonth. You see, it is a very natural ambition, that of these ancient families—to build up their riches and perpetuate their line. All is to be sacrificed to that.’ ; These crafty words were exactly fitted to rouse the anger of poor Violet. She said, indignantly : “T cannot be expected to understand or approve set- ting up such an altar and making sacrifices on it. Lam half of a city family, and.I don’t see why lords should be saved from bankruptcy any more than merchants; nor h should expect their line to be ges, the blacksmith.” “That is rank heresy,” sneered Helen. ‘I tell you women, their hearts, loves, lives, are as nothing; they are to be sacrificed in hetacombs to this demand of a peer for money to waste and forason to inherit his name. You caiiit arrant nonsense? You do not appre- ciate how much nobler it is to be the mother of earls than of clodhoppers, although the earls may be black- legs and the clodhoppers decent, honest men?” “Oh, why will you. come to me and talk so?” sobbed Violet, in a flood of tears. “You drive me wild. Your wicked thoughts haunt me like demons. Leave me; never see me again; for whatever you say or make me think or feel, one thing I am resolved on—I will do my duty till I die. I admit that I am wretched; but I recognize the irrevocable vows thatI have taken. Ibow to my fate.” “I have not intended to hurt or vex you,” said Helen. “T really meant to act as a friend. We see these things differently. Itruly think that where a pair are miser- able together—where the husband is faithless, and the wife, if free, could make a marriage where she would be happy and good—then she had better get tree by process of law. You differ. Very good. That ends it. I only wanted to aid you, and some one else, to happiness.” ‘I think I had better never see you in,” said Vio- let. “I think your views and words dangerous and wicked.” Feel She turned away. elen Hope stood, with folded a slender white shape, to watch her g park. Helen had, in the arms, through the green ais! madness of her revenge c “e come there to er oan; to goad Violet toward a divorce, or beguile her to recklessness that might open to her husband the road to divorce. The purity and ee a and Violet, causing Edna to leave the vicinity of Leigh Towers, and Violet to scorn a happi- of the s Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc. | for the present, she did not admit herself conquered, and made herself strong to wait. and work—unhappily a to bring a most awful tragedy on the line of Leigh. | Violet meanwhile had had her thoughts diverted from her sorrow for Kenneth, the renunciation of his pres- ence and friendship. The words of Helen had shown fer that she stood in slippery places, and that danger was near. At whatever cost, she must make an effort to save herself and Lord Leigh, and bring about better relations between them. _ AS she resolved on this, she looked up, and saw her husband sitting on a garden chair, on a shaded side ef the terrace, oo reading, but with a black frown on hisface. The hour was ill chosen for confidence, but in her inexperience she did not see that. She went Ss ht to him, and seating herself by his side, put her soft hand on his arm. Almost any man would have been moved to tenderness by the sad, appealing face, the confiding, sensitive manner, the dainty beauty of this young creature. Lord Leigh, however, was all ab- in a mad memory of the luminous beauty of na. “Lord Keith and bis mother left renewed good-by for you, Norman.” “Yes? I bid them good-by at breakfast.” “JT shall miss them,” began Violet. “You have company enough, madam, I should say. The house is filled with your guests,” retorted Leigh. “T should not want.any guests, if we could only be happy together, Norman,” she said, softly. ‘If I only knew how to make you happy—if you only would be fond ef me——” “What now!” said Leigh, harshly; ‘‘don’t you have all your own way? Are you not surrounded with splen- dor? What new gewgaws will you have? Shall I re- build the Towers ?” “It is not that, Norman,” said Violet, tears trembling on her long lashes. “You know I do not care for sponge? what I want is sympathy, kindness, love. If you only-——” ; 7 !” said Leigh ; “what new whim is this? You don't want splendor? You want love in a cottage, Isuppose fe “T would rather have Jove in acottage than a palace without love,” said Violet.. ‘We promised to love each other, and we ought to try and do-so. We are not try- ing, ’m afraid. us strive and have more confidence nabre love, that community of interest that we should ve.” “[m not up to the sentimental flights,” retorted this who within a week had been pleading at Edna Ambrose’s feet, that ‘love deserved response.” CHAPTER XXXV. “HE LOVES, AND HAS Lost!” Violet fixed her sad, reproachful eyes on the hard, scowling face of h. Butshe would not be rebuked ; she might win him to better things. She-said softly : «Why should we spend our lives-estranged and lonely, when we might be good, and happy, and helpful to each other? Isee you are not happy; neither ain I. Let us try and do better. Perhaps it is partly my fault; per- haps I did not try hard enoug: you when we h to please were first married, when we were at Paris. “TI remember you did me the honer to say 1 married for your fortune,” said h, sarcastically. “Whatever I said that was wrong, forgive me. It is the misfortune of my life that I have had a fortune; it ee me suspicious. Let us forget all unkind words. But since Leigh had fallen back into such furious love for Edna, he w ard as adamant to poor Violet. «When we were married,” he said, ‘I thought there were some appearances to k up. But some women : O find out ali that they had better not ta. some gabbler en your marriage n, when he came from Homburg, and to that demon of a girl that you took for embroidery “teacher. As far as we two are concerned, the mask has fallen; why put it on again ?” “It is true,” said Violet, deeply stung, “that I am wiser than I was when I promised to marry you-—” “So? It is a new comment on the bliss of ignor- ance.” “And that we are wretched, and likely to remain wretched. “Like Eve, you have eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, and your eyes have been opened more to evil than g “But what would you GB ths Asoo tion ware true?” |’ and passion for Lord Leigh, | ness purchased by what she considered the sin of di- vorce, for the time defeated Helen’s plans. Rebuffed “LEAVE ME—NEVER SEE ME AGAIN! TILL I DIE!” I WILL DO MY DUTY - et for you to bear the consequences,” said Leigh, sharply. Violet drew herself up, a ‘crimson flush covered her lovely, sorrowful face. She would not humble herself by further pleading with this hard man His mocking laugh followed her as she moved away. Leigh was half-mad with shame, chagrin, love for Edna, and was desperate at her disappearance. The pent-up bitterness of his soul he chose to break on the first crea- ture that came in his way. Unluckily, the one destined to serve as conductor to the lightning of his rage was his hapless wife. Had it been a groom or gardener, he would have cursed, kicked, and dismissed him, and gone to dinner relieved in spirit. As it was, the one who came to greet him, unconscious as Jephtha’s daughter of the dangers of precedence, was poor Violet, and the miserable breach was widened between them. As Violet went to her room, cruelly stabbed by her husband, in a fashion of which the law takes no cogni- zance,. the laughter of Grace and Sir Tom, of Anna and Captain Gore, playing: lawn tennis, came to her. How bright life was to them! and for her, scarcely older than either of these girls, the sweetness and light were gone out of life. ; Kate looked at the haggard face and heavy eyes of her little mistress, and shook her head. “My own darling little lady, whatever is troubling you, you must not take it to heartso. Remember that all things good and evil go by, like sails upon the sea. Now I shall bring your dressing-gown and slippers, and bathe your head, and brush your hair, and you must take heart of grace, my own little mistress. Nothing is so dark that light doesn’t come after it; and think how much you have that is good—this charming weather, this grand castle, all the beautiful things you like; and whatever you wish for you have only to speak. Now, yesterday [ went for the housekeeper to——” And then, Kate, as she skillfully brushed the silken hair, with equal skill of heart began to describe scenes of pathos and poverty, of content and joy, among the tenants of the estate; and the heart of Violet was be- guiled from itself to interest in others, and to little plans for others’ good. “You can get this out of your life, my sweet Miss Vio-. let,” said Kate, ‘that you can help other people and make many happy with your money. It will cheer you up, my dear lady. We often find a deal of trouble look- ing close at ourselves, and get out of the worst of it when we reach out to other people.. I mind my grandmother had a sort of parable, that if you wanted a horse to thrive in pasture you did not tie him up with too short a tether; and that centering our joy or sorrow in ourselves did not give us room to thrive; we must get out into other folks’ lives. I express it badly, my dear Miss Vio- let, and please do not be angry with me for seeming to try to teach you,” ‘You are a true friend, Kate,” said Violet, reaching up to pat the hand that tirelessly brushed her hair; ‘‘you ey good; | must try to stop thinking at all of my- Self. “You are the sweetest lady-——” began Kate; but a ca at the coor silenced her, and Mrs. Ainslie en- red. The good lady was flushed and worried, and so evi- dently wished for conversation with her niece that Kate discreetly went away to her Bere “JT think I must take the dear girls away, Violet,” said Mrs. Ainslie. ‘I couldn’t think of having Anna get en- aged to Captain Gore, before she comes outeven. With eith it would have been different; that would have been a triumph! But Gore is getting too devoted. 1 consider it cruel of you to let Keith go as you did. Doe hear those young folks on the lawn! Anna laughs and talks as if there was no other man than Captain Gore in the world,” “Aunt,” said Violet, earnestly, ‘put Lord Keith out of your mind. 1 tell you, assuredly, that Anna has no prospect there at all, and Gore is a fine fellow, with enough to live on. Don’t bring out a store of ‘worldly maxims to preach down your daughter’s heart.’ You poy make her miserable, and misery is often wicked and reckless.” : ‘Miserable !” cried Mrs. Ainslie, holding up both her plump, ringed hands—‘miserable! with title, money, and the first society in the land! Nonsense!” “Better poverty!” cried Violet, passionately, ‘better exile, better a convent cell, better a dungeon, better death, than marriage without love. Then, truly, women are slaves.” “Why, you are happy, of course,” said her aunt. 4 Violet was silent. What use to proclaim what her aunt was too blind to see, whenit wasso plain? Should She shout her misery trom the house-top ? ‘Ts Keith engaged?’ her aunt demanded. “You would know from his mother.” “No, not engaged ; but, for some time at least, he will not think of loving any one: he loves, and has lost.” ae foreign person?” said Mrs. Ainslie, eagerly. oe a ? 7 *Dead—to him,” added Violet, with a seb under her breath. “I only tell you, aunt, so that you will drop him out of your thoughts for Anna, and not stand in the way of:an honest love. Isee that Captain Gore likes her, and he is able to support her comfortably.” “Oh, Violet, how coolly you can talk. It is not your girl, your oldest daughter, whois giving up all hope of a really splendid match, before her first season, even.” “These society speculations are as bad as a Circassian slave market,” cried Violet, indignantly. ‘You marry two who do not love, the man becomes a tyrant, the wo- man a trembling victim, their children, if there are any, are loveless, and suspicious, and despise their parents Wi three ane f | ‘ “] AM WISER THAN I WAS WHEN I PROMISED TO MARRY you !” who have been so evidently bought and sold, and yet, from the force of example, they also go on, to be sold and bought, as much as ships, or stocks, or houses, or horses! Oh, it is wicked? wicked !” “What has come over you in three or four months ?” said her wondering aunt. ‘You used to be so child-like, and you seem now—well, at times, harder, excitable, old, you say such queer things. I don’t understand ou ” Foor Violet hardly understood herself. She only knew that inwardly she rebelled against her bitter fate, and outwardly she meant to submit to it, and like Dives, in the torments of hades, she lifted up her eyes and wished to save her brethren from her own fate. Mrs. Ainslie looked down and pondered, then said: “Well, Anna shall have her choice in society before she is ee with Captain Gore, or any other un- titled man. I shall send her heme to Lindenwood to- morrow or Saturday. The Towers seems a great place for match-making, Violet; Grace and Sir Tom have set- tled their affair, and will be married at Christmas; and your cousin, Clare Mentressor, after her six useless sea- sons, is evidently going te take Colonel Hartington. I have seen Clare and the colonel watching Lord Leigh. Clare says he looks poorly. They count on the succes- sion, Violet. I hope you'll have two or three boys, and disappoint them; tor of all women I dislike your Cousin Clare, she is so supercilious to me. Is it not natural for a mother to wish to set her child where no one will dare look down on her, or vex her by such haughty manners ? { think Anna is very attractive. Don’t you? Sucha eoior! Such health! Suchalaugh! She is as I was when I was young. Well, I shall not pine over Keith, for there is the Marquis of Allwood ; he is said to be the handsomest young man in England, and he will be a duke. Who knows? Anna may secure him.” In spite of her sorrow, her disgust, at such bold ae Violet could not forbear turning her head away to laugh. Allwold! Destined to become one of the first peers of England! Allwold, in whose veins flows the most ancient blood in the three kingdoms. Aliwold’s marriage plotted for in her dressing-room! It seems simply amusing. Little Violet think of what her share should be in Allwo} marriage. “Anna shall go home. fo# “ow,” said Mrs, Ainslie, rmly. Then Violet could not help laughing aloud. CHAPTER XXXVI. “BESIDE THE BLACK POOL.” The estates of Leigh were Pre. they embraced half a county, near the Towers, together with properties acquired in other localities by purchase or marriage. Scenery, woodland, and village, bright and dark, could be found in the wide domains at the Towers. There was one spot that was ponerally eschewed, it was so dark, so desolate, so weird, sO uncanny, that it would seem only fit for the haunt of amorbid and un- balanced mind. It was the Black Pool. The Black Pool lay in a a dark fir wood. The pool itself was almost circular, and its inky waters were said to be bottomless, dank plants leaned into it from the slimy margin, no water fowl loved it, the banks were in some places high and crumbling. Beside it, stood a singular little building of two stories, each of one room, with a balcony jutting over the water. This building known as ‘‘The Earl’s Folly,” was gloomy and damp as its surroundings; ancient arms and afew antlers, with black oak tables and chairs, and some fur rugs were all -the furnishing. It was said to have been built by a long dead earl, who had become moody, and nearly mad from some secret sorrow, and died there by his own hand. Country folk said the place was haunted by his weary spirit. However it was, the legend was seldom men- tioned at Leigh, and Earl Maurice was relegated to for getfulness, and his haunt to desertion. Sometimes for a decade no one entered ‘The Folly,” and it was now falling into decay. Such a gloomy, ill-omened place, suited the wretched frame of Lord Norman Leigh’s spirit. He loved where it was sin to love, and where his love was rejected with lofty indignation ; but the very rejection, stimulated his passion. He refused the society and kindness of a wife who, however disappointed and regretful, would have made him good and happy, and would herself, with duty well fulfilled, have grown calm and partly content. But now, Lor@é Norman—as Edna had fied, and he did not know where to pore her—withdrew himself from his guests, and for hours shut himself up in gloomy, bitter musing in the upper room of ‘‘The Earl’s Folly.” He did not mention where he went; noone knew whether he were busy in his library, or riding over his estate, or calling on neighboring friends. While riding parties, and picnics, croquet, lawn tennis, archery, charades, occupied the party at the Towers, Norman was off by himself, with perhaps a ee novel of the strongest re or (lI “AMUSE ‘WHY SHOULD I STAY?” SAID NORMAN, CROSSLY, YOUR OWN GUESTS!” variety, a bottle of brandy, a bundle of cigars, and a book on such games as delighted his excitement-craying soul. This thirst, this fatal thirst, for excitement had ee born in him, a terrible inheritance from his mother. Only. old Adam knew where he went, and that by ceaseless watching, and for hours the old man reckless of rheumatism, hid waiting among the firs, lest his un- happy master should come to some harm. “Why don’t you stay with us, Norman?” said Violet, utting her hand through his arm, as they left the reakfast room. ‘‘Leave all this tedious business to your steward. Youlook poorly. Stay with us; we are ar- ranging a little masquerade ; we want your help.” «Why should I stay ?” said Norman, crossly, shakin, off her hand. ‘‘Amuse your own guests. You woul not invite a lady whom 1 wished.” “JT said afterward, to have her,” interposed Violet. “Yes, when it was too late, and then I invited Keith,” he added, looking about for a cause of war, “and you rian. «ecaésa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #= <. Ae have driven him off by your incivilities, Isuppose. When a man is not considered in his own home, he had better keep out of the way.” “Don't, Norman, please don’t talk so,” entreated Violet. ‘I want to consider you and please you, do help me, tell me just what you would like. I want to be a geod wife.” “Td like best to be let alone,” said Norman, brutally. He went off to his retreat and left Violet to prepare the masquerade with a heavy heart. But Violet had loving and merrytfriends about her. Anna was gone, but Flora Ainslie was a lively, laughter-provoking witch. less on her good behaviour than young ladies who have been regularly introduced. and often the little countess forgot all her troubles, and was very gay with her friends. Robert Browning, drawing a word-picture of a face, bestows on it a smile, but not ‘‘a laugh, for that spoils all.” But Violet’s laugh did not spoil all; it was uncon- strained asa child’s, sweet as the ripple of summer brooks, her lovely face dimpled, her eyes lit into sun- niest gleams; her laugh was the sweetest thing in all the world. Having rejected his wife’s advances, Leigh shut him- self up in his retreat, sitting in the upper room of ‘'The Folly,” and moodily gazing at a spider weaving webs in acorner. Adam had not followed him that day; long tarrying near the pool had so crippled the old servant that he could not leave his room that morning. One minute Leigh planned a search for Edna; then he lost himself in what might have been; then he consid- ered whether he should go to the Continent, to a long round of those disastrous, deadiy green tables. He would have gone at once, only there he was sure to dis- cover nothing of Edna. Then he pondered whether he should take opiates and steep himself in wild unreali- es. In this dangerous loneliness and treacherous self- tempting he had remained over an hour, when he heard the lower door, which he had never found it needful to jock, turn heavily-on its hinges, and after a little pause a Or the trailing of a gown, a woman’s foot upon the stair. His first thought was that,his wife had followed him to press her companionship upon him, and he sprang from his lounging attitude to close the door, which stood ajar, when it swung widely open, and on the threshoid stood the fine, stately figure of Helen Hope, and her dark, handsome, fatal face turned to his own. With a muttered curse, he sank back into his place and stubbornly fixed his gaze on the floor. For three or four minutes the two remained in this position, Leigh not giving way so much as to move an eyelid. Then Helen crossed the room with a switt step, knelt before him, laid her arms across his knees, and, bending her face to reach the glance of his eyes, said : “Look at me, Norman! Speak tome! Smile at me! Touch your lips to mine! For the sake of mercy, love me, 9 I am the one woman in all the world who _ loves you “Leave me, girl!” ssid Leigh, angrily. ‘With men the question is not so much whether they are loved as whether they love. Do you fancy that I love you ?” «You said you did once,” wailed Helen. «T think not; you took too much for granted; your ambition misleading you. Why do you follow me ?” “Because I love you; because you are lonely, and no one else loves you, and out of sheer loneliness and grat- itude you will turn to me. Your wife does not love you; and Edna, that moonlight, cold, white creature, never did. Some small girlish fancy was once fed by your looks and words, but it died; she cares nothing for you. She has gone merely to get rid of you. Oh, turn to me!” “{ would rather pursue Edna Ambrose, flying and scorning me, than take the sweetest words of any other woman in the world,” said Leigh, madly. “It will be in vain, allin vain,” moaned Helen. ‘She will never marry you.” “Marry! Heavens! and foot ?” “But there may be an. end, even to marriage,” said Helen, frantically. ‘Your wife might die, or she—you— you might be divorced. Then you could mayry one whose whole hope and thought would be to ee you.” Do you forget I am bound hand Leigh started as if he had been stung. Then he said, in a frenzy: ‘Death! Divorce! Marriage! Fool, do you not see that these words only suggest to me the path open to Onl | ( 7 ( ° / t (OW f yal Vall bi Le . Cea ae stde J Sah “Y WILL HAVE MY REVENGE! I WILL MARRY YOU OR DIE WITH You!” Edna? Sheis to meas dew after burning noon, as the sott breeze after the breathless Sahara, as fair flowers after snow, as spring after winter, as peace after despair, as heaven‘after hell. But you, Helen—you are too much like my own goaded, mad, desperate self.” ‘If you were free—free, would you not marry me ?” ‘“‘No, no—by Heaven, no!” AAs hones, would you do?” cried Helen, seizing both his wrists. “I would die at the feet of Edna Ambrose, unless she told me I might live for her.” “Why scorn me so? Am not I handsome, accom- plished, devoted—all that——” “That befits a Lord of Leigh, ancestry and all ?” sneered Leigh. “Villain! I am your equal. I am good enough for you. I am as good as your mother. Am I more ad- venturess than she? I know the blood out of which you sprung.’ : “Good or bad, low or high, it is all one, as far as you are concerned. Your very pursuit sickens me. The more I see you, the more I loathe you.” Helen sprang to her feet with a cry like the scream of some wounded wild creature. “I will have my revenge,” she said. “I will marry you, or die with you! I will bring you to my level some- how, Lord of Leigh, so that all the world shall know, Beware a woman’s vengeance! It shall fall on you like lightning. From to-day I dedicate myself to such a pursuit that it shall end at your side—at the altar or the grave !” ; (TO BE CONTINUED.) -~e-~« A STRANGE CEREMONY. At the obsequies of Alfonso a singular and imposing ceremony took place, which is always observed at the interment of the kings of Spain. When the religious rites had been celebrated, the body of the monarch was borne on a magnificent catafalque, and followed by the officers of state, the grandees of Spain, and the princes of all the provinces, out of the palace of the Escurial to the monastery, in whose vaults all the Castilian kings are entombed. The gate was locked. The High Cham- berlain knocked three times. The face of a monk ap- ae 5 at the opening. ‘Who seeks to enter ?” he said. ‘Alfonso XII., King of Spain,” was the reply. ‘Ts the king dead?” The chief physicians and the principal officers then presented their certificates that he was dead, and the - gates rolled slowly back to admit the king who came to join the eternal sleep of his ancestors. When the final prayers of the church had been said, the coffin was borne to the vault, and laid upon a stone table. The lid was removed, and the face of the king un- covered. The principal hidalgoin the kingdom, who was also the favorite of the king, and who had loved him as a brother, then went down into the vault, and eae put his mouth to the ear of the corpse, calling oud: © «Senor !” The grief of the summoner gave to his voice, it is said, a pain and despair which wrung the heart of all who heard. It was not only aking, but a dear friend, whom he demanded back from death. “Senor! Senor!” After the third call he rose and said : “There is no reply. Thekingisdead. He will return no more, 'The Queen Mercedes reigns.” In no country but Spain, we. are told, could so signifi- cant a ceremonial have been observed with such fit and somber splendor. > o ~« A HEART CRUSHED WIDOW. A young widow relates the sad accident which be- reaved her of her dear partner in life; ‘‘We were on our way to Batignolles. A street car collided with our *bus on the Boulevard de Clichy ; a wheel came off. We were sitting outside. With aloud scream we both fell to the ground. When they came to pick us up the found my husband crushed to death and my watc broken all to pieces.” The lady then adds pathetically, “And it was quite a new one!” THE CHAIN OF LIFE. BY M. C. D. *Tis like a chain, this life of ours, With links of years, and days, and hours. A marvel strange ’twould be, I think, Could we but view it link by link. The golden links of childhood Begin the mystic chain ; Then youth's of brightest silver, Untarnished by a stain. Next, some of doubtful luster, Some metal dull and hard, And some fair links of beauty That sin has sadly marred. — Some have been chased with gladness, Alternate hope and fear, While many links—ah, pity !— Are jeweled with a tear. And selfishness and envy, Strife, malice, discontent, On far too many shapely links Have left an ugly dent. A few short days of sunshine, Long, weary ones of pain, — Are traced upon ios or links Of this most gala S chain. "Tis sunshine, shadow, hope, and fear, Be short or long the time-forged chain. But, ah, its dullest link could be Without a dent, or spot, or stain. (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.} THAT DOWDY. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of ‘*The Forsaken Bride,’ “Two : “Stella Rosevelt,” etc. \“THat Dowpy” was commenced in No. 50. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) 2 CHAPTER XVI. ALLAN BECOMES A WESTERN M. D. For a moment she stood there gazing in blank aston- ishment at Miss Frothingham, her face very pale, a strange light in her wonderful eyes. Then she suddenly recovered her self-possession. It was seldom that Blanch Van Ausdel was thrown off her guard like this, seldom that she gave expression to any emotion, however powerful, without first estimating its effects on uthers ; and now a feeling of dismay took pos- session of her at having betrayed so much before Allan Livingstone’s aunt. et’ But her active mind was equal to the emergency, and she retreated from her uncomfortable position with a tact and grace that must have won the admiration of the prince of strategy himself. She dropped upon her knees beside her companion, and, grasping her hands, said ina trembling, regretful voice : “Oh, Miss Frothingham why did you not tell me this before? HowI must have pained him!—howI must have pained you all with my thoughtless gayety! I have laughed and jested with you all as if I believed you had not acare or sorrow in the world. ae things I never should have said if I had known of this, ‘ “My dear child,” returned the guileless lady, pitying the beautiful girl’s evident distress, ‘do not blame your- self so needlessly, for, truly, you have hel to make some otherwise dark hours pass very pleasantly. It was quite providential our meeting you on the way, and you have done us all good.” “It is very kind of you to say so,” Blanch answered, in an humble tone; but with averted eyes and flushed cheek, she continued: ‘Will you not tell me about your trouble, please ?” Miss Frothingham thought her very lovely and sym- pathetic, and, complying with her request, told her something of Gertrude’s history, of her early marriage to Alian, of his long residence abroad to study for his profession, of the death of his mother and the sad tragedy connected with Gertrude, together with Allan’s return to a house of mourning and desolation. She, of course, suppressed everything of an unpleasant nature in this recital; but, as she proceeded, Miss Van Ausdel gradually resumed her’ customary calmness. The startled, troubled look faded from her eyes, the flush from her cheeks; for, with her keen perception, she readily saw that Allan Livingstone must have mar- ried that young girl because of some necessity for the union. She conjectured that something in this narra- tive had been held back from _ her. skeleton in the house somewhere, and she did not be- lieve the bereaved young husband was utterly heart- broken over his loss. “It is all very sad,” she said, gently, when Miss Froth- ingham concluded; ‘and you have dearly loved this young girl, whom you say was so beautiful. Have you a picture of her, dear Miss Frothingham? I should like to see it so much.” She was very anxious to know just how beautiful Gertrude Livingstone had been, and to compare her own charms with hers. ‘No, dear ; and that is one of our deepest regrets, for she had changed so much during Allan’s absence that we wish he could know just how she looked. But my sister could never persuade her to sit for a picture ; she would not have any taken.” “Would not ?” repeated Miss Van Ausdel, in surprise, and with a strange flash in her eyes. “No; she had been rather plain as a child, and her likenesses then were very unsatisfactory, and she was extremely sensitive regarding them. She was still very young when Allan went away—only sixteen, as I told you, and very immature; but she developed wonder- fully during the four years of his absence, and I have thought she refused to have any pictures taken in order to keep this fact from him and give him a pleasant sur- prise upon his return.” Miss Frothingham began to feel that she had been led into saying too much, although she had tried to be guarded ; but this beautiful girl seemed so sympathetic and interested, she had won her confidence more fully than perhaps was best for astranger. She resolved to say no more, however, and changed the subject, but what she had not told, Miss Van Ausdel was sharp enough to surmise. She even began to think there must have been very little love connected with that early marriage, at least upon Allan’s part. The girl had been plain at that time, and even though she might have grown as beautiful as an houri during his absence, there was nothing to show for it, since there was no picture of her, and he could not, therefore, realize the fact. Blanch Van Ausdel had been very strongly attracted toward the handsome young doctor. She had been in society for three years; she had been an acknowledged beauty and belle during that time, and had many admirers at her feet; but she had her ideal, and she had resolved she would never marry until she met the man who fully came up toit. The moment she savy Allan Livingstone in the car at Chicago something within her had instantly and in- stinctively said, ‘hou art the Man,” and every hour spentin his society since had only tended to develop that feeling. It had been a terrible blow when she learned that he had been married, and, as we have seen, it nearly threw her off her balance. It had been her boast that she should stand first and foremost in the affections of the man to whom she gave herself, and =ow the only one who had ever. had power to touch her heart had already won and lost a wife. However, her distress was somewhat mitigated upon learning the circumstances connected with his mar- riage, and she had become too deeply interested in him } to allow that fact alone to disturb her to any serious ex- tent. Allan returned to the room before her departure, and when she arose to go, offered to accompany her. She thanked him with one of her brilliant smiles, a faint flush of pleasure suffusing her cheeks, and a light come in her eyes that he had never seen there be- ore. 3 The young girl took an affectionate leave of Miss Frothingham, and then went away, attended by her distinguished looking escort. “They are a splendid looking couple,” sighed the elder lady as they passed her window. girl, and will make some one a beautiful wife.” Miss Van Ausdel was unusually reserved on her. wa, home; there was a gentle gravity in her manner toward Allan that struck him as somewhat peculiar, while, at the same time, he was not sure but that she was even more charming thus than when giving vent to her ex- uberant spirits. ‘‘Will you come in, Dr. Livingstone ?” she asked, when they reached her friend’s door. “Thanks, I must not; we leave early in the morning, and I have two or three commissions from Aunt Marcia, which must be attended to immediately, so I must take my leave of you here.” She gave him her faultlessly gloved hand, and lifted grave, regretful eyes to his face. “I do not believe I need tell you that T am sorry to say . good-by,” she said, a suspicion of tremulousness in her sweet voice. ‘You and your friends made my journey hither so pleasant, and the two or three weeks that we have vo together here, also, that Iregret to part with you. I hope we shall meet again some time.” I have said There had been a . “She is a charming | 2 an Gittinth J. ban. ) 3 VOL, 42—No. 4. «.<. THE YOUNG MAN WEAKENED. A young lawyer of Ellaville, Ga., bantered a young woman at a social gathering to marry him. To his evi- dent surprise she told him to get the license. He wouldn’t be bluffed, and. got the license at once, while nothing of the joke, and when the pair entered the arminarm he thought it strange that the spectators laughed. But he began solemnly, while the party won- dered which of the two would weaken first, and the contracting parties. each wished that the other would ask the minister-to stop. When the first question was far enough, and he brok young woman’s relief. _ THE AIR OF THE SEA. e ranks and fied, much to the The air of the sea, taken at a great distance from land or even on the shore and in ports when the wind blows from the open, isin an almost perfect state of purity. Near continents the land winds drive before them an at- mosphere always impure, but at about half a mile from the coasts this impurity has disappeared. The sea rapidly purifies the pestilential atmosphere of conti- nents; hence every expanse of water of a certain breadth becomes an absolute + le to the propaga- tion ot epidemics. Marine atm traverse. Oe Cc. C. SHAYNE, manufacturer of Sealskin Gar- ments and Fashionable Furs, will retail at lowest cash wholesale prices this month.. Send for Pri . Prince street, New York. 522 Nicollett avenue, Minneapolis, | “If I could only hear water, and get the horse to take. to it, I could throw the devils off my trail!” he mut- — The horse heard more than water, and he stood stock- something struck him and his senses left him entirely. — others of the party sent for a clergyman. He’ knew heres driven upon land: purify sensibly the air of the regions avalon they’ $33 2 help, I'll freeze to death or starve on his back. Thisis — water, then for an instant it seemed to him as if he - os asked the young man,concluded that the affair had gone , a: seme te eae he ene i wrecks « ; f b pee a. elt on mele ee i eee VOL. 42—No, 4 THE PEARL OF PE ACE. BY W. WILSEY MARTIN. A bivalve feeding in the warm salt sea Draws inward, with the wave, a sandy grain, Which, not returning with.the wave again, Remains henceforth its secret griet bs be. Day after day, so sea-wise folk The creature hides it in a dew- re rain Of ceaseless tears, till, hardened out of pain, A precious pearl is fashioned perfectly. From outer seas of passion, seas of strife, There drifts at times upon the human heart A secret rankling grief that day by day We cover with the bitter tears of life, Till, wrought of pain from out our nobler part, The pe of peace remains with us alway. NB 5 tp ive STORY WILL NOT BE PUSLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] AVIS GREY, THE DAUGHTER OF THE CRAFT, A Story of the Mystic Tie. BY WALTER HORTON. (“Avis Gury” was commenced in No. 48. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXXVII. FINKEY’ S STRATEGY. When Dick left the house he began. whistling in a low,. rambling sort of way as it plunged in deep perplexing And he was perplexed. “Here he was once more a hunted fugitive, for he knew full well that he had been recognized, and would be now sought for by every de- tective and policeman in the city. And yet he never needed full liberty of action more than now in order to be of service to Avis, Perhaps if he had not been sodeepin thought he would have noticed two men watching him from the other side of the street. “Ah,” exclaimed one of them, under his breath, “whistle away, my fine gentleman; you'll whistle an- other tune to-morrow or I'm mistaken, T'll be even with you for that trick.” “Well,” said the other man, ‘‘what’s to be done? Fol- low him any more 2” “No, sir. Is the girl I'm after. Now, yout oe the a who ses that second story, t e ¢ sere. » find “and You can si é the Saying: ; “What's the name ? 27 ‘“‘Remsen.” “Well, you erie up, knock at the door, a ask, as if your life were at Stake, if Remsen lives there. When he says yes, shove this int , hand, and say, ‘for Miss Avis.’ Shell probably f you atonce, but if not, make up the best story you can about Dick being very urgent, and all that.” “T think I can doit.” “Five hundred dollars nal if you do. m “This letter’s trom Dick, eh [post you somehon ji ure Avis wept convulsiv ‘ely for af then dried her eyes with a resolute ned-n ot to give way. keep you company.’ Avis turned to he’ young girl, whose Beene eyes were laughin Pate. aia her sympathetic tears, and tak- an re all so good ‘ me. | =" is long, long since I wae felt so home-like.” . ‘Nobody could help being g _ ly,” erfed Bessie, the © you,.you're so love- Eh t me ig Adopt F you tor the barga J > “youll worry | vis, ‘‘she does me e ar. I may call you, fis. Call me so, pl d your hand 2” aie fon’t know how hungry 2» maw te oe ite me. ly they were becoming to her work, as it of course. — oe ook had andy displaced the despair- hunted expression which had been so painful in her , and nd Mrs. Re msen was about to suggest retiring, rac a hurried step on the stairs, followed by a quick knock at the door, interrupted her. “Mr. Remsen live here?” demanded the man, the mo- met _- “en ae this to Miss Avis Grey at once.” t can it be ?” cried Avis, springing quickly nd snatching the note from the man’s hand. it open and ran her eye over it. It read: man you dread is on your track. Follow the ger atonce. He will conduct you to a place,of s DIcK.” “Oh, I must go! I must go!” wailed Avis. ‘‘Good-by !” And before the startl family knew what she was doing, she had hurried after the man. . door was open. CHAPTER XXXVIIL. THE ENEMY FOILED. Up to this time Mr. Remsen had with great. tact re- frained from talking to Avis. When she had looked at him he had retained her glance with a kindly smile, but that was all. Now, however, it seemed to him it was his time to in- terfere. He sprang after the fleeing girl, and catching her by the arm, said, kindly: “Do not be too hasty. Dick has confided you to our care: Weare at least worthy of sufficient trust to be told why you Jeave us so suddenly.” “Oh, do not detain me!” she panted. may come at any moment.” «Who may come? Nobody shall take you from us un- less you wish to go.” “Leave her alone,” said the messenger, who dreaded any explanation. ‘Dick knows what he’s doing, and he says tor her to gO with me.” “You hear ? “Did the note come from Dick ?” inquired Mr. Rem- sen, whose suspicions were not allayed by the man’s manner. “Yes. You may read it,” said Avis. : Mr. Remsen gently led Avis back to the room and glanced over the note. Mf may be from Dick,” he said. “Ido not know ig.” “Of course it’s his writing ; whose else would it be ?” said the man, angrily. “I must go. He “I know his writing,” spoke up Bessie, with a singular |) ene on her oe face. ‘Let me see it.” | ere!” exclaimed the man, instantly . avs the use of allthis talking? If the aay wants to be caught, let her stay. Dick told O° back quick.” 1 will go!” cried Avis, whose fear of }- r. Mapleton was such as to overmaster all me | meets reason. “This is not Dick’s writing,” declared Bessie. “How do you know ?” demanded her father, quickly. “I have a scrap in his writing, Shall 1 get it »” Again she flushed to the roots of the hair, but nobody noticed it. “Never mind, if you are sure.” “T am sure.” “Miss Avis, this is some trick, and I cannot let you go witb this man.’ * tins ze ou will, too,” threatened the man. “Oh, what shall I do 2?” cried Avis, piteously. “You shall stay hére,” said Mr. Remsen, decidedly. “Poor child, you are not fit to judge for yourself, and I will do so for you.” “Look heré, now,” growled the mafifdetermined to have Avis at any risk, ‘don't you interfere with me, or bo wit eet hurt. The girl's Vgoing with me. Come long.” “Come on, wate caught her by the arm, but in an instant his hand was thrown off by Mr. Remsen, while Avis was quickly drawn back and sheltered by Mrs. Remsen and Bessie. ni! of this room, sir, instantly!” said Mr. Rem- Sena hol ; e goes with me,” was the answer, ine a bullying An an He was a much larger man than Mr. Remsen and in- finitely stronger, and he had, made up his mind to have Avis it he vere obliged to.resort to force, _. “Call for the police, Bessie!” cried Mrs. Remsen. Instantly Bessie ran to the window, and, throwing it up, was about to cry out, when the man, striking say- ay at Mrs. Remsen, in a spirit of revenge, ran from the roThe blow fortunately fell short, but it struck the brave little man full in the face, and: almost knocked him down. Mrs. Remsen and Bessie > Fan quickly to him, but he declared it was a small matte. 4 Soa time before I cc THE NEW YORK WER: “So that Dick’: 8 , friend ia bate: - he said, “ woulan’ t care if he’d hit me a dozen times. You believe now, Miss Avis, do you not, that the mamwas an impostor ?” “Yes, sir; and you will never realize my gratitude until you know what I have suffered,” faltered Avis. Pale and weak, she had sunk almost fainting on the sofa. The thought that her enemies worked ceaselessly nearly drove her to distraction. She wondered vaguely if she never again might have rest and peace of mind. “Evidently you have determined enemies, Miss Avis,” said Remsen: ‘‘but they will find that you have equally determined friends.” “Thank you, thank you. You won’t let anybody take me, will you ?” : «Poor child! no. Now go to bed. Dick will be here in the morning, and he will know how to guard against such troublesome visitors in the future.” “Come,” said Bessie, caressingly; ‘“‘you shall sleep in my arms, and nobody shall disturb you even in your dreams.” **My dear,” said Mr. Remsen to his wife, when the two girls were gone, ‘‘I guess you'd better put a wet ban- dage on my head. It is beginning to ache.” “Well, it’s no wonder, after the blow that scoundrel gave you; and,mercy on me, Hiram! why, you'll have two black eyes to-morrow, as sure as you live!” “Do you think so?” ; t black now.” “Why, they’re “Well, then, selcan’t go to lodge meeting to- morrow night, ’m sorry for that.” * * * 4 * * * = = It was some time atter leaving Dr. Raspel’s before either Captain Gerald or Mr. Mapleton spoke. At last and *| the latter broke the silence, Saying, bitterly : “There seems to be an overpowering tate in this, | Gerald.” “Not so. Your great anxiety makes you the more easily disheartened. As forme,” he spoke sternly. «I have a triple interest at stake, and I tell you she shall be found, and ey ily. AS aman, as a detective, and as a brot, ie craft, I speak.” “Tt know othe : but we have a in motion already a tremendous force, and it has fail “Ay, but there ’ yet. note re to-morrow night that shall:be appeal “What mean you ? Not ‘he Whispered in his com- panion’s ear. 2 | phate and nothing else.” had thought of that, but,” his voice took on a tone of lofty. yet pathetic dignity, “our noble order must _hever be bent to Selfish ends, no matter how urgent the “necessity may seem “Pardon me, Ethelbert Ma leton.” . Captain Gerald’s tone was no less dignified. ‘‘You cannot forget that you are Avis Grey’s lover. As such you do well to hesitate at such a step, but I—I only remember that Avis Grey is under our sacred protection—the daughter of the craft. We owe i to ourselves and her.” “So mote it be,” whispered Ethelbert Mapelton, a thrill of fons lightening his heavy heart. CHAPTER XXXIX. .- 9 , MAKING READY FOR FINKEY. Dick aid not know that Finkey had escaped. He sup- posed him on his’way to, or already safely esconsed in, the Tombs. He was certain, however, that the sly little man could easily evade the law now that Avis could not be brought against him, and Dick dreaded him almost more than the combined detective force. “Tll make things safe in that quarter first,” he said to himself, “and then I'll try to hunt up some good place in the country for poor Miss Avis. These devils must have wrung her very heart-strings to have made her what she is. Oh! I’d give ten years of my life; ay! all of it that’s left, for there’s but one thing I’d care to live for, and I mustn’t think of that; she’ll always be beyond me. Iffcould fathom that mystery about Mapleton! Ah, Dick, my boy, it’s an odd fate that pursues you. You love a woman, and yet must only try to make her happy by getting another husband for her. Then again, and it’s something of a joke, too, when you look at it right, herel am bent and determined on becom- ing honest, and in the very act of it obliged to make my- self out a worse villain than ever. Thank God, Dick, you’ve nothing worse than burglary on your soul, though it’s small credit to yourself for it. Ah, here we are, and now to cajole that brute of a Jack.” He had no difficulty in being admitted this time, for Jack had done little else but inquire for him: ever since his last visit. “Oh, you’ve come, hey ?” was his surly greeting, “Yes, I'v: e, and I’ve news for you, Jack, that’ll make you eT very profanest language. You may rememb¢ you Finkey wanted to marry the girl _ “Well, ‘that’s as nearly as Doe what he’ s done.” «“Wha-at !” yelled Jack, ‘married her ? “Isn't that what you ‘call it When a man and woman stand up before a minister and say they’ll take each other for better and for worse.” “I s’pose so; but look here now, Dick, jest stow that highfalutin’ lingo. and come down to plain talk, 48 Finkey married ?” - “Tl tell you whatd heard, Jack, and voy can judg well as I can.” oat aS ‘i «“Wa-al, go on, on 5 plit on no frills. course # been on thes of getting in and out.. But I did at last, and none too soon, either, for what does Finkey do to- -night but go for a tinister. I tumbled to that right away.” “How “OW, ened drugged the girl Bless you she wouldn’t pean hat carrion if she had her senses. Well, Il was in w then. There was Iall alone. If I'd only had you, Jack, we’d have walked into them betore — had time to wink, oe t” cats “You bet lg 7 “However, I 0 the house. bythe secret. wast and after a deal of w them all go down stairs. 1 got up by the ba re ‘so’s 1 could hear over the balusters what w “going: on, and, bless you, who d’ye think I ran right into?” | “How sh'd I know ?” “Madame Le Claire.” “Wha-at! I thought she was dead long ago.” “So did I, and hoped so, too. She made me what I am. Well, she was going to scream, of course, so I suddenly checked the fiow of air in her w ene. and she changed her mind about screaming. I took her into a room and told her to take a good look at me. She did, and when she knew me she nearly died of fright.” “Why ?” “Oh, she hadn’t treated me right, and I s’ thought I'd kill her. thing away; how the girl was drugged and how to eur her and all that. 1 ister was asking the girlif she'd take Finkey tobe husband I made madame yell. Then I gagged quickly and waited.” “What for?” “For just what happened. Dr. Raspel, Finkey’s brother and her husband came tearing,up stairs. He yelled murder. I let him on purpose to draw the others up. Of course I was allready with my gags and ropes, and lhad him tied before he was through yelling. Then Finkey and Big Joe came along, and [laid them out as nicely as you please. After that I’d have had plain sailing, only the detectives came and showed their bad manners by breaking the door down.” ‘An’ you hadn’t got away ?” “No; but as soon as the door was down 1 picked the girlup andran. They after me, and as the odds were too heavy, they caught me. Ofcourse, I dropped her to save my self. No use, you know, to try to fight five men. “So she got away, after all.” “Oh, yes, she’s with friends now, and I tell you what it is, Jack, she can stay there, for allofme. What I came here for was in hopes Finkey would come to you now for help, and I wanted to lay my hands on him.” “Don’t you touch ‘im, Dick,” growled Jack. “Why won’tl? D’ye think I’m going to let him off when I’ve a grudge against him, just because you say so? No, sir.” Dick assumed a fierce, blustering air. “I tell ye, don’t ye touch ‘im. He’s my game fust, Dick. Wait till T m through with ’im, an’ then you can have what’s left.” “Well,” acquiesced Dick, with seeming reluctance, ‘I s’pose that’s only fair, seeing how he’s played you for such a fool.’ “Tl play him,” snarled Jack. “The only thing is,” said Dick, “youre so tender- hear ‘ted that Finkey ‘ll get to talking and come it over you. _ “He'll have to talk quick, then, that’s all,” growled Jack, with a savage twist of the jaw. “There,” exclaimed Dick, with a grunt of disgust, as he left Jack, “I hope’s that’s the last Ill have.to do with him. Bless my soul, but it’s strange how dainty.a man grows when he turns honest! I used to be hand and glove with him: but, to be sure, Il wasn’t often sober then. But there’s one disadvantage in being honest. I could have made out a worse case for Finkey if I’d only lied a little. However, I never was much of aliar. I guess it’s generally your coward who makes the liar.” The singular man, soliloquizing thus, made his way to another den, where he was well known, and procured a ‘| bed for the night. *Confound the luck,” he muttered, as he laid down, “that makes me come toaplace like this. IfI only knew the mystery about Map. eton, I could walk forth in the light of day. Great guns!” He almost shouted the exclamation, and sprang up with a sort of exultation, in bed. “A dollar to a cent,” he went on, excitedly, “that Finkey’s at the bottom of it, somehow: and it he is, Madame Le Claire will know. And ifshe knows I’ve only to find her, to know myself. Dear one, it only I were not. an honorable man now, [could solye the difficulty in an easier way than that. I'd go straight to Mapleton. I'll Stake my—my new found honesty he’s as true and worthy @ man as lives; butIcan’t do it, for ’mina way bound to Miss Avis to keep it sph So it’s Madame Le Claire, then.” CHAPTER XL. THAT MUCH! TOWARD HONESTY. When Dick awoke the next morning he beyan to make a plan of the day’s operations. He had finished dressing, and was going down stairs, when a look of consternation fixed itself on his face, and he stopped, exclaiming : “Forgot the whole city would be looking forme. Now, whatll Ido? I must go out tobe of the least use to Miss Well, ot silt ; Ould quite get the secret to his way | Anyhow I made her give the w hole : Tay @ a Then I tied her, and just as.the | nin D Av re Itt t oiity ube how to ‘Gezitin myself, butI don’t. lave it.” He opened the door, and going to the balusters, oes out “Charlie! 1 say, Charlie!” A door into the lower hall opened, and 4 voice an- swered : “What is it? Who wants me ?” “Come up here, Charlie. Right away.” AS soon as the man recognized Dick’s voice he lost no time in mounting the stairs. “Charlie,” said Dick. “where's that poor devil you used to have around here to siug and dance for you ?” “He’s still here.” ““At this very minute ?” “Yes. Want him 2?” “Hold on a minute. gy 4 He used to be an actor, didn’t «Yes, and a good one: but drink downed him.” “It will any man, Charlie. Send him up.” A miserable-looking wretch shambled into Dick’s room a tew minutes later. “Old man,” said Dick. looking at him with a pitying eye. ‘‘I want to be disguised so my best friend wouldn’t know me. Can you doit?” “Certainly, with the materials.” ‘You can buy the materials, can *t you?’ “With money, yes.” “How much ?” “Ten dollars will do it well.” “Here’s the money; and look here. I want something simple. I’m no actor, and | must have something as easy as can be to be good.” “You could act if you tried,” said the man, studying him closely. ‘I guess you'll make up best for a minister with glasses. Spectac les are.a.tremendous disguise, without seeming to be.” «Hurry, then, will you, please ?” “While I’m gone shave off your mustache ; that'll be a disguise, too.” Dick made a grimace at this. He had a handsome brown mustache, and was not above taking some pleas- ure in it. “‘All right,” he said, however; ‘‘and I suppose it would disguise me still more tocut my nose off: but I draw the line there. Send up shaving materials as you pass through the bar:” The man laughed at Dick’s speech and went out. By the time Dick had shaved, he had returned with a rather seedy black coat and yest ot the high-buttoned, ministerial style. “You want just a trifle of brown at the corners of your mouth for the sake of proper sanctity, a little black and white around the eyes for studiousness, and a few faint streaks on the nose for secre h living,” said the man, with a kind of grim humor of his own. “Speak more respectfully of the cloth,” sniffied Dick. The man stopped his work and looked up admiringly. “Ah! [ knew you could do-it,” he said. “Not too much paint,” said Dick. _“Wait till ’m thr ough, and if you can tell there’s paint on eke Tl rub it off.” he had finished on Dick’s face and had given a eve brusbes to his hair, he made him change his clothes before allow ing him to look at himself. “There,” said he, at last, ‘“my reverend friend, look at yourself.” - Well, I declare,” said Dick, ‘‘but that’s good—that’s very good! How much for your services, professor 2?” “T only paid nine dollars for the things—the change will do me.” “Upon my word,” cried Dick, ‘‘you’re an honest man, asl live!” He stared at him a moment, and demanded: “Have you always been honest ?” “Ah,” said the man, bitterly, thinking Dick was gibing him. ‘‘you think because I serve a rogue I can’t be hon- est. There’s your money!” He threw it on the floor. «J couldn’t well be honest and take that, not knowing how it was gained.” Dick looked at the man and then at the money. Then he spoke too feelingly to be misunderstood. “You thought I was mocking you. I wasn’t. I only was wondering how you could be honest, living as you do in the very ‘midst Of criminals.” The man shrugged his shoulders and stooped to pick up the money. Dick put his foot on it, and said : “Don’t touch it. I stole that money from one of the banks. God helping me, you shall take an honest dollar from me some day. Until then be my creditor. And give me your hand; you’ve done me a service to-day that makes me your debtor for more than one dollar.” “Heaven forgive me!” he murmured, when the man was gone. ‘I have been spending stolen money for Avis Grey. I did not think, or 1 would not have done it. Not a cent more of it goes so. Ill use honest money or none tor her, or myself either, in the future.” Dick walked as rapidly as possible out of and away from the den, and went at once toa drug store, where he bought. a Sheet ot paper, an envelope, and two stamps. * He wrote. “restitution” on the paper, wrapped all his money in if, and placed it in the envelope, which he di- rected to one of the national banks. “There,” he said, with asigh of relief, as he dropped the env in the mail-box, ‘‘that much toward hon- OSL. 4 z CHAPTER XLII. __ ANYTHING TQ. Dick now ae eane his way, as quick Remsen’s. Intending to tr his. slowly at the door, and wl Remsen, said, in a sniffing «Does Mr. Remsen live h “He does,” came the ansv Dick looked up 8 at SI both eyes preien a0 However, h necked the the 8 and . ent o é yo et eat ee . es, sil. be aX > ly as possible, to the guise. he knocked was opened by Mrs. e a ‘@ that Avis not vis Tey am told,” he pale: “that uae are acquaint man who ey es hi me as Dick ?” seg es, sir. “Well, this fellow ik has brought you a young lady whom he wishes to be contided to my Care.’ He endeay fed 4 ush past. Mrs. R good ao a eld Signed whi suddenl "room, birt or I will shoot 0 Dies ah ‘ait’ Of regotution that st. sen, but that e Mr. Remsén Lae as extremely puzzled to know ch singular conduct. He hesitated a aking himself known, and Mr. Remsen, ghtfulness, misinterpreted it, and ried : “Yo ou i heel WASte- no explanations on me, sir. Getout at once.”’ “Papa,” interposed Bessie, who had been looking at the hew-comer with a puzzled expression, ‘please “put your pistol down.” She gently pushed his arm down, and then going over closer to Dick, looked searchingly at him. “Ah,” she cried, gleefully, “I found you out, you rogue. He’safriend of mine, mamma. Let him in, Come, in, sir.” To the amazement of her parents, and to Dick’s chagrin, she dragged him merrily into the room, and exclaimed : * «Why, papa, mamma, didn’t you ever hear me speak of my friend, the Reverend Mr. Richard? These are my parents, Mr. Richard. You’ll like them when you know them better.” And, to the horror and dismay of her parents, she danced around Dick, crying: “Isn’t it splendid? What did you do it for” “Bessie !” said Mr. Remsen, sternly. “Oh, but, papa. it’s too good! Do tell them who you are ?” she ee to Dick. ; “You may tell them,” he answered. “Why, Popsy!” the light-hearted girl cried.. ‘‘Take a real good look at him. Who's the best friend you have in the world ?” Mr. Remsen looked incredulously at Dick, and shook his head. “Tmpossible !” he said. a te possible, and moreover true,” said Dick, re- moving his spectacles and speaking in his natural tone. “T declare, it’s Dick!” exclaimed Mrs. Remsen. “Of course it’s Dick,” said Bessie, proudly ; ‘‘and isn’t ‘it perfect 2” “Not so perfect but you saw through it.” “Oh, ’d know you anyhow,” she answered, in a tone of conviction that made Dick glance quickly at her. “But what does it mean, Dick ?” asked Mr, Remsen. “It means thatI am w atched, and have to disguise myself in order to be of any service to Miss Avis. But what do you mean by going so savagely on the war- path? Why, you looked positively dangerous with that deadly weaponin your hand. And then your eyes! Come, tell me about it ?” a Remsen told Dick all that had occurred, and added : “So I bought a pistol this morning, and meant to use it.” “And I suppose,” said Dick, ‘that you keep Miss Avis out of the way now ?” “Yes; she and Bessie will stay together in the back room hereatter. It was fortunate that Bessie knew your writing, wasn’t it 2?” ‘It was so,” answered Dick, turning curiously to her. “How did you happen to know it ? “Why,” Said Mrs. Remsen, innocently, ‘she has a note of yours she has always kept.” “A note of mine? When did I ever write you a note, Bessie?” © “It isn’t to me; it’s to ta the note you wrote to fe. As She spoke she blushed consciously, and her hand nervously sought the bosom of her dress as if making sure that some precious object was there. A pang shot through Dick’s heart, and he almost groaned aloud. «Heaven help her!” he thought, ‘she loves me.” Not in egotism, but in the most abject self-abasement, he thought it. “Oh, why did I not spare the poor child this sorrow ? If I had only told them at the outset what sort of wretch I was, this could not have happened. But it is not too late yet. She shall know. It will shock her, but it will cure. How could she love such asI? I should think her pure heart would have revolted at the very thought.” apa. Don’t you remember im the night you saved my All this had passed through his mind like a flash, and . Remsen sul osolutely ba barred the way, and Rick. | Sell him for that. | for him. even Bessie, who devoured him with her eyes, did not suspect that he had discovered her secret. “I would like to see Miss Avis,” he said, abruptly. «Alone ?” “Please. I have some important matters to talk over Ndr Poor young lady, she has been sadly perse- cute ‘She is very sweet,” suggested Bessie, timidly. “Is She not ?” exclaimed Dick, involuntarily. and then could have bitten his tongue out ; for he saw by Bessie’s sudden pallor, and a little gasp she gave, that she had discovered his secret. Mrs. Remsen’s entrance to tell him that Avis would see him in the back room, saved both Bessie and him from confusion. Avis had been prepared for Dick's disguise, and there- fore greeted him without any show of surprise. “Thad to do it on account of the detectives,” he ex- nar Then he said: ‘‘You look better already, Miss Avis “They are so good to me,” she answered; ‘and if it had not been for last night’s attempt, I think-I should be as happy as I ever shall be. But that trigntened me. I could not endure their tortures again. Iam not as strong as I was, though I try to be brave.” He dashed a tear from hiseye. Her simple pathos was heart-rending. “They shail never have you in their power again, Miss Avis. Iam now going to take steps to render Finkey harmless. After that I will find some place in the country for you, and perhaps Bessie could go with you for a while.” “You are very good to me,” she said, simply. He looked at her as he might have looked at one of God’s angels, and cried out: ‘Ah, Miss.Avis, if I am good to you, it is because you have made it possible tor me to be good. I must ‘tell you—I did not intend to, but I feel that I cannot help it. You found mea wretch sunk to the lowest depths of degradation—a common thief. Once I was a gentle- man by birth and education, and 1 suppose I was the worse for that reason. At any rate, I could hardly have been lower than when you saw me. Then by your goodness you saved me, if Ican be saved. I have put all that I was behind me, and nowJ only ask for any opportunity to be honest and live.. Honest at least I will be. And it is you who have done it.” “Tam So glad.” She held out her hand to him. He took it and kissed it reverently, saying : “You must believe now that I am devoted to your happiness, since Iowe you so much.” “I have never doubted it,” she answered, sweetly. “Then let me ask you once more, Miss Avis——” “No, no. If it is about him, it will be useless. Listen.” Her voice trembled, but she struggled to becalm. “I will tell you this much, for I know you are my true friend. What I know of—of—him. I know from his own lips. Oh, please, please,” she cried, with sudden excitement, ‘never speak of it again. Can you suppose ita whim? Do you think I would give him up lightly when he was all 1 had to live for? Oh, Heaven! I loved him so. “Forgive me, Miss Avis, forgive me, please,” he cried, alarmed at her passion. ‘I meant only kindness. know men so well, and since I saw him I felt that he Was one of the best and noblest of men, and I could not understand. Iwill net urge it again. Please be “ =: = 2 | calm.” “Forgive me,” she said. kindness.” “Thank you. Now I will leave you, and it may be that I shall not see you again for a week. In the mean- time have no tear of Finkey. I shall be able to prevent “T know you meant only | any harm from him, so be easy from alarming thoughts and try toregain your old strength and courage. W ys Miss Avis, that night you ran away from Jack’s den, I thought you were the bravest woman I’d ever seen.’ “Perhaps I shall be strong and brave again; but I have been through so much.” She shuddered, and then looked wistfully out of the window at the clouds, “It’s killing her,” thought Dick. ‘I must solve this mystery. Ah, if J can only keep free from those con- founded detectives. I know Gerald is mad, but if it were not for betraying Miss Avis I could easily bring him toterms. Hello! what’s that?” There were footsteps in the hall, and presently a knock at the door. Keenly alive to the chances of detection, Dick placed his finger warningly on his lips, and softly stepped to the door leading to the front room. Avis watched him with the painful anxiety of one ween nerves had been subjected to many severe shocks. “Mr.fRemsen live here ?” asked a voice that made Dick start, and then turn quickly to Avis. “Quick,” he whispered. ‘Hide in that closet. They’ re after me, not you; but I don’t want them to find you by any chance.” Even as he spoke he listened. “Yes,” was the answer, ‘I am Mr. Remsen.” “Well, it’s not you I’m looking for just now. I want Gentleman Dick, and I know he's here.” “Ah, Dick, are you to be caught like a rat in ‘a ‘trap,” he muttered, between his teeth. “T know no such person, and certainly he is not here,” answered Mr. Remsen. ‘Isn’t he? I will find out for myself.” “Another step and I shoot,” cried Mr. Remsen. “Ho. ho,” laughed the man; “dangerous, eh? But put down your pistol, my good little man, I'ma detec- tive. See! here is my badge, and here is my authority for searching your house.” At this point Dick coolly opened the door. and stood face to face with Captain Gerald. “Anything to save her,” he had said to AAmnspit. (TO BE CONTINUED.) eee > 0-+ ——a THREE CREDITORS SOLD. ant Some years ago four merchant creditors from an East- ern city started in the same train of cars for the purpose of attaching the property of a certain debtor in an in- terior town. He owed each one separately, and they each were suspicious of the object of the other, but did not daresay a word about it, although they were all ac- quainted. When they arrived at the station, which was two or three miles from where the debtor did business, they found buta solitary cab, to which all rushed. Three got in and refused admission to the fourth, and the cab started. The fourth ran after and got upon the outside with the driver. He asked the driver if he want- ed to sell his horse. He replied that he did not want to: that he was not worth more than $50, but he would not He asked him if he would take $100 “Yes,” said Jehu. The fourth man quick] paid over the money, took the reins and backed the ea up against a bank, slipped it from the harness, ana tipped it up so that the door could not be readily opened, jumped upon the horse’s back and rode off at a quick lope, while the insiders were gazing out of the window. He rode to a lawyer and got a writ made out and served andhis debt secured, and got back to the hotel just as the “insiders” came up puffing and blowing. The cab- man soon bought back his horse for $50. The «sold men” offered to pay that sum if the fortunate one, who found the property sufficent to pay his debt, would not “let on” about the affair at home. ——_—__ +> 6 <+_____ THE HUMAN FAMILY. The human family living to-day on earth consists of about 1,450,000,000 iidividuals ; not less, probably more. These are distributed over the earth’s surface so that now there is no considerable part where man is not found. In Asia, where he was first planted, there are approximately about 800.000,000, densely crowded; on an average 120 to the square mile. In Europe there are 320,000,000, eect 100 to the square mile, notso crowded, but everywhere dense and at all points over opulated. In Atrica there are 210,000,000. ca, North and South, there are 110,000,000, relatively thinly scattered and recent. In the islands, large and small, probably 10,000,000. The extremes of the white and black are as five to'three ; the remaining 700,000,000 intermediate brown’and taw ny. Of the race 500,000,000 are well clothed, that is wear garments of Some kind to cover their nakedness; 700,000,000 are semi-clothed, covering interior parts of the body : 250,000,000 are prac- ticaly naked. Of the race, 500,000,000 live in houses partly furnished with the appointments of civilization ; 700,000,000 in huts or caves with no furnishing ; 260,000,- 000 have nothing that can be called a home, are barbar- ous and savage. Therangeis from the topmost round— the Anglo Saxon civilization, which is the highest known —down to naked savagery. The portion of the race lying below the line of human condition is at the very least three: fifth of the whole, or 900,000,000. .* In Amer- ——_—_—_—_>- 9 —t_____——_- A Slow Delivery. A Scotch minister, on a visiting tour through his par- ish, had occasion to pass close to a farm, the tenant of which haa gone over.to the Free Church. To show no spite, the minister decided to enter, which he did, and found both the farmer and his wife at tea. “There’s a guid day, minister; ye’ re jist in time to tak’ acup wi’ us. 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Agents Wanted. 90 best sell: ing articles in the world! One Saniple, Free. Address JAY BRONSON, Detr ity Mich WANTED to sell Dr. Chase’s 2,000 Renizie Book. Sells at Sight. You double your money. Address Dr. Chase’s Printing House, Ann,Arbor, Mich. FOR ALL. $30 a week and expenses paid. a worth $5 and particulars free, . O. VICKERY, Augusta, Maine. EBidave. bit ree in 7 ‘No pay t cured. J. Stephens, Lebanon, Chio. ~ BOLD WATC our Cards. Send a 2-cent stamp for Samples and Outfit, THE DOMESTIC CO., Wallingford, Conn, ome LOE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3< VOL. 42—No. 4. EDELWEISS. BY OSCAR BROWNING. Take, dear lady, take these flowers, Children born of sun and showers; Summer sun and winter snow Crushed the rock from which they grow; Strength of immemorial chalk Fed the fibers of their stalk ; Lightning hurricane, and storm Shaped their pliancy of form ; Gleam and gloom with varying sway Stained their petals ashen gray, » Which, like loving hearts, infold In their midst one spot of gold. Fearless head and steady foot Tracked the cradle of their root ; Now a link in friendship’s chain From the mountain to the main ; Nurslings of the central sea, Such as late I gave to thee, Lull the senses, charm the eye, Bloom and wither, breathe and die. These, by sterner process made, Slow engendered, slowly fade. And they bring where’er they fare . dust a whiff of Alpine air, Lady, take these simple flowers, Emblem meet of sun and showers. HOW o~1 HE WAS DETECTED. BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES. “J tell you, my dear, I won’t hear @ word about it. Ralph Perrington says he is nothing on earth buta smooth-spoken adventurer.” Edna Grey contracted her pretty brows—a gleam like hazel lightning played an instant beneath her long eye- lashes. “Ralph Perrington!” she repeated, scornfully. ‘As if Ralph Perrington’s judgment were worth anything on any subject moféimportant than the points of a horse, or the probabilities of a fall crop.” “My dear,” remonstrated her mother, “Mr. Perrington is one of the finest young men that 1 know.” “Tastes differ,” answered the spoiled beauty. my part, prefer Harold Burgoyne’s style.” Mrs. Grey looked with a face of mild distress at her daughter—it Was not so very unpleasant a sight to be- hold, after all. Edna Grey was tall and graceful, with luxuriant gold- brown hair, eyes of that velvety hazel that blends itself almost imperceptibly into black, and cheeks of a delicate bloom which not. all the famous recipes of the dead and gone Madame Rachel could ever hope to imitate. Up to the past few weeks Edna's life had been one un- interrupted current of smoothness, nor had her mother ever experienced the slightest thrill of anxiety about her future. Of course, said village gossip, she would marry Ralph Perrington, who loved the very winds that lifted the gold-brown curls trom her pretty forehead, and treas- “J, for ured up, like sacred relics, the withered flowers she had | worn in her braids, or discarded from her dainty belt, and Edna herself had learned to look upon this prospect as by no means unenyviable, for Ralph was as good and true as steel, and the old Perrington place was by far the finest in the neighborhood. But this last summer had contrived to turn all these nicely laid plans and probabilities into hopeless confu- sion. Harold Burgoyne had come down ona rusticating expedition to the quiet and uneventful village of Hay- town, and had somehow contrived to get introduced to Miss Grey in the melee of a picnic, and from that mo- ment Ralph Perrington’s star, so long in the ascendant, had begun to wane and decline. What were the at- tractions of the tall, simple-mannered young villager beside the Stylish movements and glib small talk of the | Falph Perrington had never been to | gay New Yorker? the Fordham Races ; ph Perrington knew nothing about the Theater Francais, and couldn’t tell the dif- ference between the shilling side of. Broadway and the Sixpenny one. While Harold Burgoyne was au fait in | ali the delicious mysteries of metropolitan life, and | knew just when the next ‘‘German” was to be held, and | why Miss Gold had jilted Mr. Million, and how much Mrs. St. Sangamon’s last parure of diamonds had cost. “How 1 should like to live in New York!” Edna said, one eyening, with glittering eyes and flushed cheeks. “Then you must marry a New Yorker,” Burgoyne had gayly rejoined, and Edna, coloring and confused, could not but be aware of the meaning he ‘attached to the simple sentence. “Can it be possible that he likes me?” she thought, with a fluttering heart, that night, as she unbound her her own beauty. “Mamma is wrong—he is no heiress- hunter, for what would my poor ten thousand dollars be worth to ene who moves in such a circle of wealth and luxury as Harold Burgoyne? He told me himself as much as to say that Miss Gold, the millionaire’s daugh- ter preferred him to her wealthy jiancee, and I’m sure those three Miss Moidores that he talks about are all in Jove with him. Poor Edna! she had fallen under the glamour. And so, when Ralph Perrington and her mother spoke gravely together concerning the dashing young Cavalier, and finally warned Edna of the danger of allowing her-. self to get too much interested in him, she said nothing, but secretly resolved to be true to Harold--ay, to the very last. When they forbade him the house, Edna stole out by twilight to the glen shadows to meet him; when he left the village, Edna corresponded clandestinely with him. Nor was this the end of her foolish willfulness. “Mamma,” she said one evening, “I’m going to New, York to visit Cousin Henry Spicer’s wife.” “To New York! To visit Mrs. Henry Spicer! Why, child, you have never seen her !” “For all that, mamma, she has invited me to visit her, and I am going.” «Where is the letter ?” “The letter? Oh, I believe I left it up stairs in my writing-desk. The letter is of no consequence either wa ,” “But, my dear, do you think that you had better go?” “Of course I had better go, mamma,” rejoined Edna, 2 little peevishly. ‘“‘Do you suppose I want to Stay mewed up in a horrid little hole like Haytown all the rest of my days ?” Mrs. Gray sighed, but made no other answer. She had spoiled Edma ever.since the little sprite could run alone, and it was too late toinaugurate a reform now. it did not seem right for Ednaito.co to New York in this tmformal sort of way to visit relatives she had never even seen befere; but Mrs. Gray s¢arce knew how to object. Poor woman! had she known the real truth of the case —that Edna had merely made a tool of her cousin, Hen- ry Spicer, and his wife, in order to be nearer Harold Burgoyne, and that he himself was to meet her at the depot and escort her to the residence of her friends— how much would her apprehensions have been magni- ed? While at that very instant, safely hidden in Edna’s pocket, lay a little note, thus worded : “My PRECIOUS DARLING, EpNA-—I shall be there to meet the 3:50 train—steam will hardly bring you to. me fast enough. I have told your relations a neat little fib about the train; they will not expect you until an hour Jater; and during that hour I shail make you my wife, and pring you to the Spicers’ residence a bride. Sweet Edna, do not disappoint me—my life hangs on your faithfulness. Ever and devotedly your own, ‘‘HAROLD BURGOYNE.” This was Edna’s scheme—a plan worthy ofa senti- mental schoolgirl who had allowed herself to be drawn into the machinations of a man of the world, and a thoroughpaced scoundrel. But she was infatuated—she believed him true as Chevalier Bayard, and noble as Knight Launcelot, and nothing save the bitter antidote of experience would ever cure her of the honeyed delusion, To be sure, there was a slight pang of remorse tugging at her heart-strings, as slie kissed her mother good-by, and let Mr. Perrington press her gloved hand at part- ing. He looked earnestly in her face. “J wish, Edna, you would allow me to accompany you,” he said, gravely. “Nonsense,” Edna jerked her hand pettishly away, “T’m quite able to take care of myself, and L.prefer trav- eling alone.” It was nearly dusk when she stepped, wearied and be- wildered, out of the rear car into the thronged waiting- room at the New York depot. At first the lights and the tumult dazzled her—she stepped asid¢, drawing her thick vail over her face. Two young men, idly staring out of the window be- yond, attracted her momentary attention from the loud and assured way in which they were talking betwetn themselves. «There |” cried the taller of the two, a showily dressed personage with a flashing necktie and a good deal of audy jewelry, “I told you it was Hal Burgoyne; there e goes now, looking right and left, as if he expected to meet the Emperor of Austria.” «You are right,” assented the other. ‘‘What the mis- chief is Hal Burgoyne doing here, I should like to know ?” The first speaker laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Hasn’t he told you about his last spec. ?” “No.” “It’s a girl from some country place or other, with a pocket fulbof tin and very little brains to back it.” «‘Much money ?” «Ten thousand dollars or so, I believe—enough to keep Hal decently afloat for a year or two.” “But how does he propose to dispose of the girl ?” “He will marry her—at least, that is what he told ” e. ‘Marry her? How can he, with one wife living al- e) 3 ?” “Oh, Hal doesn’t care how often he through with the marriage ceremony; and the little country girl is greener than the greenest grass.” “Yes; but—the marriage won’t be legal ?” “Ng, of course it won’t; but the milkmaid won’t dis- cover Anything wrong about it until he’s got tight hold of her cash, and that, I take if, is all he wants of her ladyship.” “Ts it safe ?” “Sate enough, once or twice before, and always contrived to cover up his tracks very neatly. Its the way he keeps himself ope with ready money these hard times.” tdna had cowered in her corner, listening with vary- ing color and throbbing heart to these carelessly spoken revelations. Could it be possible ? Was she indeed upon the brink of so horrible a precipice as this? Was Harold Bur- goyne nothing more than an unprincipled villain, who would lead her on to ruin for the sake of her little for- tune ? Haa the peril been less imminent Edna Grey might have given way to the strife of feelings that were rend- ing her nature, and fainted away—but this was no time tor inaction. Harold Burgoyne was on the very thresh- hold, his bold, handsome eyes eagerly searching the apartment. Her black cloak and thick vail fortunately proved a sufficient screen. Mr. Burgoyne looked puzzled and vexed. “Ts there any lady here by the name of Miss Grey ?” he asked, as a dernier resort. No answer was returned, and he turned away from the now nearly deserted waiting-room, biting his lip, and pulling angrily at his mustache. “She must have missed the train—just like a woman to be so behind-hand,” he muttered, fiercely. ‘‘And the next one isn’t due until half an hour of midnight. Duse take it all—it will be a failure yet ifI don’t look pretty sharp to my cards.” No sooner had he left the room than Edna hastened to the stewardess, a pleasant-looking old colored woman, who was dusting the furniture. «When does the next train start for Haytown ?” “For Hay-town, honey? It’s just half an hour from now. Sit down and rest yourself; you’s clear tired out, so youis. Traveled far to-day ?” “Yes, ’ said Edna, ‘‘quite a distance. Thank you, I will sit down.” But she still kept her vail closely drawn over her face. Mrs. Grey was sitting at her work that evening, think- ing how lonely it was with her bright, spoiled darling gone, and wondering if Ralph Perrington would not stop in a moment on his way from the post-office. “For he’s just every bit as near to measa son is,” thought the old lady, solemnly adjusting her spectacles, “and if Edna was of my way of thinking——” But just here Mrs. Grey was interrupted by the open- ing of the outer door and the sudden and unexpected entrance of Miss Edna herself, blushing and lovely as a newly gathered rosebud, and escorted by the very Ralph Perrington who was in Mrs. Grey’s thoughts. “My dear child !” ejaculated the old lady, rising up all in a tremble, ‘‘what’s the matter? Why have you re- turned so suddenly? Ralph, make her speak—don’t let her keep me in suspense.” “Mamma,” cried Edna, throwing both her arms round the old lady’s neck, ‘don’t be frightened. Nothing is the matter, only—only I felt strange and lonesome when 1 got to the great, noisy New York depot, and | wanted to come back to you and the dearold home, And— Ralph, you tell her the rest.” She turned, smiling and blushing, to the young man as she spoke, and Ralph Perrington took up the thread of her story. “And so it happened that I met her just descending from the cars, and we had a little chat on the way home, and Edna has promised, if you are willing, to become my wife at Christmas !” “I7 1 am willing ?” echoed Mrs. Grey. ‘‘My dear chil- wht Ido think I am the happiest mother in the world.’ That was the end of the brief mad dream, through which Harold Burgoyne had moved chief actor and most prominent figure. But Edna has never told any living soul—not even her husband—how near her rash will- | fulness led her to afate whose mere possibility she | shudders, even now, to contemplate. A CHILD'S MISSION. They had been betrothed lovers once, Iodale Winters and Edgar Forester, but they had done what foolish young lovers are so apt to do—they had parted in anger. Neither would take the first step toward a reconcilia- tion, and thus they drifted apart. Apart! What a world of.misery to both those young hearts in that little word! But pride carried the day, as it too often does, and Edgar sailed for Europe, while lodale glided on the waves of fashionable society with an aching heart. One morning, about a year later, she read of the mar- riage of Edgar Forester to a French lady, and then she began to realize how very much she had longed for his return. But all hope was ended now, and after the first burst of grief had subsided pride came to her rescue, and | again she wore the betrothalring. She did not love magnificent waves of lustrous hair and shyly confronted | George Arnold; but then he was good-looking and wealthy, and ‘as for living an old maid,” she would not please Mr. Forester so much as that; and so they were married, and she ordered a copy of the paper contain- ing an account of the grand wedding to be sent directly to Edgar, for fear he might miss knowing how perfctly indifferent he and all his movements were toher. All that she now regreted was that she had not been mar- ried jirst. She was nineteen when she was married, handsome, graceful, winning. ‘At twenty-four she found herself a childless widow. The grave contained her unloved hus- band, and her only treasure, little laughing, blue-eyed Cora. For her husband she could not grieve, but her child had been her idol, her life, her all. Now she was alone in her splendid home, a wealthy widow. But what cared she for wealth or beauty. She would have given it all to have stood once more by Edgar’s side, the happy girl of seven years ago. But, no, that could not be. So she sat down in her solitude and sought no com- fort from man or her.Creator. The sun was shining brightly one clear, cold Decem- ber morning, vainly striving to peep through Mrs. Ar- nold’s crimson curtains into the mysterics within. But there she sat by her blazing coal-fire, unheedful of the sun without, only thinking of the shadow within. Sud- denly she arose, and pushing aside the heavy curtains, gazed out upon the wintry scene before her. “T think I will take a walk,” she said, ‘‘and see if this clear air will not dispel my gloomy feelings,” and straightway she sallied forth. Passing down the street she heard a childish voice weeping. Turning toward the sound she saw a pitiful sight—a little child of four years curled up on a door- pe very scantily dressed, and shivering, with the co «What is the matter, little girl?” she asked. And the tiny one, looking timidly into the soft gray eyes, sobbed out: “Oh, I’ve slept here in the corner of this door-way all night, and now that man”— ting to a surly-looking policeman—‘‘says if he finds me here again he will lock me up;” and the tears flowed afresh as she hid her face in her tattered dress, and sobbed ; “Oh! what shall I do, and where shallI sleep? Oh, dear, dear, oh, dear!” Iodale shivered as she thought of the sufferings of the child in that cold place the whole night, and wondering of whom the ‘child’s glorious black eyes reminded her, she took the little hand, blue with the cold, and merely saying, “Come with me,” turned and retraced her steps toward home. The little bare feet pattered over the freezing pavement, and a short walk brought them to the stately Arnold mansion. Aiter seeing that the child was warmed and fed, she brought from a drawer some clothes that had been little Cora’s, and crushing back the tears that came unbidden at the sight of these pee momentoes of her dead baby, she requested er maid to wash and dress the little stranger, and then bring her to the drawing-room. An hour later the maid led her in, looking fresh and clean, and really beautiful, in the warm crimson dress. Her tangled hair formed into soft, natural curls, her clear cheeks crimson-tinted, and her dark eyes glowing. “Quite a transformation,” said Iodale. Taking the child into her lap, she said, ‘‘What is your name, little one ?” Clearly came the answer : “Todale.” Mrs. Arnold started with a feeling of strange surprise, and bade the little Iodale tell her of her former life. But all she could remember was ‘‘living on the pretty blue sea, where the waves rocked her to sleep every night, and the people scolded and pushed her around by day.” A few days before she had been abandoned, and had since been wandering around, a homeless, friendless beggar. This much she could tell, and to all Iodale’s eager Peron gey! could answer no more; and again Iodale won- ered at the familiar look in those dark eyes, seeming like some far-away, dim, and happy dream. Then she espied a tiny locket hanging from a plain cord around the child’s neck. Quickly she caught at this, thinkin now to solve the mystery. On the outside was engrave in tiny letters, “To our daughter, [odale.” Now she would surely see the parents of this little stranger with the familiar eyes. With trembling fingers she pressed the spring and it flew open. Alas, forall her hopes! She only saw a fair face, large blue eyes, and a wealth ot “ippling olden hair. With a sigh of disappointment she closed the locket, and said : “This must have been your mother, my child.” “Yes,” she replied; ‘they let me keep the picture, and said maybe I would sometime find some one who would know who my mamma and papa were; but I guess they have gone to heaven, and I never shall have any mamma,” and the little lips quivered. “T will’ be Yio mamma, and you shall live with me always,” cried lodale, foiding the little orphan to her bosom ; and from that hour a tie, strong as life itself, bound them together—the tie of warm, enduring love. Time sped on, and with some one to love and care for, and a little mind to train, Iodale grew tender, loving, and almost happy. She received very little company, going out herself still less, devoting herself almost en- tirely to her adopted daughter. _ It was now over four years since the little sunbeam had come to cheer her heart, when she stood one morn- ing before the mirror arranging her heavy brown braids and soliloquizing. Hal Burgoyne has tried the same game | “Twenty-eight to-day,” she said, “and how much neabier than when at twenty-four I lived for self aloue.” She was cut short by the door opening and her maid layiug a card before her, saying there was a gentleman below who wished to see her. She seldom had gentle- | men Callers now, and. took up the card in surprise, and read the name with paling lip and bloodless cheek—‘‘Mr. E. L. Forester.” She dropped the card with a low cry and sank into a chair, faint and weak. Then recovering from the shock, she ordered her maid away, and after a few mo- ments descended to the parlor. She glided in with a haughty bearing and self-possession strange to herself. and calmly extended her hand to the tall, dark, hand- some man who rose to meet her. “IT did not expect this pleasure,” she said, coldlv, and began to converse as though she had met him every day for months, and not as an old friend just returned from foreign lands. Once she would have blushed under the gaze of those dark eyes, now she sat cold as marble. He told her he was alone in the world, having lost his wife and child at sea during a terrible shipwreck. As they sat talking little lodale came bounding into the room, not aware it was occupied, and feeling fright- ened at finding a stranger there, turned to go, but her mother called her back and introduced her to her guest as her adopted daughter, and then shortly after he went away. A few days later he came again, and was met less coldly than before,.and during the conversation Iodale informed him how she came to find her little daughter, and of the locket of the friendless one. He listened with interest, and when she told of the golden-haired woman in the locket he asked to see the child and the picture. They were brought, and he saw them both. “This is the picture of my wife!” he said; ‘‘and this child my Iodale, whom I thought lost with her poor mother.” And he clasped the little one to his heart and shed tears of joy. ot you go with your father?” he asked her, and she said : “No, not unless mamma will go too. Will you, mamma ?” Iodale blushed now, and, gently taking her hand, Ed- gar told her of his still faithtul love, and asked her if it should be as little Iodale wished. And then, forgetting her pride, and remembering her great love, she told him “Yes.” He sealed the promise with a kiss that breathed of the long-ago love of youth, and softly said, as he gathered them both in his arms: “And a little child shall lead them.” 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 publication anything which may be deemed of sufticient in- erest for — perusal. It is not necessary that the arti- cles should be ere in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy = likely'to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. How It Turned Out. A coachman once did humbly seek Unto a millionaire to speak. “Tm looking for a job,” said he ; «Td like right well your inan to be.” The man of riches looked him o’er, And said: ‘I think my coach and four Is needing such a man as you; Just call around at half-past two.” The coupon-clipping millionaire Possessed a daughter, young and fair ; And full of sentiment was she, Romantic to the last degree. She vowed that gold should ne’er have part In the bestowal of her heart ; That, were he noble, good, and true, A coachman, e’en, for her might do. * * * * * * * What wondrous changes may take place Within a year’s uncertain space. Of course, you’ve guessed that long ere this They’ve both bee et ae in married bliss. Je ni She wed a man who scorned all work ; He made his money packing pork. The coachman for 4 helpmate took The milliOhaire’s red-headed cook. A Wife to Be Proud of. “Love,” said Mr. Seacook, as he entered the door, ‘‘did you buy the things I gave you money for to-day ?” “Yes,” answered the devoted wife; ‘‘and as you said that I was only to purchase what we really need, I didn’t invest in a new dress.” “That’s right, Matilda; you’re a wife to be proud of. It's a great thing to have a better half one Can trust with important commissions. Did you buy any flour ?” “No, John; but I bought the loveliest feather for my bonnet you ever saw; and it only cost three dollars.” “Great Czesar! You call that a necessity! We can rustle along on corn meal mush. I suppose, so that you can make your hat umbrageous with feathers. What else did ye buy ?” ‘T bought a hanging lamp for the hall-way—a perfect beauty. Mrs. O’Hooligan says it is the prettiest one she ever saw.” «What does she Know about hanging lamps? What does she know about anything? Her old shanty is illu- minated with candles and fire bugs, and here she sails around giving off a iot of slack on hanging lamps. Why doesn’ she hire a hall and deliver a lecture on electricity and lanterns? I suppose you bought a bushel of car tickets, or something else that no family can be without. How about the weather strips ?” “T didn’t buy them. I bought a lace coyer for the arm- chair, though——” «Yes, and [suppose you ordered a lot of tiled roofing for the cyclone cave, wall decorations for the hen house, rfumery for the cow, a pair of pers glasses for the orse, a Webster’s dictionary for the baby, and spent the rest of the money securing a mortgage on the next earthquake, while we must masticate last year’s sand- wiches, so that you can buy necessaries that we won’t need in a hundred years. Fork over the oleomarga- rine !” Rapid Growth, “That ’minds me,” said Si Fosdick, “of a paytent hoss fodder ’t a feller I used ter work for up Brattleboro’ way invented. "Twas a mighty good thing, but a feller had ter be most e-tarnel keerful in usin’ on it. "Twas a paow- der, an’ ye had ter sprinkle it inter the reg’lar fodder. Griswold—that was the man’s name—used ter make piles 0’ money buyin worn-aout hosses, feedin’ ’em with this here stuff a few days, an’ sellin’ ’em at high prices. Why, I’ve knowed him ter buy an old hoss that you’d a thought hadn’t a month ter live, dose it a week, and get rid of it fer ten times what it cost him. An’ ’twould be as good as new. An’ fer colts, I tell ye there wa’n't never nothin’ like it. A colt fed on this here stuff would get his full growth in a year. But, as I said, it was tick'lish stuff ter handle. Griswold never used ter let nobody but me use it. After awhile I left him, an’ he got new help, an Irishman. One day he sent this here fellow aout ter the barn ter feed a young colt he had thar. Wa-al, he told the ’tarnal fool ter give the colt a teaspoonful of the stuff, but I’m darned ef the Irishman didn’t give him the hull box ; an’ boys, inside o’ ten min- utes that colt had got his full growth an’ died of old age.’ Terribly Deceived. Dumley is not a person in whom one would naturally expect to find a responsive throb of sympathy ; but Mrs. Hendricks, his landlady, didn’t know this. Last Sunday evening they were sitting in the parlor together, when Mrs. Hendricks sighed and said : “Ab, Mr. Dumley, this is acold, cold world! I wouldn’t say it to any of the other boarders, but you have been with me so long. Iama deceived woman, Mr. Dumley, a deceived woman.” “Yes ?” asked Dumley. ; “Ah, yes; I’ve been deceived in my life-time—terribly deceived.” “If you refer to that last lot of butter, Mrs. Hen- dricks,” said Dumley, gently, ‘‘I don’t wonder you feel so bad about it.” Next Month’s Rain. “T never did enjoy rain-storms,” said Mrs. Simplemind to her husband the other morning from behind her newspaper, “‘but I believe I shall enjoy the showers so next month.” “Why’ve you got a case of water on the brain?” in- quired her lord. “No, but yellow is my favorite color, you know, dear, and the rain next month will all be yellow.” “Yellow! Yellow rain! What in the duse are you talking about, woman? Are you going crazy ?” “No, dear; but the paper says that the reigning color for November will be yellow.” She Knew Him. “Do you see that gentleman over there, the handsome fellow, twisting his mustache ?” said one lady to an- other, to whom she had just been introduced. ‘He has been watching me all the evening, and making eyes at me. Ithink he must be smitten. Do you know who he is ?” ‘Yes; he’s my husband, the fool!” Conversation closed. He Understood, ‘«sWant to be a barkeeper, eh ?” “Yes, sir.” «Do you understand keeping books on the single-entry system ?” “No, sir; but I understand keeping Sunday on the double-entry system.” “Very well. Hang up your hat.” A Modest Request. “T have ventured,” he said, ‘‘to buy this diamond ring, fondly hoping that you would allow me to slip it on your finger as a token of our engagement.” «7 am very sorry, Mr. Smith, but you are too late—I am already engaged; but if you will have it altered to fit my little finger, I will shower upon you the wealth of a sister’s affection.” Brevities. At the Club.—‘‘Has Major Snaffles been in this even- ing, Steward?” “No, sir; he’s not been here for a month, sir. ‘Is his absence due to sickness ?” ‘No, sir, but his bills is due to the treasurer ; which I think it’s the rea- son, sir.” A lady in a railway carriage took out her purse, took therefrom sixpence, and handed it to a well-dressed man who was smoking. “What is this for?” asked the smoker. ‘It’s to buy you a good cigar when you smoke in the presence of ladies,” was the reply. A school board inspector asked the members of the girls’ class, the other day: ‘“‘Who can tell me what basting a turkey means!” There was silence for a while, and then a little miss signified that she knew. “Well, what is it ?” said the inspector. “Sewing up the place where the stuffing goes in,” was the reply. It must be water on the brain which gives the dude his high-drawlic manner of speech. Buxom widow (at evening party)‘‘—Do you understand the language of flowers, Dr. Crusty 2?” Dr. Crusty (an old bachelor)—‘‘No, ma’am.” Widow—‘‘You don’t know ifyellow means jealousy?” Dr. Crusty—‘‘No, ma’am. Yellow means biliousness.” Hostess—‘‘What has become of Sandy Smith, who stood so high in your class ?” Graduate—‘‘Oh, he’s taken orders some time.” Hostess—‘‘He’s in the ministry, then?” Graduate—‘‘No; in a restaurant.” Spriggs—‘‘How much olderis your sister than you, Johnny ?* Johnny—‘I dunno, Maud uster be twenty- five years, then she was twenty, and. now she ain’t only eighteen. I guess we'll soon be twins. We presume Cain's father-in-law wag an Nod fellow, as he got his wife from the land of Nod. The Phrenological Journal says: ‘In choosing a wife, be governed by her chin.” A manis apt to be governed by the same thing after he gets a wife. Welcome Home to Buffalo Bill. The lively little town of North Platte, Nebraska, the home of Hon. Wm. F. Cody, was gay with flags and banners on Wednesday, October 6th, and the residents of the vicinity—many of-whom had come a distance of miles—turned out in a body early in the morning, to welcome to his old stamping ground their friend and comrade, the hero of the plains, who is best known by his sobriquet of BUFFALO BILL. The great American scout has an extensive and well stocked ranch near North Platte, and he returned to it after an absence of many months in the populous East, where he has been illustrating, with the aid of his well trained and numerous company of equestrians, cowboys and civilized Indians, the exciting scenes peculiar to life in the Wild West. First to greet him as he stepped from the train, as we learn from the local paper, The People’s Government, was the Mayor of North Platte, the Hon. George W. Hammond, with the full delegation of the city council; and in a few words the mayor welcomed him in behalf of the city. Thencame the reception committee—Beach I, Hinman, T. J. Foley, Dr. N. F. Donaldson, and Chas. McDonald ; then every body shook hands right and left, and Buffalo Bill received just such a hearty reception as the President of the United States might have, only this perhaps was more earnest, for every one loves Bill Cody, and they had no object but thatof attesting their friendship, and right royally it was done. After the band engaged for the occasion had welcomed our hero with its melodious strains, a passage-way was cleared, and Buffalo Bill was led by the reception committee to breakfast. With him was ex-Sheriff Con Groner, Mr. Jule Kean, and Mr. Geo. Canfield of Omaha. There were many other men of distinction present, among them Gen. Geo. H. Crook, of the U.S. A., the friend and companion of Cody in the battle-field and at the festive board; he was delighted at Cody’s reception, and re- marked that the ovation was a well deserved tribute to the famous American scout. In the evening a grand banquet was given in honor of the great scout, at the Pacific Hotel, at which over one hundred people sat down, the friends and neighbors of Buffalo Bill. Several bright and eloquent speeches fol- lowed the bountiful feast; but we have only space to give the manly and modest response of Buffalo Bill to the toast, ‘‘Hon. Wm. F. Cody, the great scout and guide.” THE SCOUT’S RESPONSE. Mr. Toastmaster and Gentlemen :—I must not tell you that I did not expect to be called upon to make a speech on this occasion, forI did. What has puzzled me was wha I shovld say to convey to you my appre- ciation of the magnificent reception you have given me after my long absence, and your generous sympathy in my public life while away from you. It has been my good fortune to be successful in my enterprise, and I have been treated with more than usual courtesy from all classes of people in all parts of the country. Shall I tell you why? It is because the world knows that my record bears the indorsement of you, my good friends of North Platte. Because the world knows that no man living can boast of the friendship you have exhibited to- ward me on this occasion without the substantial proof, that among those who know him best he is best appreciated. Lhave had the honor to appear before vast audiences of cultured people as the representative of a class of men who are rapidly passing from existence in the future of America, and it has been my constant en- deavor by my example to show the world that a cow- bow hat is not the emblem of brutality any more than a minister's gown is always the robe of righteousness. I have tried to show that we, men of the West, who made this wilderness bloosom like the rose, deserve a place in the memory of this mighty nation; and, if I do say it, I think I have done much to dissipate the ignorance and prejudice that have made the word cowboy synon- ymous with violence and abuse of manhood and in- tegrity. shall be among you, my friends and neighbors, but a few days longer, for I shall soon return to the East, again to take up what has become to mea labor of love —the illustration of lite on the frontier as you and I know it to be. In this work I shall be sustained by the thought that I have your sympathy in the undertaking which I shall endeavor, as in the past, to so accomplish that I shall reflect credit on North Platte, the birthplace of the enterprise and the spot where all my dearest hopes are centered. Ihave lived among you, and, God willing, I shall die among you. I can have no prouder heritage, no grander monument. I shall cross the ocean in the spring to try my fortune ainong the monarchies of Europe. I know that you will be glad to learn that my prospects over there are of the most flat- tering character. The invitation has been extended by the representative men of Great Britain, and I shall try to be worthy of the invitation, and I shall try to prove to them that we, men of blood and iron in Nebraska, are worthy of emulation from any nation in the world. When the rush and bustle of my life’s work is over, I shall come back to you and close the chapter that bears on its pages your loving kindness and forgiveness of the faults I possess. I shall then have no ambition but to have you welcome meas a citizen and a loyal son of good old North Platte, Nebraska. The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood. FASHION’S FANCIES, Floral muffs are pretty conceits for bride-maids, and are tied with a bow matching the dress. Long-stemmed posies are preferred to formal bouquets at wedding parties. Apple-green is a popular shade for evening wear. There is a demand for pearl ear-rings, either small and round, or with pear-shaped drops. ‘High coiffures are worn with small bonnets, and low Eng- lish coils with walking-hats and turbans. Opals are fashionable, and consequently the superstition that it is unlucky to wear them is dying out. Braiding is used in profusion on dressy cloth jackets,which are worn a trifle longer than they were last year. Guipure lace designs, eight inches wide, made of narrow black or brown silk braid, are now sold by the yard for the panels and vests of dresses. : Bird-of-paradise feathers, curled up closely instead of pro- jecting their whole length, are used on millinery. Woolen galloons, in open lace-work patterns, are much em- ployed for trimming tailor-made dresses of homespun flan- nel and cheviot, dark brown shades being the most popular. Plushes that imitate the skins of animals, principally the tiger, leopard, and bear, will be used extensively for trim- ming winter suits that have turbans and muffs to match. Stylish poEning. wrappers are made of eiderdown flannel, in plain shades of heliotrope, almond, pale blue, pink, cream, and cardinal, with soft puffed plastrons of surah silk the same shade. Passementeries made of the smallest and finest beads -are fancied for trimming cloth garments, while very showy de- signs, with glittering pendants attached, are used for orna- menting plush and velvet. ‘ Some pretty India cashmere suits show a scroll embroidery in cross-stitch in two colors, for a pene and vest. Sprays of flowers are set in aigrette form and . on one side of the head, as are also pompons of tiny tips with up- right heron’s plumes. a's The new style of pin for the hair is long and flat, and has a head in the form of a leaf, flower, crescent, or medallion. They come in jet, amber, ivory, tortoise-shell, silver, plain and oxydized, and in gold, plain and set with jewels. Jerseys remain popular for ordinary wear. Black, navy- blue, dark green, and brown designs are finished with stitch- ing only, have a postilion back and rolled fronts, forming notch revers to the bust, with two rows of buttons from there to the waist, where they slope away, showing the point of a white serge vest, which reappears above with a high col- lar of the same. oN What used to be called Garibaldi waists are now very fash- ionable in Paris and London. . They are, however, made much closer fitting than formerly, and are striped in difter- ent colors, black and white, red_and white, blue and white, red and blue, and beige and red being the favorite combina- tions, while the collars and cuffs are of a plain color, and there is a tapering band of the same down the front. ese waists are a to wear with dark skirts in the house, and are bright and stylish looking. ; The hair is still dressed very h_ on the head, but with only a few light curls over the temples, while a very small cluster of flowers is placed at the side, close to the roll of hair which is brought up from the back. Some pretty India cashmere suits show ascroll embroidery in cross-stitch, in two colors, for a panel and vest. } Fans of Brussels or chantilly lace haye the flower designs outlined by small diamonds, an especial stitch being worked in the lace, which is sufficiently close to hold the claws that the gems are set in. “Essie 8.,” Brooklyn, N. ¥.—Unbleached huckaback works beautifully in silks or cottons for quilts. Large sunflowers can be arranged over the surface, outlined in button-hole stitch with two shades of silk, and the center of the flower filled in with darker silk in raised French knots. The whole of the huckaback foundation must first be covered with darning stitch in gold filosell, The stitch is easily made by passing the needle and thread under the two little raised strands of the material, either lengthwise or diagonally and, if the latter plan is followed, it will require a second running across from the opposite direction. It also looks well worked in red cotton, with any tasteful pattern substi- tuted for the sunflowers. “Lottie M.”—A pretty morning costume is of pale buff flan- nel and bright blue twilled surah. Both the under and over- skirt are of the flannel, the former being plaited and the lat- ter eiraped. The bodice, plaited blouse fashion, is of the blue surah, finished at the top by a band and collar, and at the waist by a wide sash of the same material, tied in a loose bow at the back. while the middle plait of the bodice is flat- tened down, and pretty pearl buttons placed over it. “Louise §S.”’—lst. Normandy caps for little girls are made with a plain front of silk or wool astrakhan, and a very high puffed crown of surah silk the same shade. 2d. The priee of the complexion mask, complete, is two dollars. The other article will cost one dollar. “Ella R.”—Buttons have about replaced clasps, and are very large when used as ornaments and small when intended for service. Japanese and leather designs in raised work, are very pretty, while bronze, gold, and silver ones are hand- some enongh for broaches. “Birdie.”—We can send you a book suitable for the purpose stated, entitled “Dialogues and Recitations for the Little Folks,” on receipt of twenty-five gents. “E. L. C.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—‘Stella Rosevelt,” by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, is in book-form, andthe price is $1.50. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. Familiarity kan only be prakticed with satety amung the well bred—tfools and puppys will run right over yu, with the least bit ov encouragement, Thoze who never laff seem to have died before their time cum. Every human being haz hiz own private sorrow, and sae who whissel are wizer than thoze who weep over t. A conceited man iz a grate fraud, but he never cheats enny boddy so mutch az he duz himself. He who don’t want what he hain’t got haz vot all he wants and iz happy, whether he knows it or not. The covetous man iz like a sponge, which takes in all the moisture that cums near it, and lets out none until it iz squeezed. A cunning man iz seldom wize, and not alwuss hon- est. The man who never deceives himself iz the hardest kind ov a man for others to deceive. If mankind had been satisfied with the bare necessitys ov life, we should to-day be just about az far advanced in the arts and sciences az Cain and Abel waz. Dubble sixesare a good throw with the dice; but thare iz one better throw than that—throw them into the fire. Prudence iz a most necessary virtew; it ain’t safe to b karless, even with an intimate friend. "7 No man haz ever lived to be so old and so wize that he couldn’t learn sumthing from experience. Thare is a grate menny ginger-pop people; after they Meat nae unkorked for a fu minnits, they git to be dred- phull flat. A blush kant be kounterfitted. Superstishun iz the ignorance ov fear. To lie about aman never hurts him, but to tell the truth about him sumtimes duz. Hypocrits never suckseed in cheating others so thor- oly az they do themselfs. Human happiness haz bin discribed so often, and so menny different ways, that Lbegin to think that thare ain’t no sutch thing in this world, —> @~ Items of Interest. A Brooklyn physician has five patients whom he has been attending constantly for the past three years. They are in comfortable circumstances, and the doctor knows enough to hold on to them. Last summer the doctor him- self became ill, and could not attend any of his patients for over two months. The five chronie patients thought they would struggle along without any medicine, and, strange to say, they are now entirely well. Broncho John, who has been showing his pet bear in New Haven, went chestnutting the other day with some cit- izens of the place. The bear enjoyed the ride to the grove, and when there at once climbed trees and rattled down the nuts in great style. The owner of the trees, who had hitherto kept aclose watch over them tokeep away boys, beat a retreat when he saw the bear, and did not molest the party. There is so much uncertainty about a person’s will being admitted to probate, no matter how carefully drawn, should expectant but disappointed heirs desire to contest it, that legislative measures are under consideration so that the testator can have his will probated before his death. With such a law as this on our statute books, if the will is found de- fective, the testator can readily change it. The dog isthe despair of the doctors. He bolts his food, without wasting time in its mastication, and imme- diately stretches himself out in sleep; and yet we never heard of a dog dying of dyspepsia or of apoplexy ; neither have we ever heard of a dog with a catarrh or suffering from phthisis, though he breathes more frequently through his mouth than his nose. A curious marriage ceremony took place recently in Neuerberg, Germany, the bride being the well-known arm- less artiste, Fraulein Hausmann. She wedded her impres- sario, Herr Hauschild, and signed her marriage contract with her feet. Rings were exchanged, and the wedding-ring of the bride was placed on the fourth toe of her right foot. Eugene Taylor, of Adairville, Ky., is full of electricity. After rubbing his hands together quickly, he can place them on a man’s shoulders and control him completely, and no one has yet been found who can resist the infiuence thus exerted. He can also light a gas-jet by an electric spark sent from his finger two feet away from the burner. Aman named Andrews was recently buried at Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. As the coffin was about to be lowered into the grave the lid was removed, anda man named Carroll, a friend of the deceased, put a revolverin the folded hands of the dead man, with the remark that “that was his best friend in life, and he could have one in death. ’ Col. E. W. Cole, of Nashville, was at breakfast in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, in this city, and while coolly powdering a dish of berries, suddenly remembered that he had uninten- tionally left on his bed a wallet containing $100,000. He hur- ried up stairs, and in a few moments returned with the wal- let. Then he enjoyed his berries. The Bishop of Metlahkahpia, B. C., was recently at- tacked on the road by six {ndians, who had decided to rob him. The bishop, who knew how to handle his fists, knocked two down one after the other, butted another, hit a fourth in the stomach, and thus cleaned out the whole gang without getting out of breath. It is not unusual to find eggs in fowls killed for the table ; but it is unusual to find chickens. This is said, on good authority, to have happened in Eminence, Mo., when a fully developed chick, inclosed in a sort of pouch, was found inside a hen that was being prepared for the pot. One of the greatest curiosities at the fair in Franklin County, Kans., was a mummified Indian maiden. This curi- osity was found about two years ago in Colorado about 300 feet below the surface of the earth, and is supposed to belong to a race of Indians called ‘‘Deep Diggers.” While working in the rock cut on the east side of the Missouri, near Leigh, Iowa, the workmen found a buffalo’s horn imbedded in the rock 30 feet below the surface. It was in such an excellent state of preservation that the rings could easily be counted on it. A New York physician says ‘‘it is dangerous to go into the water after a hearty meal” And we presume if he did go in after one he wouldn’t find it. A New York clergyman, ina recent sermon, exhorted his congregation to “vote as you pray,” and later on he ad- vised them to “pray often.” Forty-three men charged with murder have been de- fended by Judge H. D. D. Twiggs, of Atlanta, Ga., and only two were convicted. A dramatic writer says: ‘Boucicault’s wink is irre- sistible.” It may be, but we doubtif itis equal to Shake- speare’s Lear. Sausages made of horseflesh are considered delicacies in Paris, and the demand for them there is constantly in- creasing. Thomas Garrett, of Baldwin County, Alabama, is 119 years old. His first vote was in 1796, when he voted for John Adams. Out in Arizona when a young lady becomes passe she is called a chestnut bell. And yet no fellow dares to ring her. A baker’s sign in Yreka, Cal., reads the same back- ward as forward. Here are its two words: “Yreka Bakery.”