“Avenged at Last; or, The Fairy of the Castle,”

a Charming Novelette,

Will

appear Next Week,

 

 

 

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

 

 

Office

Vol. 42.

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

 

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

No. 30.

 

LIFE.
BY T. M. EVANS.

They tell me that life
Is a toilsome strife,
A wearisome journey uphill;
But I find not these words
In the songs of the birds,
Or the murmurings of the rill.

They call life an ocean
In angry commotion,

And they say that our bark is frail;
But the storms, as they heighten,
Tend only to brighten

Our ever complaining tale.

We move ina battle
*Midst the cannon’s rattle,
They call it the “battle of life ;”
Do we struggle in vain
Amid the leaden rain?
Need we sink at the height of the strife?

Oh, hill we must climb!
Oh, frail bark sublime!
Oh, battle with danger so fraught!
When love has the helm,
Life’s a glorious realm
Where trials sink into naught.

or or

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OLIVER THE OUTGAST.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

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

{“OLIVER THE OUTCAST” was commenced LAST WEEK. ]

CHAPTER VY.
MR. KENYON’S RESOLVE.

Mr. Kenyon felt that a sword was impending over
his head, which might at any time fall and destroy
him. Four years before, he had married Mrs. Con-
rad, a wealthy widow, whose acquaintance he had
made at a Saratoga boarding-house. Why Mrs. Con- |
rad should have been willing to sacrifice her inde- |
pendence for such a man,is one of the mysteries |
which I do not pretend to solve. I can only record |
the fact. Oliver was away at the time, or his in-
fluence—for he never fancied Mr. Kenyon—might
have turned the seale against the marriage.

Mr. Kenyon professed to be wealthy, but his new
wife never was able to learn in what his property
consisted or where it was located. Shortly after
marriage, he tried to get the management of his
wife’s property into his own hands; but she was a
cautious woman—a trait she inherited from Scotch
ancestry—and, moreover, she was devotedly attached
to her son Oliver. She came to know Mr. Kenyon
better after she had assumed his name, and to dis-
trust him more. Three months had not passed when
she bitterly repented having accepted him; but she
had taken a step which she could not retrace. She
allowed Mr. Kenyon a liberal sum for his personal
expenses, and gave a home to his son Roland, who
was allowed every advantage which her own son en-
joyed. Further than this she was not willing to go,
and Mr. Kenyon was, in consequence, bitterly disap-
pointed. He had supposed his wife to be of a more
yielding temperament.

So matters went on for three years. Then Mr. Ken-
yon all at once fancied himself in very poor health ;
at any rate, he so represented. He induced a phy-
sician to recommend traveling, and to urge the im-
portance of his wife accompanying him. She fell
into the trap, for it proved to be atrap. The boys
were left at home, at a boarding-school, and Mr. and
Mrs. Kenyon set out on their travels. They sailed
for Cuba, where they remained two months; then
they embarked for Charleston. In the neighborhood
of Charleston Mr. Kenyon was enabled at length to
earry out his nefarious design. He made the ac-
quaintance of Dr. Fox, an unprincipled keeper of a
private insane asylum, and left Mrs. Kenyon in his
charge, under the name of Mrs. Crandall, with the
strictest orders that under no circumstances should
she be permitted to leave the asylum.

Three months from the time of his departure, he
reappeared in Brentville wearing deep mourning—a
widower. According to his account, Mrs. Kenyon
had been attacked by malignant fever, and died in
four days. He also produced a will, made by his
wife, conveying to him absolutely her property, all
and entire. The only reference to her son Oliver was
couched in these terms:

“T commend my dear son Oliver to my husband’s
charge, fully satisfied that he will provide for him in
all ways as I would myself, urging him to do all in
his power to promote my dear Oliver’s welfare, and
prepare him for a creditable and useful position in
the world.”

But for this clause, doubts would have been ex-
pressed as to the genuineness of the will. As it was,
it was generally supposed to be authentic, but Mrs.
Kenyon was severely criticised for reposing so much
confidence in her husband, and leaving Oliver wholly
dependent upon him.

It was a great blow to Oliver—his mother’s death—
and the world seemed very lonely to him. Besides,
he could not fail to notice a great difference in the
manner of Mr. Kenyon and Roland toward him. The
former laid aside his velvety manner, and assumed
airs of command. He felt secure in the position he
had so wrongfully assumed, and hated Oliver all the
more because he knew how much he had wronged
him.

Roland, too, was quick to understand the new state
of things. He was older than Oliver, and tried to ex-
act deference from him on that account. His father
had promised to make him his chief heir, and both

 

had’a tacit understanding that Oliver was to be treat-

 

 

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ROLAND

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MR. KENYON DENIBERATELY 4
HELD THE DANGEROUS IK
LETTER IN THE FLAME if
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STARED AT HIS FATHER IN OPEN-MOUTHED AMAZEMENT,

 

 

 

ed as a poor relation, with no money, and no rights
except such as they might be graciously pleased to
accord.

But Oliver did not fit well into this role. He was
too spirited and too independent to be browbeaten,
and did not choose to flatter or fawn upon his step-
father though he did bear the purse.

The outbreak recorded in the first chapter would
have come sooner had Oliver been steadily at home.
But he had spent some weeks in visiting a cousin out
of town, and was thus saved from a conflict with
Roland. Soon after he came home, the scene already
described took place.

Thus far things had gone to suit Mr. Kenyon. But
the arrival of Dr. Fox, and his extortionate demand,
with the absolute certainty that it would be followed
at frequent intervals by others, was like a clap of
thunder in a clear sky. Henceforth peril was immi-
nent. At any time his wife might escape from her
asylum, and appear on the scene to convict him of
conspiracy and falsehood. This would mean ruin. At
any time Dr. Fox, if his exactions were resisted,
might reveal the whole plot, and this again would be
destruction. If not, he might be emboldened, by the
possession of a damaging secret, to the most exorbit-
ant demands.

These thoughts worried Mr. Kenyon, and robbed
him of sleep.

What should he, or could he do?

Two things seemed desirable—to get rid of Oliver,
and to leave Brentville for some place where neither
Dr. Fox nor his injured wife could seek him out.

The more he thought of this way out of the diffi-
culty the better he liked it. There was nothing to
bind him to Brentville, except the possession of a
handsome place. But this comprised, in value, not

 

more than a tenth part of his—that is, his wife’s pos-
Why should he not let, or still better, sell
it, and at once and forever leave Brentville. There
were no friendly ties to sunder. He was not popular
in the village, and he knew it. He was popularly re-
garded as an interloper, who had no business with
the property of which he had usurped the charge.
Neither was Roland liked, as much on his own ac-
count as on his father’s, for he strutted about the vil-
lage, turning up his nose at boys who would have
been better off than himself in a worldly point of
view but for his father’s lucky marriage; and de-
clining to engage in any game in which the first
place was not accorded to him.

It was very different with Oliver. He was born to
be popular. Though he possessed his share of pride,
doubtless, he never showed it in an offensive man-
ner. No poor boy ever felt ill at ease in his com-
pany. He was the life and soul of the play-ground,
though he obtained an easy preeminence in the
school-room.

“Oliver is worth a dozen of Roland!’ was the com-
mon remark. ‘What a pity he was left dependent
on his step-father.”

The last remark was often made to Oliver himself,
but it was a subject which he was not willing to dis-
cuss. It seemed to him that he would be reproach-
ing his mother, to find fault with the provision she
had made for his future.

It did seem to him, however, in his secret heart
that his mother had been misled by too blind a con-
fidence in his step-father.

“T wish she had left me only one-quarter of the
property, and left it independent of him,” he thought
more than once. “She couldn’t know how disagree-
able it would be to me to be dependent upon him.”

sessions.

Oliver thought this, but he did not say it.

The thought came to him again, as he walked home
from the house of Frank Dudley, twenty minutes
after Roland had traveled over the same road.

“J wonder whether Mr. Kenyon will be up,” he
asked himself, as he rang the bell. ‘If he is, I sup-
pose I must make up my mind for another volley.
How different it was when my poor mother was
alive !’”

The door was opened by Maggie, the servant,

‘““Has Roland come home ?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Oliver; he is in bed by this time.’

“That’s good!” thought Oliver. “Is Mr. Kenyon
up ?’

“No, Mr. Oliver. Did you wish to see him ?”’

“Oh, no,” said Oliver, feeling relieved. ‘I only in-
quired out of curiosity, You’d better shut up the
house, Maggie.”

“T was going to, Mr. Oliver.”

Oliver took his lamp, and went up slowly to bed.
His room was just opposite to Roland’s, which ad-
joined the apartment occupied by his father.

,

r

CHAPTER VI.
MR. KENYON’S CHANGE OF BASE.

Remembering the scene of the day previous, Oliver
expected it would be renewed when he met his step-
father and Roland at breakfast. Such, also, was the
expectation of Roland. He wanted Oliver to -be
humiliated, and fully anticipated that he would be.

What, then, was the surprise of the two boys, when
Mr. Kenyon displayed an unusually gracious manner
at table. —

“Good-morning, Oliver,” he said, pleasantly, when

 

our hero entered the room.

““Good-morning, sir,” returned Oliver, in surprise.

‘“‘We missed you at supper last evening,” continued
the step-father.

“Yes, sir; [took supper at Dr. Dudley’s,” explained
Oliver, not quite certain whether this would be con-
sidered satisfactory.

“Dr. Dudley is a very worthy man,” said Mr. Ken-
yon. ‘His son is about your age, is he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He has a daughter, also—rather a pretty girl?”

“T believe Roland thinks so,” said Oliver, glancing
at his step-brother.

“Roland has taste, then,’ said Mr. Kenyon, ‘You
two boys mustn’t quarrel about the young lady.”

“T shan’t quarrel,” said Roland, stiffly. “There are
plenty other girls in the world.”

“You are a philosopher, I see,” said his father.

Roland felt that this had gone far enough. Why
should his father talk pleasantly to Oliver, who had
defied his authority the day before? If this went on,
Oliver would be encouraged in his insubordination.
He felt that it was necessary to revive the subject.

“T expect my ball is lost,’? he said, in an aggrieved
tone.

“What ball?’ asked his father.

“The one I batted outinto the road‘ yesterday af-
noon.”

“Probably some one has picked it up,” said Mr.
Kenyon, proceeding to open an egg.

Roland was provoked at ais father’s coolness and
unconcern.

“Tf Oliver had picked it up for me it would not
| have been lost,” he continued, with a scowl at our

hero.
| “Tf you had picked it up yourself, wouldn’t it have
| answered the same purpose ?”
Roland stared at his father in anger and dismay.
| Could he really mean it? Had he been won over to
Oliver, too, was surprised. He began

 

Oliver’s side?
to entertain a much more favorable opinion of his
step-father.

“Didn’t you tell Oliver to pick it up yesterday af-
ternoon?’ demanded Roland, making a charge upon
his father.

“Yes, I'‘believe I did.”

“Well, he didn’t do it.”

“He was wrong, then,” said Mr. Kenyon, mildly,
‘He should have respected my authority.

“T’ll go and look for it directly breakfast is over,”
said Oliver, quite won over by Mr. Kenyon’s mild-
ness. >

“Tt wouldn’t be any use,” said Oliver. “I’ve been
looking for it myself this morning, and it isn’t
there.”’

“Of course it wouldn’t stay there all night,” said
Mr. Kenyon. ‘It has no doubt been picked up.”

“Ain’t you going to punish Oliver for disobeying
you?’ burst out the disappointed Roland.

Oliver turned to his step-father with interest to
hear his answer.

“No, Roland. On second thought, I don’t think it
was his place to gofor the ball. You should have
gone after it yourself.”

Oliver smiled to himself with secret satisfaction.
He had never thought so well of his step-father be-
fore. He even felt better disposed toward Roland.

“Why didn’t you ask me politely, Roland,” he said.
“Then we should have saved all this trouble.”

“Because I am older than you, and you ought to
obey me.”

“T can’t agree with you there,’ said Oliver, com-
posedly.

“Come, boys, [ can’t allow any quarreling at the
table,’ said Mr. Kenyon, but still pleasantly. “I
don’t see why we can’t live together in peace and
quietness.”

“Tf he will only be like that all the time,” thought
Oliver, “there will be some pleasure in living with
him. Iam only afraid it won't last. Whata differ-
ence there is between his manner to-day and yes-
terday.”

Oliver was destined to be still more astonished
when breakfast was over.

He had known for some time that Roland was bet-
ter supplied with money than himself. In fact, he
had been pinched for the want of a little ready money
more than once; and whenever he applied to Mr.
Kenyon, he was either refused, or the favor was
grudgingly accorded. To-day, as he rose from the
table, Mr. Kenyon asked:

“How are you off for pocket-money, Oliver ?”’

“Thave twenty-five cents in my pocket,” said
Oliver, with a smile.

“Then it’s about time for a new supply.”

“Tf you please, sir.”

Mr. Kenyon took a five-dollar bill from his pocket,
and passed it over to our hero.

“Thank you sir,’ said Oliver, with mingled sur-
prise and gratitude. ,

“How much did you give him?’ asked Roland,
crossly.

“The same that I giveyou, my son; and Mr. Ken-
yon produced another bill.

Roland took the bill discontentedly.
satisfied to receive no more than Oliver.

“TJ think,” he said to our hero, ‘‘you ought to buy
me a new ball out of your money.”

Oliver did not reply, but looked toward Mr. Ken-
yon.

“T will buy you a new ball myself,” he said. “There
is no call for Oliver to buy one, unless he wants
one for his own use.”

“Tf you will excuse me, sir,” said Oliver, respect-
fully, ‘‘I will get ready to go to school.”

“Certainly, Oliver.”

Roland and his father were left alone.

“Tt seems to me you’ve taken a great fancy to
Oliver all at once,” said Roland.

“What makes you think so?’

“You take his part against me. Didn’t you tell
him yesterday to go after my ball?’

feYORi

“To-day you blame me for not going myself. You
reward him for his impudence besides by giving him
five dollars.”

Mr. Kenyon smiled.

“So my conduct puzzles you, does it ?” he inquired,
complacently.

He was not

,

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

<=aizxa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

peKas

VOL. 42—No, 30.

 

 

 

~, Yes, it does.
instead of me.”

“Have [not treated you as well as Oliver?’

“T think you ought to treat me better, considering
IT am your own son,” grumbled Roland.

“T have good reasons for my conduct,” said Mr.
Kenyon, mysteriously.

“What are they ?”’

“You are a boy, and it is not fitting I should tell
you everything.”

“You ain’t afraid of Oliver, are you?’ demanded
Roland, bluntly.

Mr. Kenyon smiled pleasantly, showing a set of
very white teeth as he did so.

“Really, that is amusing,’ he answered. “What
on earth should make me atraid of Oliver?”

“T don’t see what other reason you can have for
backing down as you have.”

“Listen, Roland. There is more than one way of
arriving at a result, but there is always one way
that is wiser than any other. Now it would not be
wise for me to treat Oliver in such a way as to create
unfavorable comment in the village.”

_ “What do you care for what peoplein the village
| think?’ asked Roland, bluntly. ‘‘Haven’t you got the
money ?”

i ae es. 2?

“And Roland hasn’t a cent?’
hate has nothing except what I choose to give

im.’

. Good!” said Roland, with satisfaction. “I hope
you don’t mean to give him as much as you do me,”

e added.
| “Notintheend. Just at present I may.”

“T don’t see why you should.”

“Then you must be content to take my word for
it, and trust tomy judgment. Inthe end you may
be assured that I shall look after your interests, and
that you will be far better off than Oliver.”

With this promise Roland was measurably satis-
fied. The thing that troubled him was, that Oliver
seemed to have triumphed over him in their recent lit-
tle difference. Perhaps, could he have fathomed his
step-father’s secret designs respecting Oliver, he
would have felt less dissatisfied. Mr. Kenyon was
never more to be dreaded than when he professed to
_be friendly.

I should think Oliver was your son

CHAPTER VII.
: ROLAND’S DISCOMFITURE.

On the way to school. Oliver overtook Frenk
Dudley.

“Well, Oliver, how’s the weather at home?” asked
Frank. “Cloudy, eh?”

“No; it’s all clear and serene.”

Frank looked astonished.

“Didn't Mr. Kenyon blow you up, then 2” he asked.

“Not a bit of it. “He gave me a five-dollar bill with-
out my asking for it.”

“What's come over him?’ asked Frank, in amaze-
‘ment. ‘His mind isn’t getting affected, is it?”

Oliver laughed.

“Not that I know of,” he said. ‘‘I don’t wonder you
ask. I never saw such a change come over a man
since yesterday. Then he wanted Roland to flog me.
Now he is like an indulgent parent.”

“It’s queer, decidedly. I hope for your sake it'll
hold out.”

“So doTl. Roland doesn’t seem to fancy it, though.
He tried hard to revive the quarrel of yesterday, but
witheut success.”

““He’s an amiable cub—that Roland.”

“Do you speak thus of your future brother-in-law?”

“Carrie would sooner be an old maid a dozen times

over than give any encouragement to such a fellow.”

All which was pleasant for Oliver to hear.

Mr. Kenyon was not through with his surprises.

Two weeks before Roland had a new suit of clothes.
Oliver’s envy had been a little excited, because he
needed new clothes more than his step-brother, but
he was too proud to give expression to his dissatis-
faction, or toask fora similar favor. On the way
home from school, in company with Frank Dudley,
Oliver met Mr. Kenyon.

“Are you just coming home from school, Oliver?”

asked his step-father, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir.”

“T have told Mr. Crimp, the tailor, to measure you
‘for anew suitof clothes. You may as well callin
now and be measured.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver, in a tone of satisfac-
tion. What boy ever was indifferent to new clothes.

“Have you selected the cloth, sir?’ he asked.

“No; you may make the selection yourself. You
need not regard the price. Itis best to get a good
article.”

Mr. Kenyon waved his hand, and smiling pleasant-
ly, walked away.

“Look here, Oliver,’ said his friend, Frank, . “I be-
gin to think you have misrepresented Mr. Kenyon to
me. Such aman as that tyrannical! Why, he looks
as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

““T don’t know what to make of it myself, Frank. I
never saw such a change inaman. If he’ll keep on
treating me like this, I shall really begin to like him.
Will you come to the tailor’s with me?’

“Willingly. It’llbe the next thing to ordering a
‘suit for myself.”

The tailor’shop was near by, and the boys entered,
with their school books in their hands.

Oliver, with his friend’s approval, selected a piece
of expensive cloth, and was measured for a suit. As
they left the shop, they fell in with Roland, who,
cane in hand, was walking leisurely down the main
street, cherishing the complacent delusion that he
was the object of general admiration.

“Hello, Frank!” he said, by way of greeting.
Oliver he did not vouchsafe a word.

Frank Dudley nodded.

“Are you out for a walk?” he asked.

*¥68,””

“Have you been into Crimps ?”’

¥en.”

“Been ordering new clothes?’ inquired Roland,
with interest, for he was rather a dandy, and was as
much interested in clothes as a lady.

“Thaven’t. Oliver has.”

Roland arched his brows in displeasure.

To

“Have you ordered a suit of clothes?’ he inquired. |

“T have,” answered Oliver, coldly.

“Who authorized you to do it?”

“It is none of your business,” said Oliver, justly
provoked at the other’s impertinence.

“It is my father’s business,” said Roland.
pose you expect him to pay for them.”

“The bill won’t be sent to you, at any rate. You
‘may be assured of that. Come on, Frank.”

The two boys walked off, leaving Roland in front of
the tailor’s shop.

“Tll go in and see what he’s ordered,” thought he.
“Tf it’s without authority, I'll tell my father, and he’ll
soon put a spoke in his wheel.”

““Good-evening, Crimp,” he said, consequentially.

Considering the tailor quite beneath him, he dis-
pensed with any title.

“Good-evening,” returned the tailor.

“Oliver has ordered a suit here, hasn’t he ?””

‘Yes; he jnst ordered it?”

“Will you.show me the cloth he selected?”

“Tf you wish.”

Mr. Crimp displayed the cloth. Roland was enough
of a judge to see that it was high priced. 2

*“Tt’s nice cloth. Is it expensive ?”

| “Tt’s the best I have in stock.”
Roland frowned.
‘Ts it any better than the suit you made me a short
-time since 2”

“It is a little dearer.”

“Why didn’t you show me this, then?
the best.”

“Because it has come in since,”

“Look here, Crimp,’ said Roland, “you’d better
wait till you hear from my father before you begin

“on this suit.’ i.

“Why should I?’

“T don’t believe he will allow Oliver to have such a
high-priced suit.” '

Mr. Crimp had had orders from Mr. Kenyon that
very afternoon to follow Oliver’s directions im-
plicitly, but he did not choose to say this to Roland.
The truth was, he was provoked at the liberty the
ill-bred boy took in addressing him without a title,
and he didn’t see fit to enlighten him on this point.

“You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘Oliver has or-
dered the suit, and I shall not take such a liberty
with him as to question his order.”

“Trather think my father will have something to
say about that,” said Roland. “I presume you ex-
pect him to pay your bill.”

“The bill will be paid; I am not afraid of that. Why
shouldn’t it be?”

“You may have to depend on Oliver to pay it him-

“T sup-

I wanted

“Well, he has money enough, or ought to have,”

said the tailor. significantly. ‘His mother left a

large property.”

Roland did not like the turn the conversation was
taking, and stalked out of the shop.

“Crimp is getting impudent,” he said, to himself.
“Tf there was another good tailor in the village I
would patronize him.” "

However, Roland had one other resource, and this

, consoled him.

“T’ll tell my father, and we'll see if he don’t puta
stop to it,” he thought. ‘Oliver will find he can’t do
just as he likes. I wish Crimp would make the suit,
and then father refuse to pay forit. It would teach
him a lesson.”

Roland selected the supper-table for the revelation
of what he supposed to be Oliver’s unauthorized
eonduct. ;

“IT met Oliver coming out of Crimp’s this after-
noon,” he commenced.

Oliver did not appear alarmed at this opening. He
continued to eat his toast in silence.

As no one said anything, Roland continued:

“He had just been ordering a new suit of clothes.”

“Did you find any cloth to suit you, Oliver?” asked
Mr. Kenyon.

“Yes, sir, I found a very nice piece.”

*“T should think it was nice. It was the dearest in
Crimp’s whole stock,” said Roland.

“How do you know?’ asked Oliver, quickly.

“Crimp told me so.”

“Then you went in and inquired,” said Oliver,” his

lip curling.

Yess i aid.”

 

There are some men who seem to be utterly desti-
tute of principle. These are the men who in cold
blood show themselves guilty of the most appalling
crimes if their interest requires it. They are more
detestable than those who, a prey to strong passion,
are hurried into the commission of acts which in
their cooler moments they deeply regret.

To the first class belonged Mr. Kenyon; who, as we
have already seen, had committed his wife to the
horrible confinement of a mad-house, that he might
be free to spend her fortune. Hitherto he had not
injured Oliver, though he had made his life uncom-
fortable; but the time was coming when our hero
would be himself in peril. It was because he foresaw
that Oliver might need to be removed that he began
to treat him with unusual indulgence. | :

“Sqould anything happen,” he said to himself,
“this will disarm suspicion.”

The time came sooner than he anticipated. Action
was precipitated by a most unlooked-for occurrence,
which filled the soul of the guilty husband with
terror. F

One day he stopped at the post-office to inquire for
letters.

“There is no letter for you, Mr. Kenyon, but here is
one for Oliver. Will you take it?”

“T am glad you selected a good article, Oliver,” said
Mr. Kenyon, quietly. ‘It will wear longer.”

Roland stared at his father in open-mouthed amaze-
ment. He sofully anticipated getting Oliver into
hot water, that his failure quiet disconcerted him.

“His suit is going to be better than mine,” he grum-
bled, in a tone of vexation. 3

“That is your own fault. Why didn’t you select
the same cloth ?”’ asked his fatheer. {

“It is some new cloth that has just come in.”

“You can make it up next time,” said Mr. Kenyon,
“Your suit seems to me to be a very nice one.”

This was all the satisfaction Roland got. The next
day he met Mr. Crimp in the street.

“Well, does your father object to Oliver’s order?’
he asked, with a smile.

Roland was too provoked to notice what he regard-
ed as an impertinent question.

CHAPTER VIII.
A DANGEROUS LETTER.

Mr. Kenyon was curious to learn with whom his
step-son corresponded, and said:

“Yes, [ will take it.” ‘

It was putinto his hands. Nosooner did he scan
the handwriting and the postmark than he turned
actually livid.

Ttwasin the handwriting of his wife, whom ail the
world supposed to be dead, and it was postmarked
Charleston.

“Good heavens ! What a narrow escape !” Ife ejacu-
lated, the perspiration standing in large drops on his
brow. “Suppose Oliver had received this letter, I
might have been lynched, I must go home and con-
sider what is to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so
criminally—idiotically careless as to suffer such a
letter to leave his establishment?”

Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed.

On the way, he met Roland, who couldn’t help ob-
serving his father’s agitation.

“What is the matter, father?’ he inquired, care-
i for he cared very little for any one but him-
self.

“T have a sick headache,” said his father, abruptly.
“T am going home to lie down.”

Roland made no further inquiries, and Mr. Kenyon
gained the house without any other encounter.

He went up to his own room, and locked himself in.
Then he took out his pocket-knife and cut open the
envelope. The letter was as follows:

“My DEAR OLIVER :—This letteris from your un-
happy mother, who is languishing in a private mad-
house, the victim of your step-father’s detestable
machinations. Oh, Oliver, how can I reveal to you
the hypocrisy and the baseness of that man, whom in
an evil hour I accepted as the successor of your
dear father. It was not because I loved him, but
-ather because of his importunity that I yielded my
asseut to his proposals. I did not read his character
then. I did not know, as I do now, that he only
wanted to secure my property. He professed him-
self to be wealthy, but I have reason to think that in
this, as in other things, he deceived me.

“When we came South, he pretended that it was on

account of his health, and I unsuspectingly fell into |

I need not dwell upon the details of that | lady; she dias come to harm,”

the snare.
journey. Enough that he lured me here and placed
me under the charge of a Dr, Fox, a fitting tool of
his, under the plea that I was insane.

“T am given to understand that on his return to the
North, Mr. Kenyon represented me as dead. §
his art that I do not doubt his stery has been be-
lieved. Perhaps you, my dearest son, have mourned
for me as dead. If this be so, my letter will bea
revelation. I have been trying for a long time to get

an opportunity to write you, but this is the first time | 4* a xi
I do not yet know if I can | tides like the sea. ;

I have met with success.
get it safely to the mail, but that is my hope.

“When you receive this letter, consult with friends
whom you can trust, and be guided by their advice.
Do what you can to rescue me from this living death.
Do not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Kenyon, if you
san avoid it. He is capable of anything.

“My dear son, my paper is exhausted, and I dare
not write more, at any rate, lest [should be inter-
rupted and detected. Heaven bless you, and restore
you to my longing sight.

“Your loving mother,
“MARGARET CONRAD.”

Mr. Kenyon’s face darkened, especially when his
attention was drawn to the signature.

“Conrad! So she discards my name!’ he mut-
tered. ‘Fortunately the object of this accursed let-
ter will not be attained, nor will Oliver have an op-
portunity of making mischief by showing it to the
neighbors.”

“Mr. Kenyon lighted a candle and deliberately held
the dangerous letter in the flame tillit was con-
sumed.

“There,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief, ‘that
peril is over. But suppose she should write an-
other ?”

Again his face wore an expression of nervous ap-
prehension.

“Timust write to Dr. Fox at once,” he mused, ‘‘and
warn him to keep close guard over his patient. Other-
wise I may have to dread an explosion at any
time.’

He threw himself into an easy-chair and began to
think over the situation.

The man was alert and watchful. Danger was at
hand, and he resolved to head it off at any hazard.

Meanwhile Oliver had occasion to pass the post-
office on his way home from school. Thinking there
might be a letter or paper for his step-father, he en-
tered and made inquiry.

“Ts‘there anything for us, Mr. Herman?” he said.

“No,” said the postmaster, adding jocularly, ‘‘Isn’t
one letter a day enough for you 2”

“T have received no letter,” answered Oliver, rather
surprised.

_ “I gave a letter to Mr. Kenyon for you this morn-
ing.

“Oh, I haven’t been home from school yet,” said
Oliver. ‘I suppose it is waiting for me there.”

“Very likely. It looked to be in a lady’s hand-
writing,” added the postmaster, disposed to banter
Oliver, who was a favorite with him.

“T can’t think who can have written it, then,” said
our hero.

At first he thought it might be from an intimate
boy-friend of about his own age, but the postmaster’s
remark seemed to render that unlikely.

We all like to receive letters, however disinclined
we may be to answer them. Oliver was no excep-
tion to'this remark. His desire of seeing the letter,
was increased by his being quite unable to conjec-
ture who could have written to him in a feminine
handwriting. As soon, therefore, as he reached home,
he inquired for Mr. Kenyon.

“‘He’s in his room, Mr. Oliver,” said the servant.

“Did he leave any letter for me, Maggie ?”

“T didn’t hear of any, Mr. Oliver.” —

“Then he’s got it up stairs, I suppose.”

Oliver went up the stairs and knocked at Mr. Ken-
yon’s door. The latter had now recovered his wonted
composure, and called out to him to enter.

“T heard you had a letter for me, Mr. Kenyon,”
said Oliver, abruptly.

Again Mr. Kenyon looked disturbed. He had
hoped that Oliver would hear nothing of it, and that
no inquiry might be made.

“Who told you I had a letter for you?’

“The postniaster.”

Mr. Kenyon saw that it was useless to deny it.

“Yes, I believe there was one,” he said, carelessly.
“Where could I have put it ?”

He began to search his pockets; then he looked
into the drawers of his desk.

“T don’t remember laying it down,” he said, slowly.
“Tn fact, I don’t remember seeing it since I got home.
I may have dropped it in the road.”

“Won't you oblige me by looking again, sir?” asked
Oliver, disappointed.

Mr. Kenyon lookek again, but, of course, in vain.

“It may turnup,” he said, atlength. ‘Not that it
was of any importance. It looked like a circular.”

Mr. Herman told me it was in feminine hand-
writing,” said Oliver.

“Oho! that accounts for your anxiety!” said Mr.
Kenyon, with affected jocularity. ‘Come, I’ll look
again.”

But the letter was not found,

Oliver did not fail to notice something singular in
his step-father’s manner, ,

“Has he suppressed my letter?’ he asked himself,
as he slowly retired from the room. ‘*‘What does it
all mean?”

“He suspects me,” muttered Mr. Kenyon.
in my way, and [ must get rid of him.”

[TO BE CONTINUED. }

——>-

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate, .
Important. :

Dr..T. C. SmiruH, Charlotte, N. C., says: “I
attach to it the highest importance, not only as
an agreeable cooling drink, but as a therapeutic
agent of well-defined and specine value.” °

“He is

}

 

Such is |

| her arm.

 

JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED.

Perchance the friend who cheered thy early years
Has yielded to the tempter’s power ;

Yet why shrink back and draw away thy skirt,

As though her yery touch would do thee hurt?
Wilt thou prove stronger in temptation’s hour?

Perchance the one thou trusted more than life
Has broken love’s most sacred vow ;
Yet judge him not—the victor in life’s strife
Is he who beareth best the cares of life,
And leaveth God to judge, nor question how.

Sing the great song of love to all, and not
The wailing anthem of thy woes;
So live thy life that thou mayst never feel
Afraid to say, as at His throne you kneel,
“Forgive me, God, as I forgive my foes.”
—_— or oo
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUPLISHED IN BOOK-FOR®M. |

ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of ‘‘A Fair Mystery,” ‘‘For Another's Sin,”
‘A Heart’s Bitterness,” etc., etc.

(“ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE” was commenced in No. 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXV.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY POOR LADY?”

EARING she knew not what,
Fanny searched every part of
the house where her mistress
‘ might by any possibility be.
Then she tapped at the dress-
ing-room where North slept
near his master’s chamber.
“North, do you know any- |
thing of my lady? I cannot
find her.” _
“Surely not. Is she not in |
the house ?’’

“No,” said Fanny, with a sob.

The door of the marquis’ room suddenly opened,
and the two servants saw, by the soft glow of the
porcelain night-lamp, the marquis in his dressing-
gown and slippers standing before them.

“What are you saying, Fanny?’ he asked, sharply.

“T can’t find my mistress,” faltered Fanny. ‘She is
not in the house.”’ y ,

“The countess not in the house at this time of
night, or morning!
the marquis, angrily.

Fanny promptly turned the tables on him by burst-
ing forth in evident anguish :

“You sent for her, my lord, and she has not come
back. Oh, what have you done with my poor little
lady ?’

“I? What have I done?” said the marquis, indig-
nantly. ‘No doubt she is sitting with Mrs. Harley.”

“Mrs. Harley is asleep. She has no miseries to keep
her waking—no enemies to trouble her rest,” retorted
Fanny, quite beside herself. “My lord, what has be-
come of my poor innocent lady? I’d believe any-
thing might happen to her with Mrs. Ranleigh in the
house hounding her to the death !” é :

“Be silent, idiotic girl!” said the marquis, griping

2

What new freak is this?’ cried |

‘My lord, I can’t,” said Fanny, falling on her knees
and clutching his dressing-robe. ‘I’m wild about my

The marquis became thoroughly alarmed. He bade
North call a footman, and prepare to search the gar-
den and terraces. When this was fruitless, more
men were roused and the lines extended. Then the
Honorable Harley was called, who at once headed |
the search. His heat} misgave him. He remem- |
bered how mournfuk®eryl’s gentle face often was;
how lier sweet eyes would fill with sudden tears, as
if her secret heart were a well of sorrow given to

 

“The marquis,’ said Harley to himself, “is all
courtesy; but, by Jove, a gentle, tender, winning
little girl like that needs more petting and gentle- |
ness. I don’t know how Marion would take it if I |
were so cold.”

The morning sky became tinted with red and gold.
The marquis, worn out with sleepless, -agonized
search, sat at last in his library. Was it only five
hours before that she—little lovely Beryl—had stood |
in that room, and turned on him such great, terrified,
entreating eyes? What would he not give now to see
that graceful form standing there in safety!

Mrs. Ranleigh came rushing in, in carefully ar-
ranged dishabille.

“Beryl gone, Lord Medford! I cannot believe it.
Eiloret poor, dear child! Whom could she have gone
with?’

“With no one!” thundered the marquis. ‘Mrs.
Ranleigh, pardon me, I can bear to see no one to-
day.’

But when Mrs. Harley Medford came in, with tears
on her kind face, and softly laid her cheek on his
shoulder, and clasped his hand, saying, “We shall
find our poor darling,” he felt his heart comforted by
her nearness. :

Lawrence came in, disheveled and miserable.

“What are they doing now, Lawrence ?
trace ?”’

“None. They are dragging the
Lawrence, hoarsely.

‘Shall we notify the police, or send for aid?’ asked
Harley Medford, entering at this juncture.

“No. Search tirst every place and cottage for four
miles around. This one day we will search alone.”

* * *

It was twelve o’clock on an April night; the night,
and an hour after, Beryl had fled from her hus-
band’s presence, with that passionate, despairing
cry. The moon was more than half way down the
sky, and the silver light fell widely through the great
branches, faintly fringed with new leaves, or strug-
gled more feebly with the masses of evergreens.
Owls called to each other from among the mantling |
ivies, or their broad wings went by aS a shadow, as
they sought their prey in the night. |

Winderton village lay four miles from Winderton
Castle, and on the outskirts of Winderton village
stood apretty little cottage, the home of a newly |
made doctor and his young wife. Doctor Marvel had
been settled near Winderton a little over a year, and
was making his way famously; popular from the ur-
banity of his flanners, the bounty of his heart, and
the skill and good fortuue that attended his practice.

Doctor Marvel had been called out late that par-
ticular evening, and was just getting home. A robust
young fellow, in all the fine vigor of twenty-seven
well-spent years, the lateness of the hour made no
difference to him; the beauty of the April night, the
soft fragrance of the new-budding world charmed
him, and he loitered along his way, humming a little
song.

Suddenly, as some great white night-bird sweeps
soundless by, a figure passed the loitering doctor.
The figure came up behind him, unheard, and not
seeming to see him, went by him with. a swift, noise-
less motion, like a spirit.

The doctor fairly started aside in amazement at
that quick, quiet shape. A snowy grace, going
straight on, on, with an even running pace. <A Cloud |
ot soft, misty draperies borne out on the light night |
breeze; the moonlight glinting from an uncovered
head and a white face; a faint breath of heliotrope
borne from the passing presence. But where this
mysterious pilgrim sped along, the wide, smooth
road of Winderton made anabrupt turn, and at a
right angle followed the side of a deep, still pool, one
of the numberless nameless meres of the lake coun-
try, lying now, glittering like a burnished shield in
the moonlight.

This white and soundless fugitive never seemed to
see the road, nor its course, nor its end, but went on,
straight on, before the astounded doctor, and not
with any leap or casting away, but simply by that
straightiorward, unseeing run, wentinto and under
the mere.

And there was no sound—not acry; nothing but
the plash of a body into the water, and the water
closing over it, sending a great ripple to the grassy
shore, and a second and a third.

Doctor Marvel was an athlete, quick of eye and
brain, prompt on an emergency. As that first ripple
swept ashore his coat went off, and before the second
his boots were on the grass, and in he went, down
oe a dash where the white figure had been lost to
sight,

He came up once, with alittle ery; then he went
under again, and returned to the surface with a white
form across his arm, as if he had gathered a treasure
of lilies from the depth of the pool. Then he struck
out for the shore, and presently put his burden down
upon the sward,

His ear was laid against the wet face and mouth,
his hand sought heart and pulse; he unfastened the
white gown, squeezed water from the loosened hair
and drapery, and vigorously rubbed the motionless
chest and cold temples.

“Alive!” he said, with joy.

Half an-hour later the doctor’s strangely found pa-
tient was lying in the bed in the best room of the cot-
tage, and waited on by two ministering angels, Anna
Marvel, the doctor’s wife, and a fair young creature
whom they called Lelia.

“Who can she be? What a lovely face she has!”
cried Lelia.

What

old moat,” said

* * * *

 

 

 

| life and contentment.

| over the face of the marquis, and he judged that

| | put myself in your hands,” said the marquis.
| Jonas Kent ismy physician in London.”

Jonas Kent,” said the young doctor. “I ho
| best, but I should not be surprised if neither mar-
| quis nor countess lived the week out.”

|

| vel.
| the people of the village and the farms.
| ous symptoms of the marquis rapidly abated.
| calm, reserved disposition was in his favor. The doc-

; under the care of Anna Marvel—most gracious,
| Sweet, and sensible of women—and nursed assidu-
| ously by Lelia, who was pretty, sympathetic, and

| thus far.

| conscious ;
| Spotless simplicity of that cottage chamber was as a

“She is none of the village people,” said Anna Mar
vel; these clothes are simply elegant, and the lace on
her dress is real point.’’

“fT will watch by her,” said Lelia.
not try to drown herself, doctor ?”

“No. I should say, either sleep-walking, or incipi-
ent brain fever. I fear the latter.”

‘Poor little love,” said Lelia, bending over the form
on the bed, when she was left alone. ‘What rich
wedding and engagement rings she wears! Prettier
that Lam, and about my age. Ah, I see troubles and
pains come to all ranks.”

And sitting on the side of the bed, Lelia patiently
and pensively watched her patient till night grew
into day. }

Dr. Marvel was called out to a distant sufferer be-
fore seven that morning, and did not return till after-
noon. Meanwhile Beryl was nursed according to his
orders, and the little cottage was unvisited by any
one, and left in the hush of the warm spring day,
quiet as the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.

About two the doctor came in in haste, examined
his patient with anxiety, and said:

‘‘Tam sure she is the Countess of Medford. I hear
that she is missing. I shall ride over to the castle at
once.”

**Harry, she is very ill,” said his wife.

“T know it, my dear,” said the doctor.

Half an hour later the distracted marquis was con-
senting to appeal for further aid in the search, when
a footman cried, eagerly:

“Dr. Marvel! And news of my lady!”

“Surely she did

CHAPTER XXVI.
“MY ERRAND IS NOT DEATH, BUT LIFE,” HE SAID.
Is she dead!’ cried the Mar-

She is at my house, and I hope she will live.”

The marquis reeled, stretched out his arms, fell, but
Lawrence caught him, and with the doctor’s help
laid him on the sofa.

“This is only a faint from reaction,” said the doe-
tor; but,’ and he bent his head over the patient’s
heart, ‘‘he is one who cannot faint with impunity.”

For a little time all cares were centered on the
marquis, Then, as he began to revive, Doctor Mar-
vel drew the Honorable Harley Medford on one side.

“Your relative has a form of heart disease that
may at any instant become acute and fatal. He
should be spared all excitement.”

Harley Medford was shocked. It was no joy to
him that he stood perhaps on the eve of inheritance.
He sincerely liked his cousin, and wished him long

“His great anxiety now is about the countess. Re-
lieve it as soon as he is fully conscious.”

Doctor Marvel returned to the sofa.

“My lord, Lady Medford is at my house, in the care
ot my wife. I hope in a few days she will be none
the worse of her accident, and able to return home.”

“Accident ?”’ said the marquis, faintly.
secure fell into, or walked into, what is called Lilly
Mere.

“T cannot understand it!’ cried Harley.

The doctor narrated all he knew of the facts.

“It was sleep walking or incipient brain fever; I
should say the latter. Has she had any shock or
mental trouble ?”’ :

“None, none,’ said Mr. Medford, heartily, ‘“‘she is
the idol of the house, her life is a long, bright sum-
mer day.”

The keen-eyed doctor saw that a quiver passed

some secret shadow lay over the countess’ life.

“T should say that she had been oppressed by some
long grief or care, and it has resulted in a slight at-
tack of brain fever.”

“She must be brought home at once,” said the
marquis.

“Tf you will excuse me, her safety can only be as-
sured by her remaining were she is, in absolute
quiet, till the brain trouble abates. My house is at
her service, and your own physician will be wel-
come,” said the doctor.

“T have heard so much of Doctor Marvel’s skill
that I cheerfully rest on it, unless consultation is
needed,” said the marquis, with courtesy. “If she
should not be moved, I will go to her at once.”

“It is my duty to tell you,” said the doctor, “that
your own state seems to me more precarious than
that of your lady’s, and you will do well to summon
your own physician, and remain in your own apart-
ment, in absolute quiet, for at least a week.”

“Perey, I beseech you,” cried Harley Medford.

“Our own physician has left home for a fortnight.
“Sir

“And some of us will go to the countess,” said
Harley. ‘‘Mrs. Ranleigh, for instance.”

“Mrs. Ranleigh must not go near Beryl,’ said the
marquis, with sudden heat.

Doctor Marvel considered that here lay the key of
the mystery.

“T will go over to the doctor’s daily, myself,” said
Harley.

The marquis was assisted to his room, and North
received careful directions from the doctor.

“T shall run down to London to-night, and see Sir
“T hope for the

But his usual good fortune attended Doctor Mar-
His titled patients throve under his care, as did
The danger-
His

tor and Harley each day brought him encouraging
reports of Beryl.

Nothing could exceed Mrs. Ranleigh’s devotion.
She read to the marquis by the hour; the political
news never seemed to weary her, as she read column
after column of the Times so well that the very into-
nations of her voice made the heaviest disquisitions
charming. She sang ballads; she brought the guitar
and spent long twilight hours discoursing Spanish,
or Italian, or old troubadour music; she played
chess, draughts, backgammon, and dominoes; she
held the marquis fascinated with many tales of her
early life, in a society so different from his own—bar-
racks life, boarding-school life—it was a new world.

The marquis thought her a most enchanting com-
panion, and wished Beryl had her versatility of ge
nius and her desire to please. Every day he felt that
he must tell Mrs. Ranleigh that her visit should close,
that he could not have her longer under Beryl’s roof,
for soon the countess must eome home, and the mar-
quis would not encounter further risk to her life and
health, by forcing Mrs. Ranleigh’s presence on her.
As for Laura, she audaciously resolved to make the
most of her power over the marquis, and not leave
the castle unless she were distinctly banished.

Beryl, meanwhile, in that simple cottage home,

gentle, found the most blissful resting of her life

For several days she was fevered and generally un-
then she came back to herself, and the

new, peaceful world. Wisterias climbed over the
windows and hung their great clusters of translu-
cent blue, swaying in breeze and sunshine; the soft
spring air swept gently to and fro the full curtains
of white muslin. After life-long acquaintance with
velvet, satin, and plush upholstery, how very quaint
and clean seemed this fantastic bamboo, with knots
of ribbon, this dark, well-polished cherry, with an-
tique brass mountings; a floor covered with matting,
with velvet rugs sown on it, like islands, was also a
novelty.

Then how lovely was Anna Marvel, her satin-
smooth brown hair braided by her own fair hands,
and how enchanting were morning dresses of pink
nainsook, trimmed with pillow lace. How still was
this house, served by one maid only.

Ah, what love was that that flashed from the eyes
and wreathed the lips of this husband and wife? No
matter how often they met, they were always so
frankly glad to see each other.

Then this Lelia Barrows, Mrs. Marvel’s young
friend, what a pretty creature she was—soft-voiced,
sad-eyed, with little gaucheries both of speech and
manner, that were corrected with such a blushing
humility. Young she was, but evidently well-known
to sorrow, and so full of sympathy.

Beryl watched both these women, and loved them,
loved them in gratitude, and for their goodness and
sweetness. She had never been allowed close
friends; her artificial life had hindered her of such
innocent, warm intimacies. Laura had been her
closest confidante, and her evil genius and betrayer.
But truth, noble truth, and genial wisdom, shone in
every look and word of Anna Marvel.

A sick-room swiftly ripens intimacy. One day
Beryl impulsively flung her arms around Anna Mar-
vel’s neck, as she bent over her, and cried:

“Oh, [love you! [want to belike you. Tell me
what to do, that I, too, may be happy in my home.”

Anna Marvel knelt by the bedside and drew Beryl’s
fair head to her shoulder.

“Dear Lady Medford, is there anything I can say
or do to make you happier ?”’

“Yes; [have no one in the
help me.”

“My dear, you have your husband.”

“But [I am afraid of him, and he does not love
me.”

“Ah, you are mistaken. The doctor says he was
most deeply agitated at your danger, and he gets
news from you twice a day.”

“Yes; but—oh, Mrs. Marvel, love, deep love, is so
different from courtesy merely, and pride of reputa-
tion.”

“But I cannot understand a husband and wife not
loving each other. Why do they marry ?”

“The marquis,” said Beryl, humbly, ‘“‘says he mar-
ried me for my beauty and my gentle disposition,
and he finds my beauty not worth the trouble I am,
and he is disappointed in my disposition. I get
angry sometimes. I married him because I was
made to do so by my family. I loved another—oh,
so much !—but he is dead; he was drowned almost a
year ago. But the marquis, since he found [I had
loved, and could not help mourning, has been so
angry, and stern, and jealous, and does not see that
that was one forever love, that I could not help, that

world to counsel or

 

“Oh, Lord Heath, Iam in such anxiety of mind!
have wished dozens of times I was a good Catholic,

grew in my heart; he seems to think Iam a flirt—
that hateful thing, a married flirt.”

“Oh, my dear, this is a pitiful story.”

“Tt is a story of which [shall die unless you help
me to make it better.”

And Beryl, clasping fast her new friend’s hand, told
her story without mentioning Jerome’s name, or for-
tunes, or manner of death; she called him “THAT
ONE.”

“My dear,” said Anna Marvel, ‘I think I see a way
to help you.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

““BUT SUPPOSE JEROME SOTHRON IS YET ALIVE.”

It was the most lonely of late April days. Lord
Medford had been restless and nervous after luncheon.
He had become, in the past week, so dependent on
Laura Ranleigh for society; so grateful to her for her
devoted attention, that he could not endure the
thought of banishing her from the castle. And yet
he had no question that he must do so for the sake of
his wife’s peace. Laura saw the struggle in his mind
as clearly as if he had uttered it all. She was con-
sidering every possibility of entrenching herself in
the regards of the marquis. When she found he was
restless and moody that day, she insisted on singing
him to sleep.

“T will sit on the haleony near your room,”
said. ‘Lie down, and let North close the blinds,
and I will sing soft tunes until you fall asleep; and
then I can go down from the balcony to the garden.
You can fancy you are some oriental prince, and that
I am some sweet singer from the hills of Cashmere,
and have learned my lays from the nightingales.”’

“Your voice is far richer than any nightingale’s,”
said the marquis, ‘‘and I would rather be myself than
a prince of the Orient.”

“T would ratherbe the Marquis of Medford than
any man living,’ said Mrs. Ranleigh, with fervor,
“To be good and great as you are is a boon accorded
to but few.”

Then she playfully pushed the blinds together, and,
sitting on the outside, sang the marquis’ favorite
Scotch songs: ‘‘Keen Blows the Wind O’er the Braes
of Gleniffer,’ and ‘‘What are the Flowers of Scot-
land ?”’

When satisfied that the marquis was asleep, she
went down by the balcony stairs to the garden, and
took the path beside the grand drive to the lodge
gate. She wanted solitude and time tothink. It was
very much to her, both financially and socially, to
remain at the castle; andthen, notable guests whom
she wished to meet were soon coming.

As she neared the great gate, a dog-cart rattled up
on the outside, some one sprang out, said ‘‘Good-by,”
and entered by the small gate of the foot-path.

She faced the new-comer. It was Lord Alfred
Heath.

“Oh, Lord Alfred!” eried Mrs. Ranleigh, holding
out both hands, “how glad I am to see you. How
good of youtocome. So you heard? I did not know
it got abroad.”

“Heard what? Nothing wrong, I hope? I heard
nothing. Beryl and the marquis are surely well?
What do you mean ?”’

“Dear me!” said Laura, looking at the soft folds of
her brown.,walking suit; “now I wishI had not
spoken; but, then, you would have heard.”

“Heard what, for goodness’ sake, Mrs. Ranleigh 2?”

“Why this fiasco of our poor, dear impulsive Beryl.”

“By Jove, you'll drive me out of my head,” eried
Lord Alfred, who came with a plan which would
surely miscarry if his daughter’s fiasco were serious.

Laura put her hand through his arm.

“Don’t be so excited, Lord Heath; Beryl is safe.
You might as well hear it from me. I mean Beryl
flinging herself into a lake and being nearly
drowned !”

“Beryl!
self!”

“We tried to keep it very close, but I thought you
might have beard.”

“Not a breath! But my child is saved and well?”

“Oh, yes, fortunately—very fortunately.”

“But what on earth was the reason of it?”

“Oh, Jerome Sothron,’ sighed Mrs. Ranleigh,
taking off the Di Vernon hat she wore, contemplating
with interest the velvet-lined, turned-up brim, and
vutting it back coquettishly on her waves of black
nair.

“Jerome Sothron !’’ cried Lord Alfred, impatiently ;
ae is an old story; and then he is dead and done
with.”

Mrs. Ranleigh shook her head, and carefully ad-
justed a great golden cluster of fresh primroses at

her waist.
“Not dead! Not? I never knew you so tantaliz-
ing. He is—dead and buried.”

“Sometimes I am quite sure of it,’ cried Laura.
<

she

The Countess of Medford drowning her-

with a father confessor who would tell me just what
to do! As I have not such help, ’m so glad to see
you. Let us sit down here for a little, until I tell you
all that has gone on. And you, as Beryl’s father,
will be my best counselor.”

Lord Alfred’s affairs were in a very critical condi-
tion; his future depended somewhat on his noble
son-in-law. Naturally he desired to bring his troubles
to a harmonious household. He took his seat by
Laura, as she indicated, under a beach tree, whose
spreading branches were clothed in the purple mist
ofthe young leaves. Laura was what Lord Heath
called ‘‘a very fine woman,” and he had no objection
in life to her confidences.

Laura rapidly sketched the friendship of Jerome
and Beryl, after Beryl’s marriage, exaggerating their
intimacy and the last meeting.

“By Jove!” said the excellent father, “that was
the wildest affair I ever heard of. She might have
got herself divorced. My gracious, what a horrible
danger !”

“So I told her,” sighed Mrs. Ranleigh; and she ex-
plained, impressively, how distracted Beryl had been
over the accusation of murder laid against Jerome,
and then his terrible death.”

“Well, for my part,” said Lord Alfred, with heat,
“Tm glad he’s gone. He would have been the siily
child’s destruction sooner or later.”

“But are we sure he is gone,” queried Mrs. Ran-
leigh. ‘‘May not this all be a scheme to distract or
stop pursuit? His body never was brought home nor
seen by his people.”

“Oh, that is all imagination, all madness. Why, his
death is certain, all attested.”

“Tt may be just my nervousness for dear Beryl.
But I keep thinking, ‘Suppose he is living. Suppose
she knows it, or will hereafter know it. Suppose she
is in correspondence with him.’ I dare not hint such
a thought to the marquis, for fear of trouble, but to
you I can. Why does Beryl dislike and fear me, if
she is not afraid I may interfere between her and
Sothron ?”’

oo you are simply wild, Mrs. Ranleigh, over
this.”

Laura elaborately explained how she had “tried to
guide and guard Beryl, and save her from folly,” and
how grateful the marquis had been, and how resent-
ful the countess.

“She wishes to drive me away.
hates me. I stopto save her.
task, but I must go.”

“Indeed you must not. You must stay. Stay and
look after the child. Sheis thoughtless and means
no harm, but she needs a wise woman like yourself.
I shall tell Medford as much; but that idea of Je-
rome living is merely madness. He will think so
too.

To get these double hints conveyed to the marquis
had been Laura’s aimin this conversation. She put
her kerchief to her eyes and sighed.

“My poor darling Beryl.” Then, “Oh, Lord Alfred,
how I have imagined that Jerome was alive, and that
someway his name would be cleared of that murder
charge, and he would ot once reappear in England,
and our dear Beryl, out of compassion and the reyul-
sion of her feelings, would be fonder of him than
ever.’

“That is all your vivid fancy,” said Lord Alfred.
“But I shall feel better if you stay here. Let us go
up to the house.”

He gave her his arm.

“We have a fine heir presumptive up there,” said
Mrs. Ranleigh. ‘‘Mrs. Harley Medford has a son.”

“IT. don’t see why it could not have been Beryl’s
boy,” said Lord Alfred, much aggrieved, feeling that,
in such joyful circumstances, the marquis would
have been the most liberal of friends to his father-in-
law.

Lord Alfred had found himself in extremities, and
had seen a new way out of his troubles. He had
found a German widow to marry him. She was not
of rank, but she was very rich. His errand home was
to present the affair comfortably to the marquis, to
secure his good offices in reconciling his brother, the
earl, and to persuade them both to unite in paying
off certain debts, which the widow insisted must be
settled before marriage. Finding Beryl and her lord
on ill terms made his mission much more delicate.
The marquis, however, was not aman to visit the
sins of Beryl on her parent; he conceded freely all
that Lord Alfred desired.

“Tm sorry,” said Lord Heath, “that Beryl has
given you this trouble. She is fond of her own way,
and restive to reproof. But she is the best little
creature in the world, and if you keep such a friend
as Mrs. Ranleigh with her, to give her good advice
and a little looking after, so she will not do foolish
little things, she will be allright, and in a year or
two be as steady a little woman as there is in Eng-
land. That Sothron fairly bewitched her.”

The marquis winced.

“Beryl does not like Mrs. Ranleigh, I am sorry to
say. I must ask her to leave us.”

“Don’t do it. By no means. Beryl will get over
her whim. You keep Laura here. She isa woman of
the world, and knows the end of things.”

“T shall not give my wife a jailer,” said the mar-
quis, loftily.

“Pshaw! itis only a duenna, if you like that term
better.”

ee shall do my duty. I will not miake Beryl miser-
able.

“See here, Medford,” said Heath, confidentially.
“One never knows what will happen. You mast
keep Mrs. Ranleigh. Some people say, ‘Suppose
Sothern is not dead after all?”

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]

_I cling to her; she
Itis an ungrateful

 

 

EB ELTA ETE,

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No 1 30,

 

 

 

 

SILENCE.

BY F. BRB. COULSON.

Sad is the silence of the church-yard home,
Where side by side our loved and lost ones sleep ;
Dread is the silence, ominous and deep,

That lulls the wind and stills the boiling foam

Of ocean ere the tempest thunders come,
And shrieking blasts across the billows sweep ;
Dreary the silence of the Alpine steep

O’er whose white crest the ghostly snow-clouds roam.

But sadder, deeper, drearier than all
Is that lone silence of the human breast
That stands from human sympathy apart,
Whose moan is dumb, whose tears refuse to fall—
This stony silence is the mourntulest,
The voiceless agony of a broken heart!

 

ls ls

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

RUBY'S REWARD,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of .“*The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Brownie’s
Triumph,” *“That Dowdy,” etc.

{“RuBY’s REWARD” was commenced in No. 20. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE MIDST OF LIFE THERE IS—DEATH.

When Mrs. Gordon heard of Ruby’s rejection of Mr.
Edmund Carpenter, she was much disappointed and
depressed. She had set her heart upon the match,
for it seemed to be the only avenue of escape from
their troubles. To Mrs. Gordon, accustomed to af-
fluence as she had been, the restrictions of poverty
were little less than a series of calamities.

A calamity more grievous than all others, however,
was destined soon to overtake the Gordons.

The holidays drew on apace—those days that had
always been so full of gayety and excitement—and
though our friends could not fail to feel, more keenly
than ever, the difference in their circumstances and
the pinching poverty that would make itself felt
whichever way they turned, yet two of them at least
smiled bravely into each other’s face and cheerfully
went their round of daily duties.

“Tam afraid, petite, it is going to be rather a lean
Christmas for you this year,” remarked Mr. Gordon,
regretfully, one morning during breakfast, as his eye
caught the flaming advertisements in the paper that
he had been reading. y ;

Ruby looked up with her brightest smile.

“No, indeed, Robert,” she said. : { ;
be avery happy one, for I have a delightful little
project in my head. Besides,” she added, with grave
sweetness anda tender gleam in her eye, ‘I believe
Tunderstand better this year than I ever did before
what Christmas means.”

Her brother looked up inquiringly.

“*Peace on earth, good-will toward men,’” she
quoted, in a low tone, adding: ‘‘We can at least have
thatin our hearts, if we cannot give lavishly from
our purses this year.” | :

The week before Christmas was bitterly cold and
stormy,and one evening Robert Gordon came home
shivering with a chill and a fearful hoarseness and
pain in his chest. The next morning he was ina
high fever, and raving with delirium.

A physician was summoned, but his grave face as
he examined his patient, and his evasive answers
when questioned, struck a sudden terror to Ruby’s
heart.

,

She obtained a substitute for her class, and at once |
took her position by the bedside of her idolized |
brother, and refused to leave him during all those |

anxious days that followed.

He grew constantly worse; human agency could
avail nothing, though the best of nurses and advice |

was procured, and in a week all that remained of the
noble, generous, and talented Robert Gordon lay cold
and still in the pretty parlor of that little house,
where so recently that cheerful little circle before
mentioned had been gathered.

If it had not been for Walter, Ruby felt that she
must haye sunk beneath this bitter blow. As soon
as he learned of Mr. Gordon’s illness, he went to the
afflicted family, and remained with them until the
end.

He was remarkably efficient—gentle as a woman in
the sick-room; active and self-reliant out of it.

He took all care from Ruby—for Mrs. Gordon was
‘paralyzed and utterly useless in view of this new
trial—and when all was over, arranged for the last
sad rites, so that the sorrowing ones were not har-
assed in any way with the trying details.

The respect that was shown Mr. Gordon by all
classes at this time, testified to the esteem and love
with which he was regarded by business men and all
others with whom he came in contact during life. A
long line of carriages, filled with friends and ac-
quaintances, followed him to his last resting-place,
while many kind offers of sympathy and assistance
had been already tendered the bereaved widow and
sister.

Walter Richardson and Edmund Carpenter met
again inthis house of mourning for the first time
since the evening of the grand reception in Mr. Gor-
don’s former elegant residence.

Walter greeted the son of his former benefactor
kindly and courteously, but he was met with a
frowning brow and a haughty manner, that amount-
ed almost to rudeness.

Poor Ruby was heart-broken. She seemed fairly
dazed by this mighty grief that had overtaken her
so suddenly ; and is was enough to make the strong-
est weep simply to look into her white face and note
the wild, hunted look in hersunken but tearless eyes.

When her brother’s body was borne from her sight
and laid within the costly Gordon tomb, the tension
on her overstrained nerves gave way, and she fell
back fainting in the carriage.

Mrs. Gordon shrieked, and lapsed into hysterics,
crying out that Ruby, too, was dead; and Walter,
hearing the sound, and fearing the worst for his
darling, leaped from his own carriage, and rushed to
their aid.

A glance within the coach showed him Ruby’s
ghastly face and inanimate form; and, with com-
pressed lips, he sprang away to a fountain near by,
wrenched a cup from its chain, and bore it, full of
water, back to the senseless girl.

He entered the carriage; he gathered his loved one
into his arms, and bathed her face and temples until
she began to recover consciousness.

Just as she drew a deep breath and unclosed her
eyes, Walter chanced to glance up, and saw Edmund
Carpenter standing by the open door of the carriage,
and glaring at him with something of the ferocity of
a wild animal as it is about to spring upon its prey.

Ruby saw him also; and, suddenly realizing whose
arms were supporting her, she sat up, holding out
her hand for the cup of water.

She drank freely, and the clear, cool liquid revived
her more fully.

‘Thank you, Iam better,’ she said, with a long-
drawn sigh. ‘Hush, Estelle! I will not be weak
any more. Itis all over; let us go home now.”

Walter half arose from his seat.

“Shall I tell them to drive on?” he asked.

“No; stay with us, please,” Ruby said, laying a
detaining hand upon his arm.

Then, turning to Edmund Carpenter, she added :

«‘Will you kindly give the order, Mr. Carpenter?”

He bowed gravely, and turned away to do her
bidding; but, in striving to control the rage that
suddenly flamed up in his heart, he bit his under lip
until his teeth met tnrough the flesh.

He had read a great deal during those few moments
that he had stood by that carriage door.

Walter’s face had told its own story as he minis-
tered to the girl whom he loved so well, while the
fact of Ruby’s clinging to him and desiring him to
remain with her had shown that her heart turned to
him in this time of sorrow as to no other, and the
sight had aroused a demon of jealousy within him.

Mrs. Gordon recovered her composure somewhat
before reaching home, but once there, she shut her
self in her own room and would see no one.

Walter led Ruby into the now desolate parlor, feel-
ing that he could not go away and leave the delicate
girl alone with her crushing grief.

“Tell me what I can do for you,” he said, gently,
as she looked around and shivered slightly, remem-
bering whose presence would never more brighten
that room.

“Nothing,” her white lips murmured, as she sank
weakly into a chair and closed her eyes.

“Shall I call Jane?” Walter asked, fearing she was
going to faint again.

“No. Oh, please do not let anybody come here
now,” she burst forth with a pathetic sob.”

He bent down before her, saying, with infinite ten-
derness, while his eyes were full of tears:

“Let me take off your wraps, Ruby, and make you
comfortable, then I will leave you, if you wish.”

He removed her heavy cloak, untied her sable
bonnet, and laid it aside, took off her thick over-
shoes, and then drew her chair close beside the glow-
ing grate.

“Are you comfortable now?’ he questioned, his
heart beating with a sweet, fond hope, for she had
let hin wait upon her like a trusting child, and as if
he had the right to do so.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Can I do anything more before I go ¥’

“T expect it will |

 

 

 

 

The sorrowing girl shook her head.
speak, for his gentle kindness had unnerved her,
and two great tears, the first that she had shed,
flashed out upon her silken lashes and rolled down
her cheeks.

Walter bent lower over her, his heart aching for

rE:

“You will let me know—you will send for me if I
can be of any use at any time?” he pleaded.

She looked up at him.

There was a world of tenderness in his face, and
his eyes told her, as plainly as eyes could tell, how

She could not |

| nished name

|

dearly he loved her, and how he longed to comfort |

her.
She broke down utterly then.

Reaching out her hand, she clasped the one that he
had laid upon the arm of her chair and cried, help- |

lessly : ; '
“Oh, Walter, how can I ever bear it and live?”

control. . : ,
He was on his knees before her in an instant, and

are kind and noble;
a brave, true heart,

you have energy and ambition,
and, besides all this, an untar-
and character. No man should feel
‘poor’ with such manly attributes, and any woman
should feel prowd to give her love to such @ man.”

Walter’s face kindled, and, bending forward, he
kissed the lips that had uttered such noble words.

“Ts that your feeling toward me, Ruby?” he asked.

“Yes, Walter; Iam very proud of you, and "

“Well, dear, tell me all; my heart it hungry for it,”
he pleaded, as she stopped and blushed.

“And I have been very fond of you for a long, long
time,”’ she confessed, with drooping lids.

“How long, Ruby ?”’

“Ever since that first summer at Redville; I am
not quite sure but it began that evening when we
sat beside the pretty spring in the pasture near Mr.
Ruggles’ house; but Iam very sure I found it out

| that day when I found myself slipping over that hor-

That clinging touch, the appealing look and ago- |
nized tone were too much for the young man’s selt- |
|me, and somehow, ever since, I have had a feeling

had drawn her into his arms and laid her head upon |

his breast.

“My darling, how Ilong to comfort you! Oh,if I
could but shield you from all sorrow !” he murmured,
fondly.

His tender tone, the sense of protection, of sym-
pathy and love thus thrown around her, when she
felt so utterly desolate, opened the flood-gates that
had been so long closed, and she burst into a storm
of tears.

The young lover said not a word; he did not at-
tempt to soothe her, but held her close to him and
let her weep until all her wild grief was spent. Then
he laid her gently back in her chair and stole softly
from the room.

He found Jane in the kitchen, and asked her for a |

eup of tea.

She had just taken one to Mrs. Gordon, and soon |

had another ready for him.

He took it and returned to the parlor.

“Will you drink this, Ruby?’ he asked.
you need it.’

And, as if it were enough for him to simply make
the request, she drank it.

“Now could you eat just a little bit ot something ?”
he pleaded, knowing how little she had eaten dur-

“T know

 

ing the past week, and longing to see the color come |}

back to her wan cheek. ©
She shook her head with asad smile.

| but his heart was throbbing with a great, new joy in

spite of his sorrow for her, for the sweet, shy glance

rible precipice from the natural bridge, and thought
I was looking my last on your face. But you saved

that I belonged to you.” es :
Walter’s heart leaped within him with joy as he

| listened to this confession, and he drew the slight

form of his beloved closer within his embrace.

“Thave been far richer than I dreamed if I have
had the gift of your dear love so long,” he said, ten-
derly. Then he added: ‘But, Ruby, my love isa
good deal older than yours.”

She lifted questioning eyes to him.

“Tt was born on that day when you and I both took
the car on the corner by your brother’s house. Just
think,” he said, smiling. ‘I saved you from a fall,
and in return you stole my heart.”

“Well, since you have succeeded in arresting the
thief, I do not believe your loss is irreparable,” Ruby
returned, with a little gleam of her old pleasantry,
that cheered her lover immensely.

“No, nothing remains but to pronounee sentence
upon the culprit, and that we will reserve for the
present. But, my darling, ‘he continued, gravely,

“TI want toask you abourthe near future; do you |

know what Mrs. Gordon’s plans are ?”

“No, Walter, she has said but little as yet; of one
thing, however, Iam quite sure, she will not remain
here. You know that Estelle will be quite rich—
now,”

Ruby’s voice faltered and broke over that last
word.

“Yes,” Walter returned, “I heard that Mr. Gor-

| don’s life was heavily insured; but was it all made
He did not urge it, for he saw that she could not; |

that she had lifted to him told him that she did not |
said, regretfully.

resent his impulsive and almost unconscious free-
dom of a few moments ago.

It almost told him that |

she owned and recognized his right to be her special |
comforter, from the fact of his own great love for

| bear being poor, and now she will be very comfort-
He knew that there must be a verbal understand- |
| to her through Robert’s death.”

| her.

ing between them very soon, but not just yet while
she was so sorrowful; it would seem selfish and in-

considerate to press her for any confession or pledge | t
| have no doubt that Mrs. Gordon will share liberally

at such a time.
The

short wintry day was drawing to a close; |

darkness was settling about them, and with it the |

funereal gloom seemed to deepen in that quiet parlor.

Walter knew that he must not linger there longer, |

though he could not bear to leave the almost heart-
broken girl alone with her grief.
He had become a teacher in one of the evening
schools for drawing this winter, and was occupied
three nights in the week.

This was one of them, and presently he told Ruby |

that he must go.

“You need rest, too,” he said, tenderly; ‘“‘and you
will rest, will you not? Remember that you have
taxed your strength very severely of late, and you
will break down if you do not give yourself proper
eae Promise me that you will try to sleep to-
night.”

over to her?’

“Yes, Robert had the matter attended to several
years ago.”

“T wish some of it could have come to you,” Walter

_ “T suppose he had no idea that I should ever need
it, for I had so much money of my ownthen. ButI
am glad for Estelle, for she does not seem able to
able. It seems hard, though, that it could only come

“It does seem hard,” Walter assented, ‘‘and yet it
was a wise provision on your brother’s part, and I

with you. I hope so, at all events; for, darling, I
cannot endure the thought of your toiling in that
school.”

“You do not consider it a—disgrace ?’’ Ruby said,

| turning a startled look upon him.

But he had duties. |

“Yes, I will try,’ Ruby answered, feeling that it |

was very pleasant to have him so thoughtful for her.

“Tell me if I may come again soon?” he added, in

a lower tone. ‘I know, of course, that you will not
‘are to see visitors at present; but, Ruby, you know
that J must see you again very soon.”

Her face flushed crimson for
knew what he meant, and she was too truthful to
pretend to misunderstand him; so she simply mur-
mured :

“Yes, do come soon.”

“No, indeed; far from that. I have always felt
that it was a very noble thing to do; but you are not
the most rugged person in the world, and I fear the
tax upon your strength.”

“Tt can be no worse forme than for hundreds of
others,” Ruby replied, ‘‘and it will be a mercy to me
now to have constant employment, for I could hardly
bear my sorrow if I had to live an idle life. My grief
would wear me out.”

“Oh, how I wish I were in a position to warrant my
taking you at once to a home of our own,’ Walter
sighed; ‘‘but I shall have to be patient a little longer.
Mr. Conant is giving me a commission this year, be-
sides my salary, and as it has been, and promises
still to be, a busy season, I am likely to do very well.

| Next year, if I desire it, he will give me an interest

| sentence of the law upon you for the depredations

an instant, for she |

you committed so long ago,’ he concluded, with a

| fond smwnile.

His handsome face lighted, and an expression of |

endearment trembled on his lips.
it, and held out his hand to take leave of her.

did so, giving him another quick, shy glance, that
through his veins to the glad pulsations of bis heart.
a lingering pressure, and then went away, knowing
that he had won the heart of the beautiful girl who

had been like a poem and an inspiration to him ever
since he first met her on that bright summer day

3ut he repressed |

“What a sense of power and independence it gives
one to feel competent to take care of one’s self!”
Ruby said, animatedly. “I have enjoyed the feeling
intensely during the last few months, while [ can see
that you have grown wonderfully self-reliant since I

| tirst became acquainted with you.”
She arose, and laid her own within it, and as she |
/of a change in mein that respect; and, though I
spoke volumes to him and sent the blood bounding |
. | Mr. Carpenter died, yet, in the end, I knowit will

He hesitated a moment, then bent and touched her |
forehead lightly with his lips, released her hand with |

“Thanks, dear; I know there has been something
have seen some rough times since my good friend
prove the best thing that could have happened to me

to have been cast upon my own resources. But I am
afraid, Ruby, that even at the best, it will be a long

| time before I can give you such a home as you have

more than two years before; knowing, too, that when | r ; )
| here in this humble place,” Ruby responded, glancing

he should come to her again Ruby Gordon would tell

him that some time, when he should feel it right to |

claim her, she would be his wife.

CHAPTER XXY.
THE PLIGHTED TROTH..

Walter waited three days before going to Ruby
again, curbing his love and impatience as best he
eould, and leaving her to the rest and quiet which
she so much needed.

But on New Year’s Eve he presented himself again
before the door of that little house in which his heart
was centered.

Jane showed him into the parlor, a wise look on

| proudest homes.
; learned who was.the,purchaser of your brother’s |

always been accustomed to.” :
“An elegant home isn’t the most essential thing in
the world, by any means. i have been very happy

about the small room, while the tears rushed to her
eyes.

How little the loss of fortune and the elegancies of
life seemed to her compared with the greater loss
that had left her so desolate!

“That is very true,” Walter assented, ‘and I have
no donbt there is@, great deal of unhappiness in the
But by the way, have you ever

| beautiful residence ?”’

| liked to question Robert, for the loss of his home—

her. good-natured face, and then went to call her |

young nistress.

Ruby soon came to him, still looking pale, and wan,
and very sad in her black robes; but, as she laid her
small hand in her lover’s outstretched palm, and his
fingers closed over it with a touch and air of right
and ownership, the rich color swept in a crimson tide

into which he had put so much of his heart and

brain—was the saddest blow in the world to him.”
“Well, then, I have some news for you,” Walter

said, smiling, “for our friend, Mr. Ruggles, has

| bought the place just as it stood on the day you left
; it. Not a thing—not even a picture or an ornament—
| has been disturbed.”

to the golden rings of hair lying lightly upon her |

brow.
He had come determined to settle their relations

at once, to remove .every barrier, and, still holding |

her hand, he bent toward her and said, in a tone that
was tremulous from very tenderness:

“You know, my darling, why I am here to-night;
know that I have come to ask you a question, the
answer to which will either make or mar my whole
future life, and I must settle it at once. I must have
some assurance from you before I can be satifised. I
do not need to tell you how dear you are to me, for I
must have betrayed itin a thousand ways, and yet
you are all the world to me. Ruby, do you love me?
Will you sometime, when I am in a position to claim
you, be my wife ?”

Ruby Gordon was too sad, and the realities of life
were too stern just then, for any prudish holding
back, or for anything but a straightforward answer.

She had known that she loved Walter for a long,
long time, and she knew that nothing could comfort
her now, in her sorrow and loneliness, so,much as
the consciousness that the great, true heart of this
noble young man was all her own, and that she
could have it to lean upon in this trial and through
all coming years.

She lifted her grave, sweet face to his, but the look
in his eyes was too much for her, and her golden
head drooped again, while the flush upon her cheek
deepened, as she murmured:

**You know that I love you.” /

He dropped her hand, and his arms were around
her in an instant.

“And the rest of it, Ruby—you will be my wife
some time?’ he whispered.

eT Gay”

Walter Richardson’s face grew luminous with the
great love and happiness that thrilled him as he
caught this low-breathed pledge.

He drew her gently toa sofa, and, with his arms
still clasping her, seated her beside him, and laid
her bright head upon his breast.

“My own darling, I may say it now,” he said. ‘“‘you
have crowned my life with happiness. It is a sad
time, I know, to talk to you of happiness, and yet,
dearest, I trust you are not unhappy in my love. At
all events, you shall lean upon my strotg, true
heart, and let me try to comfort you.”

“You have already comforted me more than I can
express. What should I have done without you,
Walter? Estelle has been ill, almost paralyzed, and
I should have been utterly alone through all this
trouble but for you,’ Ruby murmured, brokenly,
while she lay still in his arms with a sense of perfect
rest and content, and let the tears, that would not
be stayed, rain over her face.

He wiped them tenderly and in silence.

He knew that no words, however fond, could as-
suage her grief for her brother; only time would
serve to heal the wound; and yet he felt that she
was comforted and strengthened by the simple
knowledge of his love and presence.

“T should not trouble you thus,” she said, at length,
trying to control her sorrow, and looking up with a
pathetic attempt to smile, “but oh, Walter, my
brother was everything to me!”

“I know it, darling, and no one can ever fill his
place in some respects. But, as far as may be, let
me be ‘everything’ to you in the future. I will work
hard; I will strain every nerve to make a position in
life worthy of you; and I hope it will not be so very
long before I can take care of you asI wish you to
be cared for. You can never know, dear,’ Walter
went on, ‘how I have rebelled against the hard fate
that has been yours during the last few months; and
yet, Ruby, [never should have dared to break the
seal that I had set upon my lips, if you had not lost
your fortune.”

The young girl sat up and looked at him, a gentle
surprise in her beautiful eyes.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because of my own poverty,’ Walter answered,
flushing.

“You are very proud,’ Ruby returned, with a look
that thrilled him; “but you are not poor.”

“What can you mean by that?’ he’ questioned,
smiling.

“You have a grand intellect and rare talent; you

 

 

“Can it be possible!’ cried Ruby, her sad face
lighting with positive joy for a moment.

“Yes. He did not, however, intend thatit should
be generally known that he was the purchaser at
present, but it leaked out, as such things will. Mr.
Ruggles is becoming a yery rich man.”

“Do you suppose that he intends to come to Phila-
delphia to live ?” Ruby inquired.

“T cannot say. I have seen him only once since he
and his wife were here, and then only for a few mo-
ments.”

Ruby sighed. She knew that that ‘‘once’ was on
the day of her brother’s funeral, when Mr. Ruggles
had come, with many, others, to pay bis last tribute
to a man whom he both loved and respected.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]

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

A Detective by Chance,

By MARIPOSA WETR,

Author of “The Wickedest Man in the Mines,” etc.

(“A DETECTIVE BY CHANCE” was commenced in No. 7.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.[

CHAPTER LVILI.
ONE MAN AGAINST AN ARMY.

When the hand-to-hand conflict which terminated
with the death of Sheik Zimel was over, D’Estree
turned his attention to the terrified women, whose
nerves had ungergone so severe a strain during the
combat that they were now almost in a fainting con-
dition.

But it was no easy task to comfort them; for
though they were momentarily. safe, it was not pos-
sible to doubt that the bodies of the two men who
had fallen would be soon discovered, and the attack
renewed in overwhelming force.

To D’Estree himself, now that the first strong emo-
tions kindled by his meeting with Thekla had some-
what subsided, and the excitement of battle was
succeeded by its inevitable reaction, the situation

seemed absolutely hopeless, and in his mind he gave
himself up for lost. Yet his courage did not fail for
an instant, and his resolve wus fixed and unfaltering
to. defend the tower to the last drop of his blood
against the whole host of the enemy, and to make
the task of taking it cost them as dearly as possible.

He accordingly looked to his arms, arranged the
small supply of extra cartridges which he had so as
to be ready to his hand; and then, having explained
his purpose to the women and assured thein that he
would be gone but a moment, slipped hastily down
the stairs and obtained possession of the cimeter of
his recent antagonist. He next dragged the bodies
of the two Arabs to one of the square excavations—
deserted dwellings of the dead—near the ruins of the
fallen pylon of which the tower was the only part
that time had spared, and concealed them as well as
he could, in the hope of deferring the discovery of
their fate. :

He had scarcely regained the tower roof, when he
saw Giorno’s messenger approaching; and a moment
after, he witnessed the defeat of his precautions in
attempting to hide the bodies of the two Arabs, for
the messenger almost stumbled into the excavation
where they had been deposited.

The attack by the enraged kinsmen and followers
of the dead sheik followed speedily upon this dis-
covery.

No words can describe the horrors of that wild and

 

I never |

 

 

frightful scene, or the state of mind of the two
women, as they saw the immense crowd of infuriated
savages surging to the attack, in the midst of a tu-
mult and confusion of yells, and howls, and execra-
tions worthy of pandemonium.

| of cold contempt.

D’Estree, cool and collected, though with all the |
solemnity of feeling of a man doomed to death, and }
for whom the scaffold is prepared and the execu-}

tioner waiting, made Thekla and the signora lie

down on their rugs at the side of the tower farthest |

from the stairs. He then laid his rifle on the topmost
step, and with his revolver in his right hand and his
cimeter in his left, stationed himself just above the

| stifly, Giorno with stately courtesy.

two broken stairs which had made the ascent to the |
roof so difficult for the two fugitives when they first |

took refuge there.
When the enemy began to ascend the steps, he still

sill me. T have
consulted the stars, and they assure me that I shall
not die by your hand.

“Ts this what we came here for ?”’ said Irke,ina tone
“T supposed it was to fight, not
to declaim and rant like players.”

Giorno winced.

“Since we are both ready, why need there be more
delay ?” he said.

Da Ponte, in a tremulous voice, gave the word, as
had been arranged. The antagonists saluted; Irke
Then the com-
bat began, with such fury that those nearest them
shrank back amazed, if not appalled. There was no
Jinesse; no caution, no reserve; but from the very

| outset a storm of blows, a continuous clash of steel

retained his grave, imperturbable caln, reserving his |
tire till the proper moment, observing every moye- |

ment of the enemy, and not wasting a shot.

He emptied the six chambers of his revolver upon |
the foremost assailants, with such deadly effect that
the others hung back for amoment, and afforded |

him a chance to reload. Then, with hoarse yells of
rage, they again swarmed to the attack.

Again they encountered that steady, deliberate,
unerring fire. And just as D’Estree had once more
delivered six fatal shots, Juan opened tire upon the
crowd from his place of concealment on the pyramid,
producing bewilderment and consternation among

that rang with the deafening clamor of a dozen
anvils. Never betore had any spectator looked upon
such an encounter.

Still De Montfort’s countenance retained its marble
immobility and its marble pallor. But Giorno’s
worked, and changed, and glowed with the fire of
evil passion; wearing all the time that look of assured
triumph, as if he were conscious of invulnerability.

“He will kill his adversary; he will surely kill
him; and I shall lose my revenge,” muttered El
Ombo.

D’Estree, too, began to tremble for his friend. He

| knew that he hadnot yet fully recovered his strength

the Arabs, who did not at first understand whence |

this fresh tire proceeded.

At this moment the men whom Giorno had station- |
ed at the heap of rubbish abandoned their post, and |

rushed to the scene of conflict.
ning up from the camp by the pyramid, and the at-

Others came run- |

tempt to storm the tower was renewed in greater |

force, and with more determination than ever.

simultaneously from their *‘rifle-pit’’ on the pyramid.
the assailants were driven from the foot of the stairs

to which the storm of bullets was directed, and
sought shelter on the other side of the tower.

CHAPTER LVIII.

BATTLE.

since the affair at the Spring of Al Raschid, and he
saw that Giorno was pressing him hard.

“Yes,” murmured El Ombro, ‘‘he will assuredly
prevail; but, by Ailah, he shall not escape!”

As he thus spoke, he unconsciously raised his
cimeter in a menacing manner, and took a step for-
ward. Giorno caught his eye, and in that second of
diverted attention Irke’s blade passed his guard and

| gashed his shoulder,
D’Estree had just dischrged his rifle, and had but |
one shot left, when Irke and Juan commenced tiring |

“Do not forbear; itis but a trifle,” said Giorno, as
Irke lowered his point. ‘‘This fightis to the death.

2 t l | But I shall be assassinated if that mad Arab is not
This fire was so rapid, sustained, and deadly, that |

| on, fool!

It is tohim I owe this scratch. Strike
Do I not tell you ’tis but a scratch ?”

As he spoke he aimed a sudden blow at Irke, which
the latter parried with difficulty, and then the con-
flict raged for a while as fiercely as ever.

But the wound was more than a scratch. The blood

kept away.

| flowed freely, and the Italian began to fight wildly.
THE FLAG OF TRUCE—A CHALLENGE TO ORDEAL BY | I i ;
F | frantically to bring the contest to a speedy end.

At the moment when the Arabs found themselves |
unable longer to endure the tremendous fusillade |
from the pyramid, Giorno, who did not yet under- |

stand from what quarter this storm of death had burst,
was advancing toward the tower with a gloomy and

who pursued him with enormous strides.

“Aceursed Frank!” cried the foster-brother of the |

slain sheik, ‘behold your bloody work!”

Giorno turned, more in amazement than anger, as |

these insulting words, uttered in a voice that sound-
ed like thesnarl of a famished tiger. fell upon hisear.

“Are youmad, El Ombo?” he said, ‘“‘that you dare
address such language to me.”

‘““My brother has fallen in your quarrel,” answered
the Arab, who grasped in his right hand his cimeter ;
“my people are slaugtered by the score.
your work, and by the tomb of the Prophet I will be
avenged.”

“Do not threaten me,” said Giorno, sternly.
not my fault that Zimel fell in a combat which he
himself provoked. As to this slaughter, I desired it
not.
tower; but your people chose otherwise, and made
the rash attack without my orders, and contrary to
my wishes. I go now to stop further bloodshed. I

”

All this is |

He himself felt his growing weakness, and strove

But Ivke still had the same deadly impassibility,
and seemed more vigorous than ever as his foe was
failing.

“Ts it so, then?” muttered Giorno. ‘Do the stars
lie? Then let this decide it. I will give an arm for

5 | 9 life 2”
troubled brow, when he was overtaken by El Ombo, | a life?

He raised his left arm above his head to receive
Irke’s stroke, while with his right he aimed a blow
at his neck, which he intended to prove fatal.

Irke’s cimeter severed his adyersary’s arm half-
way between the elbow and the wrist, and its force,
not yet spent, laid open his scalp, but did not strike
the skull with sufficient force to produce unconscious-
ness, or cause him to fall to the ground.

The stroke that was to have slain Irke took effect
on his shoulder, inflicting a deep but not a semous
wound.

“Of course this can proceed no

further,” said Da

| Ponte.

“Tt is |

I would have starved my enemies on yonder |

will, myself, decide the quarrel, at my own proper |

peril, and not another blow shall be struck on my be-
half, but such as are struck by my own arm.”

“Tt is too late!” answered El Ombo, hoarsely. ‘‘You
cannot call the dead to life. I know not what your
words mean, but I will have vengeance.”

| I fall in this conflict.

“Of course not,” said D’Estree.
is about to faint.”

“What! shall he escape then, with the loss of
his arm?” cried El Ombro. “It will be but the sick-
ness of amonth! No, by Ailah!’’) And before any
one could interpose, he plunged his eimeter into
Giorno’s breast.

‘So then the stars juggle with those who consult
them,” said Giorno. “It is not by your hand Idie, yet
Bind up this wound and stop

“Your principal

| the flow of blood till I can tell the secret which will

| sister.

“T have no time,to bandy threats with you,” re- |

torted Giorno, laying his hand upon his pistol. ‘I
have something to do now that must be done quick-

tower.

blast my murderer’s hopes. Thekla Benham is my
Will she wed the man who slew her brother?
One mother bore us.”

“Tfit be so.” returned Irke, “it affects not me. I

| have no feeling for her that a brother might not

Juan, from the pyramid, caught sight of his tall |
form, when he was within twenty yards of the stairs. |

He uttered a growl like that of an enraged grizzly;
his favorite exclamations failed him. ‘Snakes and

yainters ! crokydiles and tarantelers ! ”’ could no O}% ; ; ;
poner rrokydiles and tars ers!” could not do} in charge of the relative who afterward passed ag

justice to his feelings.

“By the Gres shovah 4 he Continental Con- | ™ > . : :
By the Great Jehovah and the Continental Con-| G¢ionel Benham, who fell desperately in love with

gress :” he cried, ‘‘there comes the great boss fiend of
all the army of Loosifer! and his death-warrant is
signed, sealed, and delivered this minute. Jecovanny

|}soon after my birth.

Jeeorno, I do hereby and herewith, in the name of |

the Lord, and by the authority of the laws of Heaven

‘and the State of Californy, order you back to Satin’s

we

pit, where you belong!
His finger was on the trigger, and in a second

| ly,” and with a parting glance at the Arab, who fol- | VOW; for I am betrothed fo another.
: : : | lowed him muttering to himself, he strode on to the |
| in the business; then, my darling, I shall pass the |

“The tale is monstrous!” cried D’Estree. “No one

| will credit it.”

“Tt is still true,” answered Giorno. “My mother
married a young artist against her parent’s wishes.
I was the child of that marriage. My father died
My mother, fond of gayety,
and unwilling to be incumbered with a child, left me
my father. At Paris she met a wealthy American,
and married her. She either did not tell him that she
had ever been a mother or allowed him to suppose
that I was dead. A year ago [learned these facts
froin the old notary who had been in the habit of
paying me ayearly stipend which he pretended was
left me by my father. I learned also that 1 had a sis-

| ter in America, to whom a large inheritance had

more the bullet would have crashed through the |

Italian’s brain, when Irke struck up the muzzle of
the rifle, and it was discharged harmlessly.in the
air.

“Oh, he’s a friend of yourn! I wasn’t
the fack,” said Juan, bitterly, as he laid his rifle
across his knees, and folded his arms.

“But see, Juan,” answered Irke, ‘‘he carries a flag

|; and sister.

of truce, and it would be a breach of honor to shoot |

down even such a wretch as he, when he assumes
the sacred character of a herald.”

| self—J, Giovanni Giorno ?

Juan made no response, but remained in the same |

attitude as before, rigid.as marble, while the Italian,
displaying a white handkerchief, advanced with a

stately step and erect bearing to the foot of the |

| stairs, which he began leisurely to ascend.
“Tonly know that it was appraised and turned |
into the hands of Robert’s creditors, and then was |
| placed in the hands of a broker to be sold.

When the fusillade from the pyramid had driven
the Arabs behind the tower, D’Estree, with the aid

:| and you know what followed.
aweer of | 2 d you know what followed

fallen that ought to have been mine, and would have
been but for ignorance of my existence on the part of
the testator. [wentto America in search of this mother
The former was;dead; the latter I found,
I but sought justice.”

Here the dying man’s voice began to fail and his
language became incoherent, though he still spoke
in broken sentences.

“The old notary can furnish proofs. What I
meant—my real design was—but why vindicate my-
No, I will say no more.”

When Giorno had been removed to his tent, and
Irke’s wound had been dressed, the latter took the
hand ot E’Estree, who was sitting beside him, and
said:

“My dear Hyppolite, I have seen enough to satisfy

/me that the only obstatle to your happiness lies in

of the telescope, had discovered who it was to whom |

this timely interference was to be attributed, and he | eh +f BT ont ete
at once communicated the intelligence to’ Thekla | — & StrOne Hope AUS iF she Techies: Aer te
ae : | those

and her ee ee He also began to entertain the
hope that th
losses, would abandon the attack.

He was endeavoring to cheer his companions by
presenting this view of the situation, when he ob-
served the approach of Giorno.

e Arabs, discouraged by their severe |

the scandal that would attach to the journey of Miss
Benham under the charge of Giorno. Is it not so?”
“T dare not affirm so much, my dear Irke, butI

circumstances could be removed from her
mind, she would smile upon my suit.”
“Take heart, then, my friend. I believe Giorno’s

| story, and am confident that it can be proved by the

The latter, when he displayed the white handkKer- |

chief, took the revolver from his belt and threw it on
the ground; after which he walked at a deliberate

pace to the tower, and began to ascend, as already |

related.

D’Estree was utterly bewildered; but with his | you will accompany me to yonder pyramid, I will in-

opinion of the Italian’s character, he feared some
treacherous design, and stood on his guard on the
topmost step, cimeter in hand, ready to act as cir-
cumstances might seem to dictate.

When Giorno had reached the two broken stairs,
he paused, and saluted D’Estreé with a stately bow,
to which the latter gave a cold and almost impercep-
tible acknowledgment.

“6 i] . *Retpap ’% aaj 13 “ ‘ |
Mansicun Ty Maree,” said: Giorno, “uineb bigod Nas | those of De Montfort, after which they dispersed.

been shed, and many lives lost in an issue which is

purely personal. My errand is to propose. to De Mont- |
tort to settle a quarrel which concerns us two alone, |
by the arbitrament of single combat. He has pursued |

me nearly around the globe’s circumference to take

from my protection a young.lady over whom I claim |

the right of guardianship.

He questions that right. |

We are here in the desert, with no court or tribtinal |
to appeal,to but the God of Justice, to whom, in the |

days of chivalry knights submitted such disputes by
the ordeal of battle.
Montfort,”

D’Estree was for a moment struck speechless by
the unparalleled audacity of this strange proposition.
This brazen abductor actually claimed the lawful
right of guardianship over the young girl he had so
cruelly wronged, and impudently appealed to the God
of Justice to witness the rightfulness of his preten-
sions.

But the young man resolved to restrain his indig-
uation; and after a moment’s reflection, he replied :

“Though your pretentions to any rightful control
over the lady to whom you have referred are so mon-
strous that I can find no language in which to char-
acterize them, I will myself accept your challenge in
the place of my friend De Montfort, who is not pres-
ent to answer for himself. And this I will do to pre-
vent further loss of innocent lives, and to punish the
most insolent and pernicious villain that the sun ever
shone upon.”

“T may yet have an opportunity, Monsieur D’Es-
tree, to chastise you for your insulting words,” an-
swered Giorno, calmly; ‘‘but this present business I
will transact with no delegate or deputy. It is with
De Montfort that [must cross swords in this quar-
rel.”

“Be it so, then,” said a deep, stern voice behind
him; “and let the issue be tried without delay, for
never yet did bridegroom go to the bridal bower
more eagerly than I to this mortal arbitrament.”

Giorno turned, and encountered Irke face to face.

‘Since both agree so wellin regarding the matter
as urgent,” he replied, “let us waste no time in idle
talk or unnecessary preliminaries.”

CHAPTER LIX.
THE TRIAL BY BATTLE,

The sun had just risen, when two mortal enemies
stood opposed to one another in the open space just
within the fallen poylon of the temple-tomb; the
spectators looked on in a hush of expectation like the
silence of the grave. f

With compressed lips and faces like marble, and
eyes that exchanged glances .of deadly hate, they
stood, each grasping his cimeter, and awaiting the
signal to begin the combat, which every witness felt
would be waged to the death.

Irke stood motionless, and but for the expression
of his eye, cold and impassive.

Giorno had the assured look of one confident of
victory. There was the sure anticipation of triumph
in his glance, and his form seemed to dilate and swell
with an exultant consciousness of power, until he
appeared to the imagination like some fiercej and
malignant angel of evil

“Monsieur De Montfort,” he said, as they stood
thus prepared, “I shall kill you. And yet if it were
otherwise, and you were to kill me, know that Thekla
Benham could never be your bride. Even should
your sword pass through my heart, I swear to sur-
vive long enough to reveal something that will for-
ever forbid the fbans, and cause her to regard you

To this ordeal I challenge De |

 

aid of certain persons at Treppi, and especially of
one Chiaruchia, who keeps an inn there. Of course,
if Giorno is Miss Benham’s brother, the whole cloud
that so weighs upon her is at once removed. There
can be no scandal in a girl traveling under the pro-
tection of her own brother.”

“And we are not rivals?”

“No; Tam on the verge of marriage myself, and if

troduce you to my betrothed.”

CHAPTER
FINALE.

LX.

_The Arabs, after the combat, plundered, with dis-
tinguished impartiality, the camels of Giorno and

D’Estree seeing that they were likely to be left
without the means of getting back to Cairo, sue-
ceeded, by means of lavish backsheesh, in pacifying
E] Hakim’s wrath and inducing him and his band to
escort him across the desert.

At Cairo, Colonel Benham was found among the
latest arrivals at the New Hotel. He had for a month
been following Irke from point to point, in the hope
of joining him in the quest for his daughter.

Having bestowed a small fortune on Signora Spag-
noli—or what she considered as such—and dealt with
Madame Chegaray in a correspondingly liberal spirit,
these ladies went on their way together.

At Cairo Nina procured a wardrobe suitable to her
sex. Irke was at first afraid thaf the aristocratic
ideas of D’Estree and the Benhams might prevent
cordial relations between them and his destined wife.
But such fears proved groundless. They listened
with interest and admiration to the narrative illus-
trating her courage, fidelity, and sagacity in the
scenes at the abbey, the mad-house in Venice, and
the Spring of Haroun Al Raschid, and she became in
their eyes a genuine heroine ot romance.

The whole party traveled in company to Treppi,
where they verified the main particulars of Giorno’s
narrative.

Giovanni Giorno died the day after the events re-
lated in the last chapter, and was buried in one‘of the
excavations beside the Temple-Tomb of the Unknown
Kings.

On Christmas Day Irke and Nina, and D’Estree and
Thekla Benham were married at Paris, Colonel Ben-
ham giving away one of the brides, and Juan the
other,

{THE END.]

WALKING EASIER THAN SPELLING,

President Lincoln’s Commissioner of Agriculture,
Newton, of Philadelphia, is the peg on which all bad
spelling stories are hung in Washington. He wrote
English as she’s spoke, without regard to the arbi-
trary rules of orthography, and the result was often
amusing.

One day Gen. Sickles, then lying in hospital, in
Washington, badly wounded, craved fruit, grapes
particularly. A friend, hot being able to find them
elsewhere, went down to the Depattment of Agricul-
ture and asked Commissioner Newton for some,

“T haven’t any grapes,” replied Newton. “I’d give
them to you ina minute for Gen. Sickles if I had;
but I’ll give you anything else we’ve got.”

“Well,” said the friend, ‘what other fruit have
you?’

“Why,” said Newton, ‘TI think we have ‘some nec-
tarines, and you’re welcome to some of them.”

“They'll do very well,” said the friend. ‘Just
write me an order to the gardener for some, will
you?

Newton said he would, drew a sheet of paper toward
him, and began to write. The date line was all
right, for that was printed; but after that his trouble
began.

“Give bearer,” he wrote, ‘“‘as many——”

And then he stopped, for he couldn’t spell nec-
tarines, and he knewit. He thought it over fora
full minute. Then he threw down his pen, picked up
his hat, and said: .

“Come, I'll go over with you myself.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

N

“\

CW

S
wi

DDD OO OOOO OmmEmEHOOONUOOoOOOOO eee
NEW YORK, MAY 28, 1887.
RR rer rrr

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An Entertaining Novelette Next Week.

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A spirited and captivating novelette, by NELLIE
Mc ADAM, will be given in our next number. It is
entitled “AVENGED AT LAST; OR, THE FAIRY OF
THE CASTLE.”

A FRIEND IN NEED.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

“T believed in the fellow when no one else did.”

“Well, of course you are not sorry now,” I replied.

“T should say not,” was the first speaker’s answer.
‘All my present prosperity 1 owe to him. He did
not forget that, when there was not a man in Boston
who would say a kind word for his business schemes,
I used to stand up for him.”

The old story. Ten years ago a bright-eyed, clear-
headed Yankee from a rural town came to the above
city and tried to borrow afew extra dollars to float
his manufacturing scheme. He had invented a pat-
ent, which I will not name. He had built a little
factory, up in one of the villages not a thousand
miles from Boston; and, while his invention was of
undoubted utility in the eyes of experts, the factory
had absorbed the inventor’s few dollars and was cry-
ing for more. In trying to swim out of his troubles,
Blank’s debts had increased and increased, till “the
owed everybody.” His good name was all gone.
Banks scolded, and then kicked him out. Friends
deserted him. Everybody said, ‘Look out for him;
he’s a dreamer.” Broken-hearted, but not broken
quite in pluck, the poor fellow crawled out West. In

five years he had, somehow, struck his luck. To-day
he is worth his hundreds of thousands.

This is my moral. Now that Blank is all right, oh,
so many men are so devoutly regretful that they
were not wise enough to foresee it! Hundreds of men
wish they only had loaned him that last five hundred
dollars that he begged so hard for, even with tears.
Scores of people, who are themselves to-day in need,
as Blank was that day ten years ago, are mentally
kicking themselves because they did not so behave
to the friendless dreamer as to enable them to ask
his help to-day. But, though they know him per-
fectly well, see him on the street in town every day
even, they have not the audacity to ask him for a
favor and confront his probable rejoinder, “Aha!
Did you consider me when I was in need?”

I doubt if any man lives long in life who has not
had this experience. He sees some man in whom he
wishes he had invested a debt of gratitude ten or fif-
teen years ago. How it would help to-day! But one
was a blind, selfish fool. One only echoed the cry of
the rabble, “‘Oh, he’s no good!” and refused to use
the penetration of sharp eyes and a charitable heart
which might have revealed a genius in embryo, a
diamond in the rough. Now itis too late. But there
is A, our heighbor, who is in luck; he loaned a hand,
he did the poor struggling genius a favor, perhaps
not much appreciating himself what he was doing.
A was as hard pushed as the genius. It is the poor
who are the friends of the poor.

And now—oh, now, lucky A! He has his reward;
he made a friend that will never see him want; the
genius came out top o’ the heap in the struggle,
and nothing on earth is too good for A which the
genius can give him or help him to. Not a success-
ful man of generous and true heart but has had the
exquisite joy of rewarding his friends; and shall I
say of staring blankly at his old detractors who have

’ been plowed under by the later furrow.

Then, too, it must be confessed that we have all
had the very reverse experience. We have helped
the knave. We have invested in the traud. We
have fed the hungry dog, and afterward he bit the
hand that gave him a crust. We have all thought we
saw genius, when it was not gold that glittered. We
never got back the money we loaned.

Between the two experiences, whatis wise? This,
at least, is a safe rule—carry yourself in kindness to-

yard all, and do not calculate selfishly. Every un-,
fortunate man is at all events needy, be he worthy or
unworthy. Youcan show him active kindness for
hisjown sake; or you can refrain from showing him
active unkindness, if that is all you can afford. I
3 would not consider it a high motive, and I do not
present it as a motive to high-minded men; but we
are all low-toned once in a while; then it is well to
remember that the worst of men may reform, the
most apparent wreck may prove yet a success; there-
fore, treat every man as we shall wish we had when
he is areformed and successful man. lnagine him
so changed; then act accordingly. This is not say-
ing that Lam obliged to loan every man a dollar; I
may not have itto loan; but itis saying that I will
not kick him, for when I pieture him ten years hence
a@ prospered man, [ shall not want him to kick back.
In fact I believe a kind word is oftener remem-
bered with gratitude, by one.who has once been low
down and recovered, than almost any other service.
On the other hand, the memory and rankle of an un-
kind word is longer cherished, by such men, than an
actual kick. It is possible to so treat the poor fel-
low whose name is under some cloud to-day, with-
out affording him material aid of any kind, that he
will be open to your own cry of need when you are
down and heisup. The polite lifting of your hat,
even, will effect it; a smile, an extended hand, a
mitigating excuse, such as ‘Oh, wait and see, neigh-
bors. I believe in his integrity of purpose; he is in
a tight place now, but wait and see; give every dog
his Say. All such remarks are sure to be reported
to the struggling wretch, and you will not be sorry.

Especially is it always safe to calculate that a

oung person, who is not the victim of drink, who
a reasonably good health, who is not a gambler,
is likely to come up. A good eye, aclear Oe
a fair head, clean speech, sound lungs, are likely to
come up. He who has not a love for foul company,
whois amenable to sincere and wholesome advice,
who yet retains the sympathy of a good mother, ora
patient and true wife, sister, or daughter, will come
up; it is safe to calculate that his present misfor-
tunes are accidental and incidental. He who fears
God and has intentionally wronged no man, or who
is actually making restitution if he has, it is safe to
say will emerge from his disaster. It is wise tobe
his friend in need. You will never lament it,

————————— oa ___—_——_-

MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE,

Marriage changes the current of a man’s feelings,
and gives him a center for his thoughts, his affec-
tions, and his acts. It renders him more virtuous,
more wise, and is an incentive to put forth his best
exertions to attain position in commercial and social
circles. It is conceded that marriage will increase
those cares of a young man which he would not en-
counter if he remained single, but it must be granted,
on the other hand, that it heightens the pleasures of
life. If marriage, in some instances within knowl-
edge, has seemed to be but a hindrance to certain
success, the countless instances’ must not be forgot-
ten where it has proved to be the incentive which
has called forth the best part of man’s nature, roused
him from selfish apathy, and inspired in him those

enerous principles and high resolves which have

elped to develop into a character known, loved, and
honored by all within the sphere of its influence.

Matrimony, it is true, is chargeable with number-
less solicitudes and responsibilities, and this all
young men should fully understand before entering
upon it, butit is also full of joy and happiness un-
known to the bachelor. :

Tothe young man away from the home of his par-
ents, or who is by their early death deprived of a
“home, marriage is a blessing and a necessity. If he
remain single, he may have a pleasant place of resi-
dence, his amusements may be continuous, he may
have all the luxuries that money can buy, but he will
feel that lack of home and that holy love of a good
wife which no mony can purchase. He may be
courted for his wealth, he may eat, drink, and revel,
he may have the most faithful attendants and skilled

physicians at his bedside when ill, but all these can-
not compensate for the more quiet bliss of connubial
life, or the tender watchfulness of those whose hearts
= knit to him by the strong ties of family relation-
ship.

To all young men choosing between the two states
of life, the single and married, we commend the
words of quaint Jeremy Taylor, who sums up the sub-
ject well when he says:

‘Marriage hath in it more safety than single life;
it hath more care; it is more merry and sad; it is
fuller of joys and sorrows; it lies under more bur-
dens, but it is supported by all the strength of love
and charity, which makes those burdens delightful.
It is aschool and exercise of virtue, and though it
hath cares, yet single life hath desires which are
more troublesome and more dangerous, and often end
in sin, while the cares are but exercises of piety.”

DON’T SNUB THE BOY.

BY KATE THORN.

Don’t snub the boy. He is going to be a man by and
by. Perhaps he will be President. Who knows?

If he wants a tail to his kite, don’t treat his request
as if it were of no consequence. Why, half the happi-
ness of life depends on having tails to our kites.

If you have a boy, make him happy if youcan. It
is something to have a pleasant childhood to look back
upon. A small boy is, in his own estimation at least,
a badly used specimen of humanity. He can’t have
toy pistols, because he is liable to shoot his grand-
father with them. He can’t have any gunpowder to
play soldier with, because sometime some bad little
boy, somewhere, blew up the barn with gunpowder.
He can’t have fire-crackers on the Fourth of July,
because Portland was burned up, one luckless
Fourth, by a fire-cracker. His big sister will not
have him in the parlor when her beau comes, and he
is obliged to listen at door-cracks and keyholes to
find out what she says to him, and what he says to
her, so that he can report it to the other boys.

The society with the long name will not allow him
to tie old tin tomato cans to dogs’ tails, or singe the
hair of stray cats. The grocer threatens to call the
police if he takes a handful of dried apples out of
a barrel. ;

He can’t stand on the seats in the railway cars, and
fool with the bell-rope. He can’t stick pins into the
conductor while he is punching tickets. He can’t
steal a ride on a treight car without being chased by
the baggage man.

He is not allowed to shy peanut shelis at bald-
headed men in the museum when they get to sleep
and snore.

His rights are curtailed in many ways. He is boil-
ing over with a desire to do something to have some
fun, and all creation is in a conspiracy to prevent
him from having it. It is a little singular that every-
thing a boy wants to do is wicked; but good, moral
people tell us so it is, and we must accept their
version.

But we hate to see a boy.snubbed. We hate to hear
somebody say: ‘Oh, get out of the way, you boy,
there! Strange that boys will always be where
they’re not needed !”’

Why, a boy has just as much right in the world as
aman. He is a very important part of creation. Let
him learn. Let him enjoy. Let him observe. He is
educating himself—he is laying the foundations of
the structure called character. Don’t dodge his ques-
tions. Answer them, if you can. It is not likely that
you can, however, unless you are a second Socrates ;
for the average boy has a habit of putting ques-
tions that it would drive even Solomon into the lu-
natic asylum to answer.

Don’t snub him. When he asks you why it is wrong
for him to swear, and why it is not wrong for you to
swear, don’t tell him that “little boys should be seen
and not heard ;” but come up to the scratch bravely,
and tell him that you are a wicked old sinner, and
that you don’t practice what you preach.

Don’t deny him little pleasures which he craves.
Let him have adog. Let him wear a watch-chain, if
itis any satisfaction. Don’t keep him eternally at
work. Listen to his opinions. Treat him like a com-
panion, and you will find one in him, For in all the
world, there is nothing nobler, and sweeter, and more
delightful, than an honest, truthful, healthy, whole-
souled, merry-hearted boy. ;

°

THE SHELL BASKET,

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“Looking so sober the night before your wedding!
Why, Belton, what does this mean ?”’

Guy Belton started suddenly from a deep reverie
atthe cheery sound of his friend’s voice, and the
color rushed to his cheek. He was a handsome,
fair-haired young man, with deep-blue eyes, and one
of those exquisite complexions that seem almost too
effeminate to belong to the sterner sex.

“Sit down, Wallis,” he said, motioning his friend
to a seat beside him, ‘‘and be my father confessor for
the time being. I can begin to realize the Romish
theory of confession now; it seems such a blessed
relief to open one’s heart to some friendly ear.”

“Only hear him!’ ejaculated Wallis, holding up
both hands. ‘‘Where is Madeline Trevor ?”

“She of all others is the last to whom I would con-
fide the fact that—I am a double-dyed scoundrel.

“Belton !’

“Yes,I am! The truth is, John Wallis, before I
ever came to New York, before I fell under the be-
witching influence of Madeline Trevor’s golden
charms, I was engaged to another girl—the prettiest
little fairy you ever saw. Wallis, at this moment
she believes me true and faithful.”

John Wallis was silent. ‘

“Yes, you look upon me sternly; but you cannot
blame me half so much as I have blamed myself. Do
you see yonder little basket, made of silvery shells?
It is her work. She gave it to me, and I mean to keep
it to my life’s end, wife or no wife! Well, the con-
fession is over; the weight is momentarily lifted off
my heart. And now, then, we'll go and pay our
devoirs to Madeline.”

x * * * * x
“Guy Belton married! I do not believe it!” gasped
Leonora Grey, her sweet, girlish face growing white
as monumental marble. :

“It is in the papers,’ said Mrs. Skefton, deliber-
ately reading out the notice, every word of which
was like a knife in gentle Leonora’s heart.

“Tt’s true, then, that they were kind o’ engaged,”
thought the acrimonious old gossip, stealthily re-
garding Leonora’s face over the rims of her spec-
tacles. ‘‘My goodness! she’s going to faint!”

But Leonora Grey did not faint. She sat, calm and
motionless, in the summer twilight, with her little
hands clasped tight together, and a round red spot
blazing on either cheek.

False !—oh, false and treacherous !—he, whom she
had trusted so blindly, believed in so implicitly!
Leonora thought her heart was breaking; but she
did not know how much the heart can endure with-
out its cords giving way.

And; two years afterward, when the news came
that her uncle had died in Ceylon, leaving her an in-
dependent fortune, there was no light of triumph in
Leonora’s eye.

“Tt comes too late,’ she murmured, “and yet I
must be God’s almoner for all this golden bounty.
Life is long, and I must take up my burden without
a repining word.”

* *

* % *

“Raining again! Oh, what a dismal night!”

Leonora Grey drew the quilted silk curtains once
more, and turned to the merry fire whose coral glim-
mer lent such cheerfulness to the room. It was a
beautiful apartment, with velvet passion flowers
blooming on the carpet, and rich pictures leaning
from the frescoed walls. And Leonora herself looked
very lovely in her dress of dark green velvet, with
her luxuriant brown hair fastened up by massive
pins of gold, and costly rings sparkling on her slender
fingers. Twelve years had passed very lightly over
Leonora Grey’s head.

“Miss Grey, are you busy 2” :

The servant spoke half doubtfully as she hesitated
on the threshold of the door.

“No. What is wanted ?”

“There’s a little boy at the door, ma’am, wantin’
to sell things, and I’d be after sendin’ him away, if
you wasn’t so tender-hearted to the likes of all them
beggars.”

“But he is not begging, Mary. According to your
own story he is trying to earn his livelihood. Let
him come in here.”

“In this room, miss ?”’

“Yes; why not?’ .

Honest Mary made a little grimace as she went to
execute her mistress’ bidding. The next moment a
golden-haired little boy of about seven, clad in piti-
ably thin garments, crept into the room, carrying a
small basket on his arm. He looked at the fire with
greedy eyes; poor little creature! he was chilled and
wet through by rain and tempest.

“Come here, my child,” said Leonora, gently, ‘‘and
tell me what you have got to sell.” ‘

The boy opened his basket, and disclosed within it
a smaller basket still, curiously wrought, and gleam-
ing with silvery shelis. .

“Please, ma’am, I’ve been trying all day to sell it,
and no one would buy it. It’s very cheap, ma’am—
only a dollar.”

“Where did you get the basket ?”

Leonora was looking at it with eyes that seemed to
pea Sa far beyond the white glitter of the exquisite
shells.

* *

 

 

“My father gave it to me to sell, please, lady; he
is blind and sick, and all alone, so I want to get back
as soon as I can.”

“Alone ?”

“Yes; mother died two years since, and there are
only father and me left.”

“What's your name?”

“Guy Henry Belton.”

Leonora rose and took the child’s hand in her own
ice-cold grasp.

“Take me to your father.
carriage.”

As the luxurious equipage rolled through the dark
and dismal streets, little Guy Belton clung close to
the velvet robes of the beautiful woman, with a
child’s loving confidence. :

“T like you,” he said, softly. ‘‘“Mamma was cross,
and used to box my ears, and speak unkindly to papa
after he became blind; but your voice sounds soft,
nd your eyes look as though you loved me.”

“T do love you! Little Guy, I love you dearly,”
murmured Leonara, pressing him to her heart.

Deserted—forgotten once—the hour for her revenge
had come.

It was a squalid, low-ceiled room, with a tallow
eandle burning on the mantel, and a smoldering
handful of fire in the grate. On a broken sofa, with a
shawl thrown over him, reclined a figure whose pale,
wasted features still bore the impress of the beauty
that had once marked Guy Belton’s face.

“Ts that you, my child?’ Heturned his head un-
easily as the door swung open.”

“Yes, papa, it’s me, and I’ve brought a lady to see
you.”

“A lady ?’

Alas! the closed eyes, with their long, silken lashes,
could never look on human face more, but the head
turned wistfully once again, while one hand was
vaguely extended.

Leonora took it in her own.

“Guy ””’

A shudder convulsed his whole frame.

_ ‘Leonora! My Nora! It cannot be—I am dream-
ing.

“Oh, Guy, Guy!’ sobbed Leonora, throwing her-
self on her knees at his side, ‘tis it possible that we
meet thus after so many years of separation.”

“T do not deserve these tears, Leonora, I have
been false and base, leave me to die by myself.”

“Guy! dear Guy!” she said, passionately, ‘‘do you
think my love,was only for sunshine and prosperity ?
Hereafter you shall be more dear to me than ever.
Come, the carriage is at the door—my carriage. I
have wealth, and it shall be shared with you.”

“Leonora, my better angel—my child-sweetheart.”

And he broke down, weeping like a child.

Alas! Guy Belton had repented the fault of his
youth in the bitterest of sackcloth and ashes, and
Leonora’s sweet yoice seemed to him that of an
avenging angel.

The years of ordeal were sharp and severe, but
they are over now. Leonora sits inher stately rooms
with her blind husband at her side, and he holds her
hand almost asif he fears she might be stolen away
from him. Little Guy likes his “new mamma” a
great deal better than he did dead Madeline, and
the shell basket occupies a post of honor on a gilded
stand in Leonora’s own boudoir.

Stay—I will order the

HOW TO CATCH TROUT.

BY THE ‘“‘OLD ’UN.” (FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.)

Every man has a hobby, and his skillin riding it
seems to be in inverse proportion to his enthusiasm
for the animal. Mr. Marmaduke Millbury’s hobby
was trout-fishing. His favorite author was Izaak
Walton. His private room (he called it his ‘‘study’’),
was devoted to a collection of rods, reels, creels,

‘books of flies, snoods, catgut, water boots, and mis-

cellaneous lumber of that sort. Whenever he gota hol-
iday of his employers—hardware importers in Cham-
bers street—he ‘“‘went an angling,” as Walton has it.
His ojective point was trout, but he did not disdain
to go for striped bass, blue fish, or weak fish. We
have read of people who went after wool and came
home shorn. Mr. Millbury rarely brought home any
tinny spoils, and when he did, his version of the
mode of their capture was so dubious, the internal
evidence furnished by the condition of the fish, and
other circumstances, supported-a presumption that
his catch was made no farther from home than Ful-
ton Market. Indeed, his captures seemed confined
to his domestic circle. He was constantly leaving
hooks of various sizes lying round loose, and. when |
his family came, unawares, in contact with them,
the consequences may easily be imagined. On one
occasion he hooked his mother-in-law, in consequence
of which that amiable tenant of a black bombazine
dress absented herself from his fireside for a whole
fortnight. One of his boys’sat down on a paper of
hooks, and the surgical operation rendered necessary
thereby filled the house with shrieks and anguish.

Mr. Millbury was the owner of a wonderful pocket-
knife, for which he had paid five dollars. It wasa
combination of blades, scissors, tweezers, tooth-
picks, corkscrews, such as money rarely purchases,
and he was very proud of it... What connection this
extraordinary pocket-knife ‘has with trout-fishing
may appear hereafter.

Mr. Millbury’s sister’ marred Mr. Joseph Brum- | : : * ae ;
| lJaneous reading matter as in newspapers.

mins, who kept a grocery store on the Bowery.
Brummins was a practical man, and looked down on
and made fun of all “sports,” among which disrepu-
table characters he was pleased to class his brother-
in-law, Millbury. However, the two families pulled
pretty well together, notwithstanding.

Now, one season, as a great, treat, the Millburys
and Brmminses associated themselves in a week’s
rustication in the Catskills, Mr. Millbury promising
to show them ‘“‘how to catch trout.”

They reached their destination in good time and
condition, their baggage being swollen by an un-
christian quantity of fishing-tackle belonging to Mr.
Millbury. He furnished his brother-in-law with rod,
line, and bait, and, accompanied by the ladies, they
went to work fishing. They fished up stream and
down stream for three days with the same result—
ne’er a fish.

At the close of the third day Mr. Brummins ex-
pressed his opinion of Mr. Millbury in the very same
language used by Mr. Pickwick to express his opin-
ion of Mr. Tracy Tupman:

“Sir, you're a humbug!”

Poor Millbury swore to redeem his piscatorial char-
acter the next day, but he failed to do so during the
forenoon of the decisive day; then he said the wo-
men spoiled the sport by scaring the fish—angling
was a solitary amusement—he would leave the party
and try his luck by himself, meeting them at a cer-
tain spot.

They were at the appointed place as the day was
declining, and presently Millbury was seen approach-
ing, bearing a string of splendid trout—six of the
beauties—averaging two pounds apiece.

“Darn his pictur’! said Brummins, the skeptic,
“he never ketched them trout—he bought ’em.”

“No,” said Mrs. Millbury, ‘‘he had no money, for
after he’d changed his clothes, I found his wallet in
his trousers pocket, and took charge of it.”

Millbury, sharply questioned, told when and where
he had caught the trout, and what flies he had used,
and offered to take the party to the spot as a proof of
the truth of his assertion. But it was timeto be
wending homewards. Millbury looked at his watch,
and said that was true, they’d be late for supper, but
very curiously he insisted on going the longest way
home, and when he came to a certain gate by the
roadside, said he must stop and rest himself. He
behaved very strangely—kept looking round him
and whistling.

“Don’t whistle,” said his wife.
aggravates my nerves.”

But Millbury looked at his watch and whistled
again.

“There you go again!” said Brummins.
you hear your wife say she couldn’t bear it ?”

“TI didn’t mean to,” said poor Millbury. “It whis-
tled of itself.”

“T say, Millbury,” said Brummins, suddenly, “I
want to cut a stick; “lend us your knife.”

Millbury felt in his pockets.

“T hain’t got it; I’ve lost it.”

“Come, now, old fellow, hand over the knife,” said
Brummins. ‘‘Lostit! when you set such store by
it? You’re afraid to trust it to a fellow. I won’t
break it.”

Millbury looked at his watch again.

“Darn that boy !” he said: ‘“he’ll never come.”

“What boy?’ asked Brummins, eying him sus-
piciously. :

“What boy?’ cried Millbury, angrily, and then out
came the truth before he thought of it. ‘Why, that
scamp I got the trout of. He wouldn’t let me have
’em without the money or security, and I’d left my
wallet at home. So I gave him my knife, and he
promised to meet me, and I meant to borrow the
money of you to redeem it.’

Brummins and the women yelled with laughter. It
is needless to say shat the boy never came, that Mill-
bury never saw his pocket-knife again, and that he
never heard the end of that story of catching trout
in the Catskills.

“You know how it

“Didn’t

 

NO MAN’S ENEMY BUT HIS OWN.

No man’s enemy but hisown happens generally to
be the enemy of everybody with whom he is in rela-

tion. The leading quality that goes to make his
character is a reckless improvidence and a selfish
pursuit of selfish enjoyments, independent of conse-

uences. No man’s enemy but his own runs rapidly
Sarough his means; calls, in a friendly way, on his
friends for assistance; involves his nearest kin,
leaves his wife a beggar, and quarters orphans ~~
the public; after having enjoyed himself to the last
dollar, entails a life of dependence on his progeny,
and dies in the odor of that ill-understood reputa-
tion of harmless folly, which is more injurious to so-
ciety than many positive crimes,

CITY CHARACTERS.

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

No. 16. THE NEWSMAN.

a) | (aA ty

a

About as interesting a character as can be found
anywhere is the man of whom other men say, ‘‘He
understands human nature.” This quality is at
tributed principally to lawyers, preachers, and poli-
ticians, but if in a large city you want to find a first-
class judge of human nature, just saunter up to the
nearest news-stand, and study the owner a little
while.

Great public men ought to understand their fel
low-beings very well, for they see them frequently
and talk with them a great deal; but the newsman
does not exchange a word with some of his custom-
ers, and yet he knows them.

He sizes up a new customer so carefully that he
would not be afraid to bet on the name of the paper
that man will select. If he loses his bet, he will in-
sist that the man was buying for somebody else in-
stead of himself, and if you take the pains to investi-
gate you will probably find the newsman is right.

Buy of, him once, and he will have your paper
ready for you on your next visit by the time you stop
before his stand and begin to fumble in your pocket
for some pennies. You wonder that he remembers
your choice, when he has had several hundred other

purchasers, but the truth is that he hasn’t thought of
you since—he simply knows, by a special sense of his
own, what you are likely to want.

To do this, he must know the papers also, so he
dknowsthem. When he reads is a mystery, for no-
body ever sees him looking at the inside of a paper,
yet he knows not only the style of each, but also
when they make any changes of policy or secure new
features.

More than this, he knows about how these changes
will affect the paper’s readers. Some day you may
make up your mind that you will change your paper;
about that time, greatly to your surprise, you are
likely to see your agent hand you the very paper to
which you meant to change. Perhaps you mention
this to your wife or friend as a coincidence, but there
was nothing accidental about it, the newsman knew
what was going to happen, knew it by the way in
which you picked up the paper that was going out of
your favor.

Sometimes a new paper is published, and the
owners want newsmen to force it upon the attention
of all their customers. But the shrewd fellow will
do no such thing; he offers it to such of his custom-
ers as he thinks will like it, and his judgment is gen-
erally right. He would not offer it to any one else;
why should he worry good customers whom he
knows wouldn’t read it?

The newsman knows when a customer is changing
politics; knows it sooner than any ward or district
politician, whose business it is to keep trace of such
changes. Of course he assumes a flop on the part of
a man who has changed from a strong partisan
journal to one on the other side; but men do not

 

|

change as suddenly as that. No two papers, in the
same city, are of exactly the same political color,
and it is through a man's gradual change of newspa-

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

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

Anyus Mc N. B., Baltimore, Md.—ist. The centenarian
Edward Augustus Holyoke was born in Essex County,
Mass., on Aug. 1, 1728, and died in Salem, Mass., on March
31, 1829. On his one hundredth birthday about fifty physi-
cians of Boston and Salem gave him a public dinner. He
walked to the table with a firm step, after dinner smoked
his pipe, and gave an appropriate toast. He practiced as
a physician in Salem for 79 years. He was twice married,
and the father of 12 children, only two of whom survived
him. He regarded his constant care to have a full pro-
portion of sleep as one of the causes of his longevity. At
his death he could read the finest print with his naked
eye. In his diet he was very temperate, partaking freely
of fruit. 24. A memoir of his life was published by the
Essex Medical Society, but it is doubtful if it is now in
print. 8d. He graduated at Harvard College, of which
his father was president in 1746.

M. C. W., Worcester, Mass.—ist. The prong-horn, one of
the antelopes of North America, is about as large as the
common deer. Its speed is so great that efforts to run it
down are seldom made. Itis often seen by travelers on
the Pacific Railroad. It can be attracted to the hunter
by his waving a handkerchief, its curiosity to see what
it is overcoming its natural timidity, and drawing it so
near as to be within the range of the rifle or the bow and
arrow of the Indian- It gets its name from the horns,
which grow nearly straight up and bend toward each
other at the top, each having asingle branch or prong
about half way up. 2d. Deer have solid horns which
they shed every year, but the horns of antelopes are hol-
low, like those of sheep, goats, and oxen, which are
usually not shed at all.

Annette, Boston, Mass.—The “Holy Alliance” was a
league formed by the Emperors Alexander I., of Russia,
and Francis of Austria, and King Frederick William III.,
of Prussia, Sept. 26, 1815, after the second abdication of
Napoleon, and acceded to by the other principal powers
of Europe, except Rome, England, and France. Its_0s-
tensible object was to regulate the states of Christendom
on principles of Christian unity, but the real aim was to
maintain the existing dynasties. Alexander himself
drew up the agreement, and gave to ititsmame. A special
article of the treaty excluded forever the members of the
Bonaparte family from all the thrones of Europe. After
Alexander’s death the compact lost authority, and the
French revolution of 1880 may be said to have ended it.

Ruby L. H., Rahway, N. J.—ist. The staple food for
canaries is clean, bright canary seed. One part of rape
seed mixed with five of canary will render the food more
than ordinarily nutritious. Tender new lettuce is also
excellent. Fine gravel or coarse clean sand upon the
floor is recommended. The common white cuttle-fish
bone is a very good thing to fasten at the side of the cage
for their convenience. Fresh clean water should be fur-
nished every day in drinking cups at a regular hour. We
can send you “Holden’s Book on Birds” for 50 cents. 2d.
The longest verse in the Bible is the ninth verse of the
eighth chapter of Esther. 3d. Weak eyes may be greatly
benefited by bathing them night and morning in a wea
solution of table-salt and water.

Wm. J. K., Lancaster, Pa.—ist. We believe the longest
balloon vogage ever made was by Prof. John Wise. On
July 2, 1859, he and three others traveled from St. Louis,
Mo., to the upper part of Jefferson County, N. Y., making
a distance of eleven hundred and fifty miles in nineteen
hours and fifty minutes. 2d. The disastrous ascension by
Prof. Donaldson, who was accompanied by Newton S.
Grimwood, took place from the lake front at Chicago, on
July 15, 1875. The body of young Grimwood was recov-
ered, but no trace was ever found ofthe balloon or of
Donaldson.

Guy, Hartford, Conn.—The gold fish is a native of Chi-
na, but was introduced into Europe early in the Seven- -
teenth century. Its food is chiefly animalcules, with
bread when in confinement. It will bear great extremes
of heat and cold, and its life may be prolonged to twenty
or thirty years. In New England it bears well the se-
verity of the winters, and breeds in great numbers when
protected from other fish. The colors vary greatly by do-
mestication. In China, gold fish are kept either in porce-
lain vessels or in artificial ponds.

A. T. D.. Chicago.—ist. A fine sauce for fish, meats,
etc., is thus made: Put into a nice tin saucepan one
pint of port wine, half a pint of walnut catsup, twelve
anchovies and the liquor belonging to them, one gill of wal-
nut pickles, the grated rind and juice of one large lemon,
four or five shallots, cayenne pepper to taste, three
ounces of scraped horseradish, three blades of mace,
two teaspoonfuls of made mustard. Boil it all gently un-
til the rawness goes off, and bottle. 2d. The book you de-
sire will cost 30 cents.

Y. G., Rahway, N. J—To make tomato soy, to one peck
of ripe tomatoes cut in slices, skins and pulp, put half a
cup of ground black pepper, half a cup of celery seed, two
tablespoonfuls of ground allspice and two of cloves, two
large red peppers, four large onions chopped fine, and one
cup of salt. Boil these ingredients with sufficient water
well for three hours, and just before taking off, add one
cup of vinegar; strain through a colander, and bottle it
at once. This sauce will answer to season stews with, and
to eat with soups, etc.

 

per that the newsman judges his mind. ‘

The newsman’s sense is as keen regarding miscel-

He never |

makes the mistake of offering a strange preacher a
sporting paper—no matter how roughly dressed the
preacher may be—nor does he show a religious week-
ly to a gambler, although he may be gotten up to
look like a pillar of a church. He will gladly sell
you any papers you ask for, but he knows, as well as
you, which are for yourself, which for your wife and
daughter, and which for your servant; he can even
tell, by the papers you buy to carry home, what sort
of wife, daughter, and servant you have.

The newsman generally knows in advance when
there is going to be a run on any particular paper,
and inereases his order accordingly. This looks |
risky, for very few publishers take back unsold pa-
pers, and the margin of profit is sometimes so small
that to be ‘‘stuck” on one copy means to lose the
profit on four. Yet the dealer is rarely stuck. Were
some unusual news expected to-morrow morning, he
would increase his orders for each of the half-dozen
papers he sells, yet no two to the same extent. Prob-
ably he could not tell you how he determined on the
exact figures; but if you go to his stand in the after-
noon you will find, by its bareness, that he estimated
rightly.

It takes all sorts of papers, like all sorts of men, to
make a world, sonew ones are frequently started. The
newsman does not profess to know everything, but
he will look over anew paper two or three minutes
and estimate its chances more accurately than the
editor usually does. The editor generally knows
what he wishes people would like; the newsman
knows what they really like, and knows, too, how
near the editor comes to pleasing any particular
class of readers for which he is working.

As aman may generally be known by the papers
he reads, it follows that the newsman becomes an
accurate judge of human nature in his vicinity. If I
wanted to know all about any particular residence,
block, or district in the city, | would much rather
consult the newsman than the ward detective, or
any of the precinct police, for they have no interest
in any but the crooked characters, while the news-
man has had to study everybody, from the clergy to
the corner loafers.

As a consequence of his sharp wits, the newsman
always prospers in business; it is easier to finda
dead mule or an honest burglar than a newsman who
has failed. Some people say this is because he sells
only for cash, but this is a mistake; the retail liquor
dealer does not give credit, yet he is sometimes sold
out by the sheriff. It would astonish people to know
how many newsmen, who never wear good clothes
and who began business with less than a dollar as
working capital, now own the houses they live in,
and have money in the bank besides. But nobody
begrudges the newsman his luck; a fellow who does
his own work, starting in the morning before the
earliest day laborer is awake, never “knocking off”
or being behind time on account of the weather,
making his living at the rate of half a cent, or less,
on each sale, deserves all the fortune that falls to
him. Andif some day he outgrows his business and
goes into something larger, manufacturers and
banks regard him with a great deal more confidence
than they extend to some well-dressed, lordly fel-
lows who start in business on borrowed capital and
no experience whatever. New York has more than
fifty prominent business men who began life in cor-
ner news-stands; and a gentleman who is to-day a
millionaire bank president of Chicago commenced
his business career behind a news-stand,

lee ET ne
SINGING.

No social pleasure is more enjoyable than singing.
When friends meet, and the lively word and social
jest are intermingled with the voice of song, the
spirit throws off care and thought and recreates it-

self, that it may be better fitted for the hour of toil.
Those who are able to meet at stated times and
spend an hour in the practice of music, lose much by
neglecting to do so. There is not a hamlet or village
where a singing circle may not be formed and music
practiced, and this, too, not as a task, but as a source
of deep, heartfelt pleasure. The desideratum for
such circles is simple home music, such as stirs the
heart and causes its depths to well forth in gladness
and joy, or to sympathize in pensive sadness. And
this music should be new, else we tire by too much
repetition, and various in kind and subject, else some
chords of the heart are left untouched.

 

THE man or woman who does as near right as he or
she knows, is more likely to have a front seat here-
after than the minister who preaches on the allo-
pathic and practices on the homeopathic plan.

 

S. T. S.—ist. Bluebeard is the hero of a well-known
story of the same name, originally written in French by
Charles Perrault. Itis said that the original Bluebeard
was Giles de Laval, Lord of Raiz, who was made Marshal
of France in 1429. Herendered himself infamous by the
number of his wives, and for some state crime was sen-
tenced to be burned in a field at Nantes, in 1440. 2d.
Prince Ahmed is a character in the “Arabian Nights’ En-
tertainments,”’ in the story of “Prince Ahmed and the
fairy Paribanou.”

Frank C. B., Norwich, N. Y.—ist. The U. 8. Minister to
Brazil (residence at Janiero) is Thomas J. Jarvis; Mexico
(residence City of Mexico), Thomas C. Manning; France
(residence Paris), Robert M. McLane; Belgium (residence
Brussels), Lambert Tree ; Netherlands (The Hague), Isaac
Bell, Jr. The U.S, Consul-General to Austria (residence
Vienna), is Edward Jussen. Letters addressed to any of
the ministers named will receive respectful considera-
tion. 2d. Yes.

Roland M., Bridgeport, Conn.—A banshee, in popular
superstition, is an invisible being, supposed to announce
by weird presence and mournful voice some one’s ap-
proaching death. The superstition in ancient times _pre-
vailed very generally in Ireland and Scotland. In later
times it was popularly supposed that each family had its
banshee, which gave warning of misfortune, or haunted
the scenes of past calamities.

N. C. A.—Your naturalization papers can be obtained at
any time by going (with a witness who has known youin
this country for five years and who knows that you ar-
rived in this country before you reached the age of
eighteen years) to the Court of Common Pleas, or the
Superior Court, or the United States District Court,

within the usual court hours. The fee will be from fifty
cents to $1.

D. L. B., Atlanta, Ga.—The Homeopathic Medical Col-
lege at the north-east corner of Third avenue and Twenty-
third street, has been established for over twenty-five
years. The college year consists of a winter term of six
months. Fees: for one course of lectures, $125; for graded
course, including the lectures of the entire period of
three years, $200.

J. T. 8., Red Bluff, Cal—A person born on the 29th of
February may keep the anniversary of his or her birth in
the non-leap year either on the Ist of March or on the 28th
of February. We should say that the latter date would
be preferable, because in law the year of age is com-
pleted the day before the anniversary of that of the ac-
tual birth.

Kathleen, Ontario.—ist. July 27, 1881, came on Wednes-
day ; Nov. 4, 1876, on Saturday. 2d. Beef-marrow is recom-
mended to make the hair grow. 3d. A vail will protect
the face, and gloves the hands, from sunburn, 4th. Glyce-

rine acidulated with fresh lemon juice will help to keep
the skin soft and white. 5th. Notin book-form.

R. M., Ohio.—ist.—Pimples can generally be avoided
by paying attention to the diet, avoiding all rich, salt, or
greasy food. To remove pimples apply night and morn-
ing a little glycerine diluted with pure cologne water.
2d. Glycerine acidulated with a little fresh lemon juice
will help to whiten and soften the skin.

Mahlon D. C., Morristown, N. J.—The present Secre-
tary of the Treasury is Charles S. Fairchild, of New York.
President Cleveland’s first appointment was Daniel Man-
ning, of New York, who resigned on account of ill health.

Nettie C., Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. Laura B. Phelps, violinist,
made her debut at the Academy of Music, Brooklyn, on
March 26, 1885. 2d, Adelina Patti and the Marquis De
Caux were formally divorced at Paris on July 16, 1885.

Grace Darling, Framingham, Mass.—As stated recently
to another correspondent, women can vote at municipal
elections in Kansas. The Governor of the State signed
the bill on Feb. 16, 1887. ‘

F. W. L., Montreal, Canada.—A letter addressed to Hon.
Jobn C. Black, Commissioner of Pensions, Interior De-
partment, Washington, D. C., will elicit full information
upon the subject.

Mark Mariposa, Reading, Pa.—ist. “Buffalo Bill,” in
book-form, will cost $1. 2d. The story and plays named
are notin print. 3d. The process is called photo-engray-
ing.

H. E. C., St. Louis, Mo.—ist. The color of the hair is
dark brown; texture medium. 2d. Beef-marrow is
recommended to promote the growth of the hair.

A. R., Newburgh, N. Y.—The number of miles from
New York to New Orleans, by water, is 2,045 miles; by
land 1,550,

Lewis R. J., Long Island.—‘‘The Painter’s Manual,” by
a practical painter, will be sent to you for 50 cents.

Adele.—The shortest verse in the Bible is the thirty-
fifth verse ef the eleventh chapter of St. John.

D. A. BP., Stonington, Conn.—The distance from New
York to Denver, Colorado, is 1,980 miles.

Chas. C., Patchogue.—ist. Perhaps soon. 2d. and 3d.

 

No record of either.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 30,

 

 

 

A FRIEND’S HAND IN MINE, LADS.
BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.

Sometimes ’tis May, lads,
The sky soft and bright ;
We sing on our way, lads,
With brave hearts and light.
But May cannot last, lads ;
With great clouds rolled,
The skies are o’ercast, lads,
The world turns cold.

A friend’s hand in mine, lads,
A kind hand and true,

In rough ways and dark days,
It helps a man through.

We've small gifts to give, lads,
A poor purse to show,
But what man can live, lads,
With naught to bestow?
A word of brave cheer, lads,
A warm grasp and strong,
Beats all your gear, lads,
To help hearts along.

A friend’s hand in mine, lads,
A kind hand and true,

In rough ways and dark days,
It helps a man through.

Do what you can, lads,
And do it with might;
God isn’t man, lads,

To judge by the sight.
Pence pounds outweigh, lads,
When wills are right good,
And, oh! to hear one say, lads,

“He’s done what he could.”

A friend’s hand in mine, lads,
A kind hand and true,

In rough ways and dark days,
It helps a friend through.

SE rnnnnnanEnEInneee dine conse

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

Marrying for a Home:

?

‘AN OLD MAN'S DARLING.

By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR,

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

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

CHAPTER X.—(CONTINUED.)
EEING the beauty of the day,
Mr. Brooks had returned to
take his young wife out for a
drive, and coming unexpect-
edly upon her, had heard the
whole of her lady-like speech.
Even the model wife, heart-
less and selfish as she had

proved herself, stood. abashed

and guilty for a moment.

“«Favesdroppers never hear |
any good of themselves,” she |

said, after an embarrassed pause, trying to laugh off
the matter.
the spy, dearie.
won’t stand it. I despise a jealous husband.
IT know enough to take care of myself.”
“That is neither here nor there.

jealous or an exacting husband. I know perfectly

wife, and they would have to pull along together
under the unequal, galling yoke.

But Grace! Here, indeed, was something she did
not understand. Her dead sister’s daughter was
very dear to her. Her womanly heart was filled with
doubt and alarm.

“As you say, Augustus, there is a mystery ?
wonder that we have not realized it sooner.
thing must be done at once!”

She advised him to call at Mrs. Dennison’s at some
unexpected hour, thus taking the family by surprise,
and perhaps discovering Sam or his whereabouts.

It was about four in the afternoon when Mr.

I only
Some-

Mrs. Dennison’s, and was admitted by Effie, who was
the only one at home. He told her that he had come
to inquire after Grace.

“They haven’t got back yet.”

‘“‘Where did they go?”

“I’m pretty sure they went to Washington. Maybe
they are visiting in Philadelphia, on their way home;
we have relatives there,”

“Have you not heard from your brother ?”’

“Oh, yes, once or twice, but not lately.”

‘‘May I see his letters ?”’

“They’re locked up in ma’s drawer, and she’s out.”

Effiie was very nervous. She expected Sam in
every moment, and was, as she said
“dying to get the old goose out of the house.”

into the hall.
there was a whispered consultation, and the person
went on up stairs.

“T thought I recognized your brother’s voice,” said
her visitor, when she re-entered the sitting-room,
flushed and excited.

in no condition to be seen, and I sent him to bed.
You know his weakness.”

“Tf I donot hear from my daughter in a day or
two, I shall take steps to ascertain her whereabouts,
if I have to set the police to work,”

“TI dare say they’ll be home by Saturday.”

Her manner convinced Mr. Brooks that Effie was
telling a string of falsehoods, and he went home more
uneasy than before.

Arrived at his own house, he found company in the
parlor.
relief; but these people were some girls and young
men—the same set who had been at the dance the

cially requested his wife should drop. She had in-
vited them to dinner on purpose to provoke and an-
noy him, as wellas to prevent his saying anything
about the little scene of the morning.

him.
her girl friends.

shawl like that,’ exclaimed one of the Misses Tweed,
effusively.
you! I believe in marrying for a home, I do.
some rich widower would make up to me.”

“T have everything heart can crave,’’ boasted the
young wife.
a single thing.”

Yet not one feeling of gratitude warmed her bosom

for the man who had lavished all this upon her. She
could boast of it to those she wanted to envy her,

black ingratitude.

CHAPTER XI.
AN ADVENTURE WHICH GROWS INTERESTING.

When John Halliday left the presence of his false
love so suddenly that evening he was like a person

 

who had fallen froma height; he was stunned. It

is true that he moved mechanically along the street,
| but his brain and heart were half paralyzed; he was |

of where he was going, cared not what would be
the end. The woman he loved was not the weman
| he had imagined her. The beauty he worshiped was
there, more delicate and sparkling than ever, but
| the soul

Ag =
/

 

“Thope you’re not beginning to play |
If you are, I shall let you know [I |
I guess

I have not been a|—

well—for you have not taken even decent pains to |

conceal it—that you married me for my money er

“Of course,” she interrupted him, rudely. ‘Did you |
You had better |
What does a}
You knew |

fancy I married you for love?—you?
take a look at yourself in the glass.
young, pretty girl marry an old man for?

it before you took me, so you needn’t complain now.” |
“T thought you at least respected me, and had a|

certain amount of affection for me.
“kindness and indulgence to you and yours, to win
your gratitude and esteem. 1 gave you a handsome

ouse, which 1 expected you to keepin fit order. I
gave you servants, expecting you would oversee and
control them.
ing you were a lady, and would at least be neat and
orderly in your person. I am bitterly disappointed
in each and all of my anticipations. I find that my
wife is indolent, untruthful, untidy—that, in return
for the generosity I have lavished on her and her
family, I am an object of ‘ridicule to her and them,
and I tell youlam sick, sick of it! Take what you
want and go!”

“Don’t you let him frighten you, Lillie dear,” ob-
served Mrs. Dennison, impertinently. ‘‘A man can’t
get rid of a wife so easily as all that. As long as you
do nothing criminal, he cannot shake you off. You
just have your own way, daughter; he’ll soon find

e can’t help himself. Come, are you going out shop-
ping with me?’

“*Yes, indeed, ma.. We will go out and have a nice
time. Maybe Graybeard will be in better humor
when we get back.
hair shaw] this morning. We will goover to Arnold &
Constable’s for that.”

The unhappy man, whose first wife had been the

contend with heartlessness and vulgarity like this.
His heart was chilled, his dignity insulted, his kind-
ness outraged, yet, as his mother-in-law had remind-
ed him, he had no redress.

However, a still deeper trouble than his own dis-
appointment urged him to speak on another subject.
He was just beginning to realize that there was some-
thing mysterious about Grace’s absence and silence.

“Before you go out, madam, I must ask where

Grace is. It seems strange to me the manner of her
marriage, and her remaining away so long, without
even sending me a message.”

ae returned his anxious look with a hateful
smile.

“Sam Dennison can take care of his own wife, I
think, Mr. Brooks.”

: oe you refuse to let her father know where she
is

“Perhaps I would tell you if I knew.”

“Do you not know ?”

“No, I don’t.”

“TItis very strange. I do not understand it.”

“She willlet you hear from her when she gets
ready, I dare say.”

“It isso unlike my child. She was always so de-
voted to me, so fond of her brothers; her conduct is
inexplicable.”

“That isn’t my fault.’

“T hardly believe she was really married to your
brother.”

“There is proof of that. There were at least a dozen
present.”

“Give me their names.”

Lillie ran over a few of the names of the young
people present in the library when the mock mar-
riage took place.

“T wish you would get out of that door,’ she added.
Ma and I want to be off. It’s after ten.”

He stepped back, and thetwo women walked past
him with affected carelessness, and left the house.

Mr. Brooks entered the pleasant chamber and lock-
edthe door The sun shone in the windows, but all
was dark before his mental vision. He threw him-
self down on the lounge in an agony of grief and re-
pentance of the folly of his choice, which had placed
such a person over his household. He grew more
and more troubled, too, about Grace. When he re-
ealled her shrinking delicacy it appeared to him im-

ossible that she could have married a coarse fellow
ike his wife’s brother, whose only recommendation
was a sort of ruddy good looks. He wanted to in-
quire about the mariage of some of the young ladies
whom, according to Lillie’s story. had witnessed the
ceremony. Yet he dreaded to create ascandal by
confessing himself ignorant of his own daughter’s
whereabonts. Altogether he was more miserable
than he had ever thought to be. His pride, wounded
to the quick, his affection thrown back with scorn,
he was to be poets

He tinally decided to go over to New York and con-
sult Grace’s aunt. It would be bitter to acknowledge
to her the situation in which he was placed; yet he
must have her advice. All thoughts of a pleasant
drive had taken flight. He sat in the cars and on the
ferry, with bowed head, brooding over his troubles.

“My dear brother, what is the matter with you?’

exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, when she entered her
parlor to greet him.

“Nothing, nothing, sister; only I am what my
model wife calls me, an old fool,” and he tried to

smile, but there were tears in his eyes.

_ She took his hand and seated herself beside him,
easily pueeeing at the nature of his sorrows; yet
‘astonished, after all, to hear how plainly the vul-

I thought, by |

I gave you beautiful clothes, believ- |

I guess ll purchase a camel’s- |

“REMAIN OUTSIDE
CLOSES.

THE DOOR UNTIL THE STORE
I NEED YOUR PROTECTION.”

plainly now, as it really was, for the first time—vain,
shallow, tricky, selfish. He

hid from him Lillie’s true character.

 

rible.

eration now. _ 3
He hurried blindly on, not heeding what course he
took. His eyes were blinded by hot tears, his head

3 N | swam.
embodiment of gentleness and refinement, could not

Suddenly there was alow cry of intense fear and
alarm very near him; some one grasped him by the
arm, and with desperate efforts dragged at it until
he staggered back a step ortwo. He put his hand to
his forehead and tried to think. A huge, dark object
whizzed by close to him.

“Thank Heaven!” cried a sweet, thrilling voice,
still sharp with terror. “If I had not been in time,
you would have been run over, sir.”

He looked about him in confusion. He perceived
that he had wandered on to Atlantic avenue, nor
could he suppress a shudder when he became aware
that he had barely escaped being crushed to death
by a locomotive in whose path he had been walking.

Some one had seen him and pulled him from the
track, not a second too soon. Who was his rescuer?’

He glanced quickly at the speaker, who remained
by his side, trembling and unable to move, from the
fright she had experienced, and the strength she had
exerted to pull him from the track. The light of a
street lamp fell on her slender figure and pale face.
A girl had saved the life which another girl had
made wretched! What a young slip of a creature
she was, too! It appeared incredible that she could
have rushed to his rescue; periled her own safety
for that of astranger; dragged him from before the
inanimate monster with a grasp of steel! Now she
was pale enough; now she quivered all over; and a
gush of silver tears streamed down her cheeks; for
the crisis was over: and, having proved herself a
heroine, her woman’s nerves asserted themselves.
He stared at her in dazed wonder; then a flush crept
over his face.

‘You have saved my life!’ he stammered. “TI have
had a blow to-night. I did not know where I was
going—what doing.”

“A blow ?’ she murmured, looking earnestly into
the grave countenance.

“Yes; not from the cudgel of an assassin—a worse
blow than that—a blow on my heart, dealtme by a
fair, false girl. I was blind and stupid with the
pain of it. Why did you not let me die? Why, great
Heaven! it is frightful to think of the risk you must
have run! You are so delicate—so slender—you
ought not to have periled yourself! To think of a
beautiful girl doing so bravea deed! It seems in-
eredible! I thought all women were selfish and
sordid !””

She smiled sadly through her tears.

“Because one has proved so? That would be a
sweeping jndgment, sir. You will outgrow this pain
sometime, sir, and then you will think of the un-
known girl who saved your life with thankfulness
that you are still alive to enjoy this bright world
bright, in spite of dark hours, of deep suffering.
Good-night, and pray, be more careful of yourself.”

“We must not part strangers,” he said, quickly.
“Believe me, lam not, even now, ungrateful. The
shock has been severe to you. You tremble. Take
Hed arin, and allow me to conduct you safely to your
10ome.

“There is a car coming,” she responded, rather
anxiously. ‘‘You may assist me into it; after that I
shall get along very well. I am going to cross the
Bridge. My—home—is in New York.”

The car came before he could say more; he helped
her in; but he was unwilling to part from her thus,
and gotin after her, and took a seat by her side,
saying:

“T must at least see you to the Bridge. Is it not
rather late for a young lady te be out alone ?’ and he
regarded her earnestly, but respectfully.

Lady she certainly was, although plainly dressed,

 

 

gar young beauty had betrayed her true character.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

What could she say? The girl was her brother's

Brooks returned to Brooklyn; he went directly to }

 

afterward, }

Presently some one with a latch-key came noisily |
She rushed out to meet the. person; |

“Oh, that was pa. The truth is, Mr. Brooks, he was |

 

Good company would have been a welcome |

previous evening—whose acquaintance he had espe- |

1 When he saw |
who they were he withdrew to the library, where |
the sound of their loud laughter occasionally reached |

Lillie displayed her purchases of the morning to
“Td marry aman twice as old for a camels’-hair |
“Goodness gracious, Lillie, but I envy |
Iwish| * ; : é hi
| with an arch smile, which lighted up her beautiful,

. ‘My horse and carriage, my diamonds, |
my professional cook, and I don’t lift my finger to do |

while she repaid him with meanness, and malice, and |

behind that vail of loveliness—he saw it |

| Fulton street.

| West.
| pose.
| gled under that engine.

 

| ed, and her
| only vulnerable part.

| time hung heavily on his hands.
| hardly conscious how it came about, but one dreamy |
| Indian summer afternoon, he found himself wander-

| store

had dreamed of her as |
fond, pure, and faithful, but the fair mask no longer |

The disappointment to his earnest nature was ter- |
The wealth which he had won, and which he |
had prized for her sake, turned to dust in his consid- |

 

There was elegance in every movement; the sweet, |

low voice was cultured; the high-bred, delicate face
was one of the purest, noblest he had ever seen.

Her clear, grave eyes met his without faltering as |
he made this remark about her being unattended, but |

the rose-color came slowly into her cheeks.

“Tt is a matter of necessity with me,”
“T am only a shop-girl
store.
only visit them after the store is closed.”

“Pardon me. I did not. seek to intrude on your
motives. ButIdodesire and pray that you will fa-
vor me with your name and address. Here is my
-ard,’”’ and he handed her one, which she accepted.

“My name is Clara Nugent,” she said.

a clerk in a Sixth avenue

a stranger to me.”
“T know it.

again—never to know more of one to whom I owe ny

life—never to be allowed to express my gratitude, or |

serve you in any way.”

yp ‘

iD

ae C4

pa HWA 4 HNL fol
\

IK AO

lit

§

NO

MACKAY WAS NOT SO QUICK AS HALLIDAY, WHO HAD
ALREADY OFFERED HIS ARM.

“T am already fully repaid,’ she answered him,
serious countenance wonderfully. “I do not believe

there is any further danger of your committing sui-
cide. You look less despairing already.”

| In truth, the fair stranger had already excited an |
| interest in John Halliday.

, He colored with shame
to think he had judged all women by Lillie, when

here was one so different—brave, self-reliant, digni- |

fied, yet lovely.

‘At least promise me,” he urged, as they reached |
the Bridge and got out of the street car, ‘‘that you |

will keep my card, and remember that I am your
friend, if you ever need one—a friend who would do
you any service in his power.”

“If Lever need one! Oh. how much I need one
now !” thought the girl, glancing up at the broad

| shoulders, at the grave face and kindly eyes of this

handsome young fellow. But she only murmured:
“Thank you, Mr. Halliday. I will not forget your

i ay
scarcely conscious of his movements, thought not | offer.

“Do give me your address !’”’ he pleaded.

But she still refused, and he was obliged to bid her
good-evening as she passed through the Bridge gate
leading to the cars, without any hint from her that a
future acquaintance was desired.

“T admire and respect her all the more for her pru- |

dence,” thought John, as he retraced his steps up

risk when she dragged me from the track. Ah, I am
not worth her risking one of her little fingers for!
What am I but a wreck? No motive to make the
most of myself. No use for the money I was so glad
to have for Lillie’s sake.
I must struggle on, for mother’s sake, I sup-

the wilds of the West. Oh, Lillie!
have wrecked my plans!”

Lillie! how

she replied ; |

My few friends reside in Brooklyn, and I can |

e L “You will |
excuse me if I do not give you my address; you are |

: You are right, of course, Miss Nugent; |
but it does seem hard that I am never to thank you |

“She must herself have run a terrible |

“*T have been none the worse for it.
of locomotives.”

other. He thought to himself how lovely her eyes
were; while she reflected that it was rarely one saw
a young man with such a candid expression; surely
he was one of the few a woman might safely trust.

‘You are not angry with me for coming?” he asked.

“To buy gloves?’ she answered him.

“T do not wish to force my acquaintance upon you
against your wish,” he went on, in a low voice, while
he affected to examine one pair after another, “but I
| do ask you to inquire into my credentials.
give you my references if you will only feel enough
interest in my offer of friendship to look them up.
You saved my life; you can never be to me astranger
after that.”

She looked up at him earnestly with those lovely,
| Searching eyes.

“T should be glad to have you for a friend; but, in-
deed, Mr. Halliday, Iam not situated so that I can
receive visitors at present.”

“Can you not come to see my mother sometimes ?”’

“That would seem strange.”

“Not to her.

life to snatch me from a horrible death. She would

| ee it the greatest favor if you would call upon
er.

“Well, perhaps, some time. You had better pay for

| your gloves and go; they are wondering why you talk |

| to me so long.”
He laid a bill on the counter; she summoned the
cash-boy; John watched her while they waited for
| the change. How sweetly the roses went and came
| ed her cheeks! Whata modest and yet stately way
| She
| Ah! even as he observed her, she, glancing toward
| the door, became deathly pale, and shrank as with
| unspeakable terror at something or somebody she
| Saw there. It seemed as if she might faint and fall in
the excess of her fear.
‘‘Miss Nugent, are you ill?”
For a moment she struggled as with pride and
| Shame. Then, quickly leaning forward, she whis-
| pered, hurriedly :
| ‘You once offered to serve meif I needed you. I
need your friendship now. If you are in earnest—if
you are really willing to do so much for me—remain

in less than half an hour. I need your protection on
my way to my boarding-house.”

his parcel, he walked out of the store, but remained
in the vicinity until the half-hour had expired, when
he took up his station in front of the shop, and wait-
ed for the clerks to come out.

He soon perceived that he was not the only one
who waited, A thickset, showily dressed fellow of
about thirty—whom, it occurred to John, he must
have seen before, though he failed to recall where
stood by the step, with a self-satisfied smile on his
lips, coolly scrutinizing the girls as they came out.
Once or twice he looked at John, as if asking him
what he was doing there, but he did not speak.

Halliday felt certain .tbat this person was waiting
for Miss Nugent; equally certain that she feared
him, and wished protection from him. He longed
| for the privilege of knocking down this impertinent
fellow, with the easy air and the cool smile of
success.

Watching the door closely the instant that Miss
Nugent appeared, casting an appealing glance about
| her, he stepped to her side and offered her his arm;
but, quick as he was, he was not so quick as the
other watcher, who had already offered his.

 

CHAPTER XII.
ONLY IN FUN.

Mr. Brooks, coming drearily home to dinner in a
| house which no longer seemed to him his own, a few
| days after the coarse and heartless flouting which
| his young wife had given him, when she had de-

clared to her mother she was waiting for him to
| ‘‘kick the bucket,” was surprised to find Lillie in
| tears. After all her abuse of him and his, he still
| had some affection for the handsome girl whose
| beauty he had mistaken for a sign of nobler quali-
| ties; he could not see her in tears without a softening

:

wish I were back in the |

For mother’s sake, [am glad I was not man- |
I will buy her a little home, |
| fix her comfortably in it,and then I will off again to

you |

In a week or ten days from that night John Halli- |

| day had settled his mother and sister in a pretty lit- |

tle house of their own, and would already have left |
them to try and wear out his restlessness by an ex- |
citing life in the mines had they not begged so |

| piteously that he would not go so soon. Not once had

¢} he
| Lillie’s note inviting him to call on her at her own
| home.
| power over him had failed completely; John was

who }

gone to the Dennisons’, nor had he answered
He despised her for writing sugh-a note; ,her
not the man to hang about a marmed

had deserted him to ‘‘marry for money.”
Lillie would have liked a sentimental flirtation im-

woman

| mensely; she was mortified and angry that he did

not respond to her advances ; her vanity was wound-
vanity was like the heel of Achilles, her

_After he had settled his mother in her comfortable |
little home, John knew not what to do with hiinself; |

He was himself

ing along Sixth avenue, New York, going into shop |

| after shop, inquiring for gloves, handkerchiefs, neck-

ties, whatever it came into his head to make an ex-
cuse for entering.

Miss Nugent had said that she was employed ina
on Sixth avenue. He hardly asked himself
whether he was or was not in search of her; yet, as
it drew toward dusk he was conscious of a feeling of
disappointment; crowds of pretty girls had waited
upon him assiduously, but he had obtained

seemed to come out more distinctly in his memory
every day.

His pockets were stuffed with small parcels, and
he was beginning to consider that he should not need
so many pairs of gloves in the West, when he sinally

entered a narrow, old-fashioned, but very busy place |

where trimmings, laces, and gloves were for sale.
Passing along down the counters, he looked sharply
at the fair clerks.

Ah, there she was! He had only seen her at night,
with her hat on, but he could not mistake. She was
even lovelier than he had believed her.
black dress, with linen collar aud
looked like a princess, her beautiful hair glittering in
acoronal above her dainty head, her serene eyes
shining with some inward splendor of thought,

She was busy putting away some boxes, and did
not observe him until he stood directly before her
and spoke her name.

“Good-atternoon, Miss Nugent.”

es ihiitecs poner ier
a —————_—— - sd

i

“MA WOULDN’T SUPPORT ME ANY LONGER,
UP WITH YOU, FOR YOUR MONEY,

sO I TOOK

ye

She started atthe sound of his voice, and as her
eyes met his smiling ones she blushed. John Halli-
day had never seen a girl blush like that before; it
seemed a personal compliment to himself; it made
his own color rise, and his heart beat a little faster.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Halliday.”

“T am looking for gloves,” he stammered, laughing
in spite of himself at the consciousness of eleven
pairs already in his pocket.

“Certainly. What material, color, number, and so
forth, Mr. Halliday?’ and she, too, smiled faintly,
knowing perfectly well what he had been looking
for, and that the question of gloves was a ruse.

She produced a box of the desired articles. The
purchaser appeared as hard to suit as one of the
softer sx. He was a long time making a choice.
Meantime, he made a little conversation.

“T hope you were none the worse, Miss Nugent, for
the shock [ gave you that night. Believe me, I have
eet very uneasy lest you might have made your-
se. ;

no}
glimpse of the one whose face, figure, and voice |

In her plain |
cuffs, she still |

“IT IS MY OPINION THAT YOU ARE A SCOUNDREL!”’
BURST FORTH MR. BROOKS, HOTLY.

| of that virtuous indignation he felt. For the first

time in days he spoke to her:

“What is the matter? Are you in trouble ?”

Lillie turned sullenly away without answering
him. Her trouble was of the usual selfish nature.
Because John Halliday had scorned to answer her
note, or accept her invitation to call, she thought
that her heart was wounded, when it was only her
vanity. She had made a “splendid” toilet every af-
ternoon, expecting him, and he had not come. To-
day her.disappointment had culminated in tears.

“Ts it anything I can do for you?’ Mr. Brooks
asked again.

“You 2” flashing on him a look of scorn from under
the curling lashes of the blue eyes. ‘I’ve half a
mind to tell you what it is, Brooks. Maybe you will
| allow that I have some reason for crying. When ma
began to talk to me about marrying you I was en-
gaged toa young man. Oh, he was awfully nice—
handsome as a picture—but he was poor. We had
been engaged two years; but ma said she wouldn’t
support me any longer; that John would not be able
toin many years; and so, I listened to what she
said, and took up with you, for your money rf

“Oh, girl! girl!’ half groaned her persecuted lis-
tener.

“He went to Montana, and afterward to Colorado,
and chanced on a rich mine, which he sold shares in
and got lots of money; and now he comes back, all
eager to marry me, handsomer than ever, his pockets
full of gold. Don’t you think that’s enough to make
a girl ery, Brooks ?’”’

“Cruel! cruel! shameless! shameless!’ muttered
the husband to himself, walking about the room in
an aimless way. ‘You never told me you were en-
gaged when I asked you to marry me,” he added,
presently.

“Why, of course not,’ she sneered.
never have done.
about it.”

‘Lillie, if you want to marry this young lover of
yours, I will do my best to help you. What can Ido
to give you legal cause for a divorce ?”’

“Beat me,’ she laughed, wiping away her tears,
‘pull my hair out, scratch my eyes out, commit a
crime and go to State prison !”

“T can think of but one way—to leave you, without
support, for two years. I might do that.”

“Two years! Without support!’ cried the model
wife,in dismay. ‘‘What nonsense are you talking
about, Augustus Brooks! You need not go to all
that trouble,” she added, bitterly. ‘‘John would not
look at me now. He despises me. He will not even
make me a friendly call.”

“Then there is still some honor left in this wretched
world ?”’

“Honor? Lots of it, no doubt, for those who care
for it. John was always dreadfully sensitive about
his honor. Well, let him go. Isha’n’t ery for him
again. And, look here, Brooks, just you stop that
gabble about ‘divoree.’ I’ve taken up with you, and
I’ve got to make the best of a bad bargain.”

“You have to make the best of a bad bargain!”

“Don’t try to quarrel, dearie. It isn’t becoming to
your years. All you have to do is to keep quiet and
allow me my own way, and we'll get along splendid-
ly, spite of our little ‘spats.’ ”

The truth was, Lillie was somewhat alarmed at the
earnestness with which ‘‘the old fool” seemed to seek
a way to release her. If John had been ready to
make up with her, such a course would have been
just what she desired; as it was, she considered ‘‘a
bird in the hand worth two in the bush’’—in short, a
rich husband, even if an old one, better than none at
all. She could not afford to have Brooks desert her;
she would torment him when she felt in the humor,
but she would keep him tied to her. Boldly as she
flirted with Mackay, that was only ‘‘for fun.” She
must have some one to flatter her and attend upon
her; neither she nor Mackay would ever think of
anything serious.

“Don’t go about in that style, dearie—like a hen
with its head cut off,’ she added, pleasantly. ‘The
bell has rung for dinner. We have mock-turtle soup
and a pair of canvas backs, dearie, with currant

“That would
Ma told meI must say nothing

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

I hope you do |
not still go around, Mr. Halliday, getting in the way |

Both laughed a little, and felt friendly, each to the |

I have told her how you risked your |

**T will not fail you;” and, taking his change and | ore
for his proud, sensitive

 

jelly.” She slipped her hand into his arm, drawing

him toward the dining-room. “I asked dear pa to
come around. He’sin here now. The ducks will be
such a treat to him, you know.”

“Am I neverto sit down with only my own fam-
ily ?’? murmured the patient gentleman, whose hos-
pltality was so shamefully abused.

Lillie affected not to hear him. She took her place
at the head of the table with a smiling countenance,
looking so anviable and so pretty, her hushand,
glancing at her in wonder, thought of the beautiful
fairy from whose mouth came toads and lizards. Old

| Dennison, bloated with drink, blear-eyed, had al-
I will }

ready placed himself in an arim-chair at the table.
The two boys came in, quietly, almost timidly, and
took their seats, not without an apprehensive glance
at the fair step-mother. Lillie chatted with her half-
tipsy father.

“Papa,” said Harry, in a low voice, after the soup
was passed, “this is Grace’s birthday. Have you
forgotten it?’

Mr. Brooks started; the tears rosein his wistful
eyes.

“T have been thinking of it all day, Harry. My
daughter is eighteen to-day. What would her dear
mother in heaven suffer if she knew how her own dar-
ling had slipped away from us! It is all wrong! I
am sure of it!’

These whispered words did not attract the atten-
tion of the others. The fine dinner which Lillie re-
commended to her “dear pa” had no charm for Mr.
Brooks. He tasted nothing but a cup of tea.

His own domestic embitterments, and his growing
uneasiness about his daughter, were making him ill.
However he concluded to act more decidedly than
he had done. He arose from the table while the
others lingered over their dessert.

“Tam going outforan hour,” he said, and going into
the hall put on his hat and overcoat, and left the
house.

Walking quickly around to Mrs. Dennison’s he pass-
ed the house, and returned again. The sitting-room
was lighted, but the shutters were closed. However,
one of the slats of the shutters was broken, and by com-
ingclose and peeping through Mr. Brooks obtained a
glimpse into the apartment, for the curtains had not
been drawn. He had never before been guilty of
spying or eavesdropping, and he blushed as he bent

! I | his head so as to bring his eyes on a level with the
outside the door until the store closes, which will be |

rift in the shutter, but there was too much at stake
for him to hesitate.

As he learned more of this scheming, selfish, ill-bred
family, he feared more and more, he knew not what,
darling, his well-beloved
Grace. Oh, how could she have been induced to
marry a coarse fellow like Sam Dennison ?

As he got a good view of the room he found there was
no one in it; but he did see one of his own earpets
on the floor, along with several handsome articles of

| furniture which had mysteriously disappeared from

one house to reappear in another. His thoughts
were too anxious to permit of this robbery arousing
more than a passing indignation.

He had scarcely taken an observation before some
one stepped into the parlor from an adjoining room.
It was Sam. He was handsomely dressed, in a showy
style; his ruddy face shore with broad smiles; he
slapped his hand on his breast-pocket. He was fol-
lowed into the room by Effie, who seemed also in ex-
cellent spirits.

“Tf I should ring the bell and ask for him, they
would deny that he was in,’’ murmured Mr. Brooks.

He listened, and distinctly heard what they said.

“You feel good, don’t you, Sam? It’s awfully jolly
to have so much money! I think you might give me
a hundred or two.”

“You get out!” elegantly responded the brother.

But he drew forth a bulging wallet, and counted
out ten ten-dollar greenbacks.

“Here’s a hundred, sis. Now, mind you don’t come
teasing for more. Yousee, I found out in old Brooks’
family Bible what day she would be of age. So, as
that happy occurrence took place to-day, I presented
myself at the bank where her $20,000 is deposited, and
I showed them the paper she signed making over the
whole cash to her husband, Samuel Dennison, to be
drawn at his discretion; and I took out the whole
sum and deposited most of it in another bank, in my
own name. It’s handier so; and it makes it mine,
you see, even if that duse of a girl tries to kick up a
row aboutit. Sheneedn’t try to hide from me any
longer. I don’t care so much for her, now I’ve got
her money. Let her come out of her hole, and go
home to her daddy, if she wants to. It’s my idea, the
quicker I spend the money the more fun I’ll have out
of it; for I don’t believe she will ever live with me,
confound her impudence! And her father may come
some legal dodge over me to get the cash away. Vl
have a good time while I can, anyhow. Hurrah for
a little sharp practice!” and he swung about the fat
pocket-book in high glee.

“She need not try to hide from me any longer.” “TI
don’t believe she will ever live with me.” Mr. Brooks
clutched the casement with failing fingers; his brain
whirled. What did such expressions mean? Was it
possible that Grace was the victim of some conspir-
acy? Far away, like the murmur of water in drown-
ing ears, came faint memories of playful remarks,
made the night of the party. about playing at a mock
marriage in the library. He could fix upon no dis-
tinct idea. But footsteps were approaching alon
the pavement; he must not be seen hovering abou
a window.

Burning indignation gave him a return of strength
—indignation at the way the young man had spoken
of Grace, and the manner in which he was squan-
dering her money. He mounted the steps, giving the
bell a vigorous pull. In response, Effie came to the
door.

“T wish to see your brother.”

“But my brother is notin,’ asserted the girl, not
attempting to admit him.

He pushed her aside, and entered the little parlor
without further ado.

Sam, who had thrown himself ona fine new sofa
in a lounging attitude, started up. For a moment he
looked abashed at confronting the gentleman who
appeared berore him; but he soon recovered his air
ot easy impudence.

“Where is my daughter? Where is Grace ?

“Yd tell you with pleasure if [ had the smallest
idea, sir. I’ve employed a smart detective to tell
me where she is, but even he can’t answer your
conundrum.”

“Ts she not your wife?’

“The minister pronounced us man and wife; the
ceremony was all right; the certificate legal and duly
signed; but the lady herself changed her mind
mighty soon after the ceremony. I have seen her
but once since the hour she married me; and then
she tooled me out of her company in no time. I’ve
done fretting about that.”

“Then she has never lived with you as your wife?”

“No, sir.”

And Sam began to whistle.

“Did she sign a paper putting her money in your
possession ?””

Sam looked at him keenly. :

“Ask her,’ he answered, after a moment’s hesita-
tion.

“Tt is my opinion that you are a scoundrel,” burst
forth Mr. Brooks, hotly. ‘Oh, my poor child! where
are you? What has happened to you? Dead, per-
haps—dead !” he repeated, in a voice of anguish.

“Not a bit of it,” said Sam, somewhat moved at the
evident distress of the old gentleman. ‘Mackay and
I discovered her, very well got up, in black hair and
a dark skin, playing seamstress in alittle shop. I
tried to bring her home, as I had a right to with my
own wife, but she got away from us. She’s as cute
as a weazel, that girlis. I admire her sharpness, I
moust say. She changed her quarters, and we have
not found her since.”

“Thank Heaven !’’

“What for, may I Ask ?’

“That she is your wife only inname. There has
been too much lying and treachery here for me to
think that all is fair about this marriage. There is
base trickery, I know; and I warn you to draw no
more of my daughter’s money. I shall see my law-
yer to-night aboutit. Look out, or you will render
yourself liable to legal penalties.”

“Perhaps you'd like to put your wife’s brother in
the penitentiary,” jeered Sam. ‘Look out yourself,
Mr. Brooks. ‘Curses come home to roost.’ You’d
better leave me alone. The marriage can’t be undone.
Remember, before you fly offin some plan to disgrace
me, that lam your son-in-law;” and he laughed in
the old man’s face.

“Don’t you draw another dollar of that money,”
repeated Mr. Brooks.

Just then some one burst into the room without
knocking, as if very familiar in the house. It was
Mackay.

“Hallo, Sam!” he cried, without perceiving Mr.
Brooks. ‘I’ve had a gay old time this afternoon.
Run her down at last! I never a

Here a warning gesture from Sam shut his mouth
and caused him to look about, and he added:

“T never saw such a yacht for fast sailing, but we
overhauled her to-day.”

“There was a good breeze,’ remarked Sam, care-
lessly.

“We had an exciting time,’ went onthe new ar-
rival. ‘I'll tell you more about it by and by.”

“Oh, very well. I’m not so wild about sailing as
you are.”

“Ts Miss Effie in ?”’

“T believe so; I will speak to her.”

Sam went out to find his sister.

Mr. Brooks regarded the visitor suspiciously; he
had noticed the sudden change of tone; but what
could he say or do here? Was not this the fellow
with whom his wife had gone riding? Certainly. He
moved to the door to go, resolved to at once visit his
friend and lawyer at his residence and ask his advice.
Before he touched the knob the door was opened by
some one else, and ashe stepped back it hid him
from view of the one who entered.

“Oh, Mack,” cried a gay voice, ‘‘you here? I’m de-
lighted. I’ve been awfully homesick and low-
spirited the last few days,” and Lillie rushed forward
and seized the detective’s hand, which she held be-
tween both of hers. “Old Brooks gets harder and
harder to live with. I hope he’ll have a stroke of
paralysis, or something, before long! I never feel
comfortable except when I’m here. All the people
who come to iiis house are as stiff as pokers! They
don’t know how to have fun. Vlispend the even-

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ing, if you'll stay, will you? Do say you will! You
and I get along so nicely together. Ill send out and
buy a pox ef those choice cigars. It’s a joke to spend
the old fool’s money on my beaus, isn’t it?” And
laughing at the good idea, she flung herself down on
the sofa, took off the becoming blue pee which she
had thrown over her yellow crimps and curls, and
east a joyous glance about the room. ;
Who was that standing, stern and frowning, by the
door? ;
She gave a little scream, followed by a hysterie
~ laugh.
“Brooks! How came you here? I did’nt know you
were fond enough of mato visit her! You mustn’tmind
my silly gabble; I was only in fun,” looking a little
~ frightened for once. \ ,
“T don’t mind it. Iam getting used toit. Whena
~ gentleman makes the mistake of marrying a girl like
you, all lesser mistakes are trifies. Pray, have a good
time in your own way. I shall not demur at paying
for the cigars of your male friends.”

There was something in his scorn that awed her, |
as he went away; he had never seemed so superior

to her own set asin that moment; she did not re-
cover her ease all the evening, nor take much interest
in the story Mackay had to tell them; she went home
early, in a subdued mood.

Mr. Brooks was not in the house, nor did he return
that night. Was he really going to leave her? The
model wife did not like the prospect.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

MAGGIE,
THE CHARITY CHILD.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
“Tattle Sunshine,” ‘“‘Daisy Burns,” ete., etc.

{“ MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD’? was commenced in No.

22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.[

ane

CHAPTER XVIII.
STRANGE MISAPPREHENSION.
“Mr. Farmer is not in, I believe,” said the English-
man, as he threw his gaze around the room.
“He is not, sir,” replied Hollister; ‘‘but he will be
in the course of a few minutes.”
‘In that case,” said the visitor, “I will wait for him.

Mr. Farmer is well, I suppose,” he continued, when

he had seated himself.

“Quite well, sir,” replied Hollister.

“Well, in order that [may not be thought imper-
tinentin asking whatever questions may suggest
themselves,” said Gilbert, “I will state at once he is
my brother. I have but just arrived in this country
from England, and as I have not seen him in four-
teen years, I naturally feel a little anxious concern-
ing him.

“Mr. Farmer mentioned you not ten minutes
since,” replied Hollister, with a look of undisguised
pleasure, ‘‘and I have heard him speak of you
often.”

‘“‘T am glad he has not forgotten me, at all events,”
said Gilbert, in-a half-petulant tone. “He has be-
come pretty well Americanized by this time, I sup-

ose?”
vf “Yes, sir,’ replied Hollister; ‘che talks, acts, and
looks like an American, and it would be hard to tell
him from a native born.”

“Then, without meaning any disparagement to
you, sir,” replied Gilbert, slightly knitting his brows,
“T am sorry to hearit. He must have found it hard
to have entirely forgotten his early prejudices.”

“He did, sir,” replied Hollister, who at first was
half inclined to take offense at the discourteous tone
in which his country was alluded to, but who, re-
membering that the man to whom he was talking
was fresh from home, and in a country where many
things must seem ouwlre to him, checked his displeas-
ure. “He has often told meit was long before he
eould entirely reconcile himself to some of our cus-
toms, but he conquered his dislikes eventually, and
managed to gain a position which any man might be
proud of, although it was only by severe fighting
that he succeeded.” *

“T suppose so,’ returned Gilbert, crustily; ‘of
course, he has sueceeded in gaining many of those
peculiar marks of distinction which are so highly
prized by Americans.”

“Yes, sir,’”’? replied Hollister; ‘che is a man of con-
siderable mark, and his countenance is not only fa-
miliar, but welcome in the most distinguished circles
of society.”

“Oh, that as a matter of course,” replied Gilbert,
in atone of sarcasm which surprised Hollister as
much as it displeased him. “I suppose his new fea-
tures have not altered him so much that I will not
know him?”

“T have known him for some years,” replied Hol-

lister, ‘and can see no alteration in him—not the |

slightest.” -

“He must look horrible when he’s trimmed!” re-
marked Gilbert, with a shudder, and then, after a
pause, he continued: “He must have quite an as-
aeons of pickled eyes, noses, lips, and ears, I sup-
pose?’

Hollister now began to think that his employer’s
brother must be slightly deranged, and pity took the
place of the displeasure which he was at one time in-
clined to feel. This supposition on his part was
strengthened when Gilbert remarked :

“T suppose you are too young to have gained many
honors. Neither of those eyes can be glass, and your
features are surely flesh and blood. Oscar used to
be a great snuff-taker, hut I suppose he can’t indulge
in the practice now without taking off his nose.”

“Mr. Farmer does not use snuff now,” replied Hol-
lister, willing to humor the supposed lunatic; “he
dropped the habit about three years ago, after a dis-
pute which hehad witha doctor concerning the delete-
rious properties of tobacco. Your brother was much
set in his own way of thinking, but after a hard tus-
sle the doctor succeeded in convincing him that he
had better let snuff alone, and he has never touched
any since.”

“The doctor convinced him, did he?” exclaimed Gil-
bert Farmer, with much asperity—for he imagined
that Hollister’s reference to a tussle could mean
nothing else than a fightin which his. brother had
been ‘deprived of his nose. ‘Allow me to observe,
young man, that you are treating a very serious sub-
ject with altogether too much levity. With you such
an exhibition of heartlessness may pass for pleas-
antry, but in me, sir, it excites only the liveliest dis-
gust and the most unmitigated contempt.”

Hollister now began to wish heartily that the mer-
chant would return, for he knew not what phase
Gilbert’s madness might assume next. He kept om
humoring the vagaries of the supposed lunatic, how-
ever, tillat length his ears were gladdened by the
a sound of the merchant’s footsteps in the

a

“There’s your brother, sir!” he said, in atone of}
gratulation.

“Well, [ean’t say that I am over-rejoiced at the
news,” responded Gilbert, in a crabbed tone, ‘for the
fact is, I was a turning over in my mind the pro-
priety of getting out of this State as quickly as pos-
sible, without waiting to see Oscar.”

The merchant entered before Hollister could reply,
and as no introduction took place, he stood looking
at his visitor for some time with an air of awkward
embarrassment. At length he ventured to say:

*Have you any business with me, sir?”

“Well,” replied Gilbert, staring the while upon the
merchant with much the same expression of coun-
tenance asmight have characterized him had he
been looking at some curious animal in a menagerie,
‘his voice has not altered any, if he has lost his nose,
and that, I take it, is somewhat singular.”

The merchant recognized his brother theinstant the
latter spoke, and, rushing forward with outstretched
arms, he exclaimed : ag ;

“By all that’s wonderful, it is Gilbert!” ;

“One moment, Oscar!” exclaimed Gilbert, putting
forth both hands to keep the merchant off. ‘Before
I greet you as one brother should greet another after
so long a separation, I must be permitted to ask
you one question—do you own a jar of pickled fea-
tures ?” i

A style of speech so strange under the cireum-
stances, and so totally unexpected, took the mer-
chant completely by surprise, and for a moment he
regarded his brother with a look of complete amaze-
ment. Perceiving no change inthe earnest expres-
sion of the latters features, however, he turned to-
ward his clerk as though to seek in his face an ex-
plation of the singular interrogatory. Hollister, how-
ever, merely met his gaze with a melancholy expres-
sion of countenance, and then, with a deep sigh,
turned away his head. ‘ ;

Suddenly the idea struck Oscar Farmer that his
brother might be temporarily deranged, and, advanc-
ing close to him, he scrutinized his face closely, but
observing nothing whatever to warrant his disagree-
able suspicion, he ventured to say at last: ‘

“In the name of all that’s ridiculous, brother Gil-
bert, what is the matter with you? What do you
mean by pickled features?” ;

“T méan,” emphatically returned Gilbert, at the
same time fixing upon his brother a look of unquali-
fied rebuke, “I mean eyes torn quivering from their
sockets, and noses, lips, ears, and pieces of flesh bit-
ten from the fa¢es of human beings, and preserved
in spirits, and used as mantel ornaments. I mean
those trophies of the ‘free fight’ so highly prized by
the chivalrous elite of Kentucky.”

“Some waggish Yankee reprobate has caught and
‘sold’ him,” said the merchant, smilingly addressing

Hollister, and then turning to his brother, he con-

{

(tinued: “Come, come, brother Gil, shake hands, and
then sit down and let us know exactly what you
mean.”

“Subterfuge is of no use, Oscar,” said Gilbert, still
stubbornly refusing his hand; ‘tyour clerk here has
already informed me, and in a matter-of-fact style,
too, which leaves no doubt as to the views which
generally obtain in this locality, that you have been
the recipient, after hard fighting, of many of those
marks of distinction to which I have alluded. I sup-
pose you will not deny having at one time taken part
in an argument during which your opponent con-
vinced you the use of snuff was injurious ?”

“Brother Gil,” said the merchant, now fairly out of
patience, “we have been separated for fourteen
years, and now don’t make me angry with you be-
fore we have conversed five minutes. You know I
never could bear mystification. I always wish a sub-
ject to be laid fairly before me, so that I can tell
exactly what [am about; and now [insist that you
sit down forthwith, tell mein detail what trouble
you have on your mind, and then I shall know ex-
actly what to say and how to act.”

There was an earnestness both in the words and
look of the merchant which had its instant effect
upon the mind of his deeply prejudiced brother, who,
seating himself at once narrated the full particulars
concerning the “free fight” on board the steamer,
and the horrible narration from the lips of the

 

which Mr. Oscar Farmer and his contidetial clerk
listened with as much gravity as they could com-
mand, and when the story was finished, they gave
way to an uncontrollable outburst of cachinnation,
and peal after peal of boisterous laughter fairly shook
the room.

“After you have sufficiently amused yourself at
my expense,” said Gilbert Farmer, who was not
without his suspicions that Josh Soper had indeed
been hoaxing him. “I suppose you will have the
kindness to explain the cause of your merriment.”

“Well, well, well, Gil,” said the merchant, when he
eould so far control himself as to be able te speak,
“T didn’tthink ydu could be quite so green. I was
verdant enough, and deeply prejudiced enough, in
all conscience, when I first arrived here, but it would
have been a long time ere I could have swallowed all
which you have taken in at a gulp. You haye much
to learn, Gil, before you will be fit to travel alone
here. Why, man, there was not one word of truth in
all that the Yankee told you, and let me advise you,
now, to adopt this maxim as an undeviating rule—
never believe more than one-eighth of what stran-
gers here may tell you, if what they say has the
slightest shadow of improbability aboutit. You will
find some queer individuals in this country, Gil. A
stranger, unless he is particularly shrewd, is con-
stantly subject to imposture of some kind. The com-
munity swarms with waggishly inclined individuals,
practical jokers and swindlers of every grade, who
are always studying, to use their own peculiar phrase-
ology, ‘how they may initiate a flat.’ Have your wits
about you in future, Gil, and look out for them.”

“And this is the character of the people concern-
ing whom you have so often written to me in such
glowing terms, is it?” sarcastically queried Gilbert,
who felt somewhat piqued at having allowed him-

witted buffoons, lying knaves, and unprincipled
swindlers! Well, I must say I can’t admire your
taste, brother Oscar !”

“Stop, there, Gilbert, and reflect a moment before
you go further!” exclaimed the merchant, with some
severity, “you are allowing your ill-temper to get

"ans as a people, Iam included in your abuse, for I
am now an American citizen. I came to this country
-amparatively poor, and I am now wealthy. At the
very: outset of my career here I found willing hands
and warm hearts to assist me, and I should be guilty
of the basest ingratitude were I to remain silent and
hear the friends who have aided me slandered, even
by my brother. If there is a plentiful supply of

across the Atlantic is both cheap and expeditious.
The eleemosynary and penal institutions of this
country show a very large percentage of foreigners,
Gil, and England furnishes her fullshare. It is nat-
ural that you should feel a little sore after having
been so easily humbugged by a ‘native,’ but that is
no reason why you should pour out the vials of your
wrath upon the whole country. Had you been less
deeply prejudiced the thing woutd never have hap-
pened, for you lack neither intelligence nor quick-
ness of apprehension. The fact is, you were willing
to believe any statement to the detriment of the
United States, however extravagant it mght be, and
so you did not stop to question yourself concerning
the probable truth or falsity of what you heard.
come, now, let us drop this matter just where it is,
and proceed to the discussion of some more pleasant
topic.
but especially should they be in harmony after a
lengthy separation. Tell, me, in the first place, what,

eountry ?”’

his brother’s observations, and although he
greatly inclined to prolong the controversy, his bet-
ter nature at length prevailed, and with as good a
grace as he could assume, he replied:

way to America to catch an heiress, eh? Rather an
up-hill business, that, and yet it is astonishing how
many there are following the same pursuit.”

“Teame only in a professional capacity, brother,”
returned Gilbert; “America is the last place I should
choose to seek a wife in.
heiress I am after will be brief if I find her. So brief
that [shall be on my way to England again in twenty-
four hours afterward.”

merchant.

“She is known in this country as Mrs. Hannah
Dockett,” replied Gilbert, ‘‘and I have been told that
she may be found in the vicinity of New York. At
least it is presumed she will inherit the property,
although it was bequeathed by will to her daughter,
who, report says, is dead. If what I have heard be
true, she does not deserve a fortune, for a more un-
amiable creature never drew breath. I learned acci-
dentally on board the steamer that among other acts
of brutality, she took charge of a little girl whom she
nearly killed by her eruelty, and afterward perse-
cuted bitterly for running away from her.”

If the brothers had been watching Charles Hollis-
ter, they would have perceived that he grew red and
white by turns,and trembled nervously as he lis-
tened to this portion of Gilbert Farmer’s discourse,
but they did not notice him,an@ as he remained
silent, they were ignorant of the fact that their con-
versation had produced any extraordinary effect
upon him.

“She must be a hard case, indeed,” responded the
merchant, but it is only another verification of the
proverb that the devil is good to his own sometimes.
But come, Gil, come with me to my hotel, and we’ll
make a day of it. I will introduce you to some few
Kentucky friends of mime, of beth sexes, who, I
think, will compare favorably with the better classes
in England er any other country. As for the ladies,
they are really bewitchimgly beautiful, and for the
life of me I ean’t tell whem I am looking at them what
has kept me a bachelor. By the way, Gil, yom are
still a bachelor, too—at least I judge so from your
silence with regard to matrimony. I suppose you
are ashamed to confess the fact, and I don’t wonder
atit. You ought to be ashamed of it, and so ought I.
Everybody ought to be ashamed of living single
when there is nothing in the way of their getting
married. Ihave just been lecturimg Charley here on
the subject, although he is a young man and has time
enough yet. But for you, Gil, the day of grace is
well-nigh past, and it behooves you to look around
sharp if you ever hope to redeem your character. If
you go five years longer without a wife you deserve
to be gibbeted. I deserve to be gibbeted now, and if
I could only be tried, condemned, and sentenced to
such punishment by a court of ladles, I would suffer
without a murmur. Come along, Gil, come and dine
with me, and this evening I will introduce youtoa
little dark-eyed Kentucky giri who will make your
heart ache. You won’t gouge his eye outif I present
him to Hattie Henderson, will you, Charley?) You
are not dangerously jealous, are you?’

“Oh, no, sir,” replied Hollister, with a smile, “‘you
have my free permission to introduce your brother
to all the ladies in Kentucky, if you feel so inclined.”

“Well, then, once more, come along, Gil, and, by
the way, Charley, what de you say to dining with
us?’

“T shall be very happy to do so, sir,” was the ready
reply.

Well, then, come along at once,” said the mer-
chant, leading the way toward the street.

The hour for dining found the trio seated at a sump-
tuous repast in a private room of the hotel at which
Mr. Farmer was stopping, and as the natural reserve

 

 

 

of the newly arrived Englishman wore off under the
genial influence of the society of his merry friends,
the conversation became general, and all traces of
the ill-feeling at first evinced by the stranger guest,
entirely disappeared.

During a lull in the conversation, which had been
kept up with great volubility by the loquacious mer-
chant, Hollister took oceasion to say to Mr. Gilbert
Farmer : :

“It is some years now since I saw New York last,
and as you propose visiting there shortly, I would
very much like to accompany youif Mr. Farmer can
spare me.” Andas he ceased to speak, he cast a look
of inquiry at the merchant. ;

“Why, your desire is a sudden one, Charley,” said
the latter, with some surprise. ‘I didn’t suppose
you would ever care about visiting New York again!”

“T have wished to do so for some time past, sir,”

replied Hollister, “bnt as you never seemed able to
spare me, I said nothing aboutit. Now, however, as
your brother is about going there, I should like to ac-
company him, if my absence can be at all dispensed
with. We will be company for each other, and, be-
sides, as I am pretty well acquainted in the city, I
may be of considerable use to him.”
“Well, well,” answered the old merchant, ‘I sup-
pose I can get along without you, for a little while,
and if brother Gilbert has no objection, I haye none.
What say you, Gil?”

 

 

Yankee, to whichhe had listened subsequently, to all |

the betterof your breeding. When youattack Ameri- |

swindlers and ruffians here, it is only because travel |

But |
Brothers should not disagree at any time, |
besides a desire to see me, brought you to this |

Gilbert Farmer could not help seeing the justice a i
felt |

“Well, Oscar, I came here to look after an heiress.” |
“Hat hat” laughed the merchant, you came all the |

My business with the |

“What is the name of the fortunate lady, and |
where do you propose looking tor her?’ asked the |

W YORK WEEKLY. 8

“So far from having any objections to offer,” re-
plied Gilbert, ‘I like the idea vastly, and shall be
much obliged to Mr. Hollister for his company.”

This matter having been satisfactorily settled, the
conversation turned upon general topics again, and,
after dinner was over, the brothers and Hollister
took a drive out, and spent a few hours in examining
the city and suburbs. In the evening, according to
the agreement made in the earlier part of the day,
they all paid a visit to the city residence of Mr. Sam-
uel Henderson, a planter of wealth and distinction,
who received them right cordially, and entertained
them in true Kentucky style.

“We are about to lose Charley, said the merchant,
addressing the planter’s daughter as that young lady
sat familiarly conversing with Hollister and Gilbert
Farmer, ‘‘and what will you do then for some one to
flirt with and to get vexed at?”

Harriet (or Hattie as she was familiarly termed),
Henderson was a beautifully formed young lady of
seventeen, with brilliant dark eyes, regular features,
and a very expressive countenance.

Taking into consideration the fact that she was the
only daughter of a very wealthy man, and that she
had been petted and humored from infancy, she was
avery amiable young lady, though, to say the truth,
somewhat vain and capricious.

Of course she had suitors in abundance, but none
ot them, however personally well favored or wealthy
they might be, found favor in her eyes. To Charles
Hollister, who was known to be poor, she gave most
of her company, and although he was not exactly re-
garded as a suitor, she took more freedom with him
than with any other of her gentlemen acquaintances.
He rode out with her, he turned the music for her
while she sang, he danced the most frequently with
her of any one, and yet, to all appearances, both she
and he were perfectly heart-whole. To tell the
truth, they were not very well suited to each other,
for while Charles was a clear-headed, sober-minded
youth, Hattie was somewhat giddy and frivolous.

“He has just been telling me,” she replied, “that
he proposed going to New York, and I have just
been finding fault with him for wishing to get rid of
my society. Idon’t see what right he has to think
of going away without tirst asking my permission. I
think he had better leave New York to take care of
itself.”

She said itlaughingly, and in a tone of apparent
unconcern, but could she have done so with perfect
propriety she would have said it with a pouting lip
and in a tone of great dissatisfaction.

“Well, I do not intend to stay long,” interposed
Hollister; “I shall be back in the course of a few
weeks at most, and if you are a good girl, Hattie, I
may bring with me a New York beau for you.”

“Thank you for nothing,” answered Hattie, with a
contemptuous curl of her full red lip, “‘when I wanta
beau I sha’n’t have to send to New York for one.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” responded Hellister, in

possession of some Adonis from abroad yet, although
you do pertinaciously withhold it from those nearer
home. Stranger things have happened.”

Hattie did not reply ; and Hollister, who couldread
her mind in her face with almost as much certainty
of pique lay behind her silence. To say the truth,
ably well; and, although no actual word of love had
ever passed between them, each cherished a more
than friendly feeling for the other, and each was
aware that the other understood it.

When the gentlemen arose to take their leave, Hol-
lister, approaching Hattie, said:

“Shall [ eall to see you before I take my departure
for New York, Miss Henderson ?”’

“Do as you please,” replied the young lady, appar-
ently with great unconcern. “Of course I have no
choice in the matter. You are perfectly free tocome
and go when you like.”

This was a response which left no room for a re-
| joinder, and five minutes afterward Hollister had se-
eured his horse from the stable where he kept him on
livery, and was on his way to the residence of Mr.
Henry Seymour, with whom he had lived from the
first day of acquaintance with that gentleman, while
Hattie Henderson was in her own room, weeping
tears of vexation as she disrobed herself preparatory
to retiring.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
, A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
Fayette county, Kentucky, as everybody who is
familiar with that locality must know, is the garden
ot the State.

 

exceedingly salubrious, and the temperature of so
| regular and mild a nature that winter can scarcely
| be said to have a home there. The residence of Mr.
Henry Seymour was beautifully situated in the cen-
ter of an exquisitely laid out plot of ground within a
short distance of Lexington. The house was nearly
hidden from the view of the traveler on the road by
| the lofty trees which surrounded it, but the magnifi-
cently arranged flower-beds which skirted the broad
serpentine gravel path leading to it, gave abundant
proof of the taste of the owner of the mansion. The
brilliant cardinal flower, with its scarlet hue; the
tulip-bearing magnolia, with its fragrant odor, and a
thousand other plants, rich both in coloring and per-
fume, charmed the senses of the passers-by, and
| made the placa a very Eden in beauty.

| While Charles Hollister, after taking leave of the
| Hendersons, was en bis way homeward as fast as his
-horsé could carry him, Mr. Seymour was in his li-
| brary busily engaged in drawing up a legal docu-
|}ment. The night had pretty well advanced before
he was apparently aware of the fact, for as the little
clock upon his mantel-piece told the hour of eleven,
he ceased from his labor, laid down his pen, and ex-
claimed :

“T declare, it is near midnight, and I am not through
yet. I fear E shall have to finish it at another time,
tor I feel my eyelids growing heavy and niy thoughts
retuse to flow freely. Old age is a sad reminder of
mortality! There was atime when I could hardly
be made to feel such a thing as fatigue, but I have
got bravely over it now.” He paused for a moment,
during which time he seemed in deep thought, and
then as sleep began to exert its power over him, he
muttered, as he nodded between his sentences: ‘*Poor
Charley! he is a good lad, and I dare say Andrew is
quite as happy t© knowit as I am. Have I tested
him sufficiently? I think I have, andI have Ralf a
mind to tell him at once who and what he is. There
isno false pride about him—no arrogance—mo sel-
fishness—no dishonor—no bad traits—no * and he
fell ¢ead asleep, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He had not remained more than five minutes Ina
somnolent state, when the door of his library was
cautiously opened, and a head slowly protruded
itself into the roem and looked cautiously about.
Then a body followed the head, amd the person of the
villainous Col. Morgan stood fully revealed.

Advancing noiselessly, close to the sleeping gen-
tleman, the scoundyvel took from his pocket a vial,
and carefully uncozking it, he satarated the end of
his handkerchief, held it for a short time under the
nostrils of Mr. Sexymour, and then re-corking the
vial, he replaced it in his pocket, and, after waiting
for # moment or two, he chuckled as he said:

‘For rendering a man perfectly safe without tap-
ping his jugular, there is nothing like chloroform.
Now let’s see what the old gentleman has been about.
May I never hold a full hand agaim!’ he continued,
as he ran his eye over the document upon which the
old gentleman had been at work, “if he isn’t drawing
up @ ‘last will and testament,” and I’ll bet large odds
he has been ungrateful enough toleave me out of the
list of fayored ones. Curse the lack. If she had only
acted as I wanted her to, I should have been allright.
However, there’s no use crying over spilled milk,
amd as all hope in that direction is gone, let me see if
I cannot find my way to the old gentleman’s ready
cash.”

He opened one of the drawers of Mr. Seymour's
secretary as he spoke, and took therefrom a bunch
ef keys. With these he approached a small iron box
which oceupied one corner of the room, opened it,
and began overhauling its contents.

The wind was blowing rather freshly without, and
30 great was the noise made by the rustling of the
elosely interlaced branches of the trees which sur-
rounded the house, that the rebber did not hear the
approach of an advancing horseman on the road, nor
was he aware, a moment later, that footsteps were
treading the gravel path leading to the house. So
intent was he on securing the treasure of which he
was in search, that he could hear nothing and could
think of nothing but the villianous work in which he
was engaged.

He had sueceeded in securing a large roll of bills,
and thrusting them into his pocket, and was about
to rise from his kneeling position, when he was sud-
denly seized forcibly from behind by Charles Hollis-
ter and thrown violently on his back upon the floor.

“Help! help!” exclaimed the youth, as he threw
himself upon the prostrate form of the robber, and
seized him firmly by the throat. ‘Mr. Seymour!
Awake! You are beset by robbers!”

Moved to desperation, the gambler, who was an
immensely powerful man, by a violent effort broke
the youth’s hold, and grasping him firmly around
the body he held him closely with a bear-like hug,
and hissed in his ear as he did so:

“Fool-hardy boy, your shoutingis useless, and you

may as well save your breath. There is not a living
creature around the house who will respond to your
-all for assistance, for all—men, women, children,
negroes and dogs—are as safely under the infiuence
of stupefaction as he who sits yonder. Allow me to
leave unmolested with what I have and you shall not
be harmed, but attempt to stop me, andI will cut
your throat as I would a dog.” : ;

“You may make a slight miscalculation,” exclaimed
Charles Hollister, ‘‘two can play at the game of vio-
lence; and in such a cause as this I would cheerfully
lose my life. Youshall not leave this place while I
have the power to detain you. Upon this I am de-
termined.”

“As you please!” growled the gambler, furiously,
“T would willingly have spared you, but you invite
your own destruction!”

And then commenced a terrible struggle for life or
death. The gambler, although not so active as
Charles Hollister, was by far the stronger man of
the two, and for some moments he held him in his

 

The soil is loose, deep-black mold, pro- |
ducing the most luxurious vegetation ; the climate is |

atone of raillery; ‘‘you may find your heart in the |

: -
herculean embrace with a force which well-nigh

cracked his ribs, and then suddenly changing his
tactics hethrew the youth violently from him, sprang
to his feet, drew his bowie-knife, and again rushed
to the attack. Hollister dextrously evaded a ter-
rible blow which the gambler aimed at his head with
the knife, and perceiving at once that he would have
no possible chance so long as the arms of his adver-
sary were free to strike, he again closed with him
before the latter could renew the attack, and catch-
ing a lock upon him, he, by throwing all his strength
into the effort, managed once more to bring the rob-
ber heavily to the floor, though not before he had re-
ceived a slight cut on the shoulder from the bowie-

knife, the vital fluid from which soon came trickling |

down his arms into his hand and upon his fingers.

Maddened at the sight of blood, and rendered des-
perate as the idea presented itself that he was not
only battling for his own life, but for the property,
and perhaps the life of his benefactor, Charles Hol-
lister threw his whole weight upon the sword-
arm of the gambler, wrenching and twisting it vio-
lently as he did so, and then seizing the hand which
held the knife in his mouth, he buried his teeth deep
into the flesh, and held on with the tenacity of a bull-
dog, till the gambler, with a ery of pain, relinquished
his hold.

Quick as lightning, Hollister clutched the formid-
able weapon and wielded it aloft. The gambler’s
neck was slightly twisted, and he lay in such a po-
sition that the carotid artery was exposed to the de-
scending blow. Another moment, and his head would
have been nearly severedfrom his body, but just then

Mr. Seymour, who had been fast regaining his con- |
sciousness, darted forward, and grasping the youth’s |

arm with both hands, exclaimed:

“Hold, Charles—hold, I command you!
not what you do!”

“Mercy to such a wretch is injustice to society,”
vociferated the infuriated youth, whose eyes glis-
tened fearfully as he still glared upon the prostrate
villain. ‘Let him die!’ and again he essayed to
strike his foe.

‘Tf you strike after what I have. said,’ exclaimed
Mr, Seymour, earnestly, ‘“‘you do so at the risk of in-
curring my displeasure forever, Charles. Let the
desperate scoundrel arise and depart unharmed.”

“You shall be obeyed, sir,” replied Hollister, as he

You know

allowed the gambler to regain his feet, ‘‘but I confess |

that I never listened to a command from you more
unwillingly.”

“Now sir,” ejaculated Mr. Seymour, looking wrath-
fully at the baffled robber, ‘‘leave this house while
you may. Should my household be aroused and you |
be recognized before you are clear of these walls, I |
will not be responsible for your safety. This is the
crowning act of all the injuries which you have
heaped upon me andmine. Letit be your last offense.

 

|

: ] | as he could read a book, was satisfied that a feeling |
self to be so easily duped—‘‘a community of halt- |
the two young people understood each other remark- |

| flee the country; my passage to America was en-

 

‘arising from the excited and distraught condition of

Go, and sin no more. Stay! Take the dross for which
you have periled your soul with you!’ And he picked
up from the floor the roll of bank-notes which the
robber had dropped in the struggle, and threw them
toward him.

“The smallest favors thankfully received,” face-
tiously exclaimed the hardened villain, as, with un-
blushing effrontery, he placed the money in his
pocket. ‘‘As for this young gentleman,” nodding
toward Charles, ‘I shall, perhaps, one day be even |
with him! Good-night!”’ And with a scowl of deep
malignity he left the apartment, and a moment after-
ward his footstep was heard on the path without.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

The belle 01 the Palace,

By LENA T. WEAVER.

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

CHAPTER XLVI.—(CONTINUED.)
“Thad vowed to myself, in the court-room,” Chester

| take.
| know.

VOL. 42—No. 30,

:

| willed it. I did not wish to know anything more of
| the place where I had suffered so much—where my
great trouble and despair had come to me. TI left no
address behind me, and when I quitted the shores of
England I was as much dead to all my friends and
kindred there as I should have been had TIT been
buried in the sleepy old church yard beside her.”

Chester paused, and Rosine, with tears in her eyes,
Jenito# against his shoulder, and stroked his thin

air.

“My poor father? how much you must have suf-
fered. How dreadful it all was. Surely no one could
blame you for what you did to Victorine Weldon, but
—but I wish you had not done it—I wish you had
not.”

“My dear Rosine, [have still alittle more to tell you.
For many long, long years I believed myself a mur-
derer. I heard over and over again the terrible curse
of that woman as she went down to her doom—the
still, murky night, with the faint smell of smoke in
the air, and the gray sky stooping down like a pall,
used to rise up before me, and for years Iwas a
haunted man. But never did I for a moment repent
of my sin—if sin it was. When I thought of it I was
always glad that the infamous girl had met a just
reward. I tried to feel repentance—I tried to say to
God in my prayers that I was sorry, but it was a lie,
and Inever uttered it. And now, my daughter, comes
the strangest part of my story. You may, perhaps,
have guessed that the Rupert Vail who has made us
so much trouble with the poor girl we have known
|as Mary White, is the same Rupert Vail who de-
) stroyed your mother !”

“Yes,” said Rosine, “I had guessed it.”

“T recognized him at once when I saw him last
winter in St. Paul. And he knew mein spite of the
change which years have made in me. And, Rosine,
if ever I meet him again face to face—be it in hall, or
ehurch, or forest solitude—one of us will die!”

“Father, remember that mother’s spirit told you to
dono murder. The God who has suffered him to go
on, Will surely punish him for all his wickedness.”

“T do not know, Rosine. Divine retribution is too
slow. Imay be wicked—I suppose I am—but I have
| little faith in it.”
| “Father, your grief has made you doubt. You do
|} not meanit. And you will yet come to believe fully
| in the God my mother trusted—in the God we should
all trust.”

‘‘Perhaps so,” said the old man, wearily; “but it is
all dark tome now. If I could only go and find Eva,
and never be separated from her again, I should be
content. But a few words more and my story is
done. Rosine, I thought Victcrine Weldon had died
by my hand, but since then—last winter even—I saw
her in the flesh, unless it be possible that there can
exist two women precisely alike in form, and face,
and feature. -— *

“You saw her! Where—when ?’ demanded Rosine,
eagerly.

“When we were at the carnivalin St. Paul. Do
you not remember, my dear, the beautiful woman
who screamed, and fainted almost, at sight of you?”

“Indeed Ido. It was so strange. And she called
me Eva. But, father, you must have made a mis-
It could not be this Victorine Weldon, you

It is impossible. I inquired her name, and
was told that she was Miss Lucia Ashleigh, one of
the noted belles of St. Paul, and the only daughter of
Mr. Ashleigh, the great banker. You have been de-
ceived by a strong resemblance.”

“Tam certain that I have not been deceived. This
woman is older and more beautiful than she was at
the time I tried to kill her; she has matured wonder-
fully, and yet she has kept her youth. But I would
stake my soul on the fact that Victorine Weldon and
the woman who was so overcome by the sight of
your face that night at the carnival are one and the
same. Rosine, you are as like your mother as ever a
daughter could be like a mother, and it was this won-
derful likeness to one whom she knew was dead that
overcame the woman you call Lucia Ashleigh.”

“T must still think you are mistaken. Why, only
see how impossible it is that what you faney can be
true. I heard a great deal about Miss Ashleigh and
her triumphs. And she has always lived in St. Paul,
and is only twenty-two or three years old, and this
Victorine, if she were living, would be—let me see—
she would be over thirty years of age, would she
not?”

oe ¥ GB:

 

!

Ss

 

But hers was a face that years would not
mark. And,improbable though it may seem, I tell
you, Rosine that Iam not mistaken; and time will
show thatIam not. AsIhave already told you, I

 

continued, “that if the law failed to avenge my wife’s
death, I would take the law into my own hands. And
I swore by all that I held sacred, the day these guilty

souls were allowed to go free, that twenty-four hours |
should not roll over their heads and find them alive |
to curse the earth! Rosine, I bought the pistol which |}
was to send its leaden messengers of death to those |
two guilty hearts; I loaded it with care; I found out
beyond the shadow of a mistake, just where I could
find Vail and his guilty companion that night at mid-

night, and having completed all preparations, I lay |
down for a brief interval of slumber before I should |
redden my hands in their blood. I had decided to

gaged, and I was booked under an assumed name.
Did I feel any dread of the terrible deed I proposed
te do? Not the slightest. I regarded it as my vhored
duty to avenge the death of my wife, and not for a
moment did I think of what I was going to do as a
erlme.

“T fellasleep, and Evacame tome. I say I wasasleep,
for I suppose I must have been, but it did not seem so
to me at the time. Everything was so real, and I saw
the sunlight streaming through the little window,
and the distant hills, flashed with its radiance just as
I had seen it all so many times before, when I was
happy, and she was alive to bless me. She came to
me, and took my hand in hers, so icy cold. The cold
thrill freze me through and through. Her beautiful |
dark eyes, full of alight that this world had never |
given them, looked at me pityingly, sadly, and her |
voice, sweet, but coming from the depths of immen- |
sity, spoke to me: j

‘Theodore, thou shalt do no murder! Vengeance |
is mine, amd I will repay, saith the Lord!’ |

“The words rang in my ears like the peal of a silver |
bell, and the form whichI thought to clasp in my
arms melted away from me like mist, and in the cold
gray of the morning light streaming in at the open
window, I found myself sitting im the chair where I
suppose I must have fallen asleep. I tried to shake |
off the speli that mysterious visiom had cast over me;
I tried to convince myself that it was only a dream

 

my brain, but the more I thought of it the more I felt |
that it was mo dream—that my dead wife had indeed
come to me to stay my hand and ¢oempel me to forego
the vengeamce I had promised myself.

“T fought a great battle with myself, but I could
not disregard the voice which had spoken to me out
of the grave. I came to. the ene resolve which
promised me any peace or content. I would put the
ocean between me and the murderers of my wife. If
I remained im England, and Vail crossed my track, as
he was liable to do at any hour m the day, his life
would not be worth a penny; I felt and knew that
no power, either from this world or from the other,
could hold back my hand.

“IT made my preparations silently and swiftly.
Mrs. Morse would gladly have had me remain with
them, for they were old, and lonely, and broken in
health and spirits; but no amount of persuasion
could induee me. If I obeyed Eva’s command—and
how dared I disobey it?—my own safety lay in plac-
ing myself beyond the reach of temptation. The
night before I started for Cornwall to claim you,
Rosine, I went out through the forest, and found my
way to the dismal old well where your mother had
met her death. It was a murky night; the moon was
clouded, and no stars were vistble.

“T sat down ona stone by the side of the dark
chasm, and brooded over my misery. As I sat there
I heard the rustling of garments across the short,
dry grass, and a moment later the tall form of a
woman came to the brink of the well and bent over.
My instinct told me that it was Victorine Weldon,
and all the fierce, strong passion of revenge, which I
had tried so hard to suppress, rose up within me, and
held me under controi. My blood leaped through my
veins like liquid fire, my heart beat like a trip-ham-
mer against my breast; I sprang to my feet and
grasped the girl in a grip of steel, and hissed through
my teeth:

***Vile and heartless murderess, I have you at last!
And the happiest hour of my life is this in which I
send you to perdition, and to the loathsome depths
where you sent my loved and gentle Eva!’

“The girl was no coward, she fought me like a man,
and I never thought, as I bent her back and forced
her over that awful brink, that she wasa woman, and
that I wastaking an unmanly advantage of her. Inch
by inch, she contested the ground, fighting for her life,
and I bear on my wrist to day, the scar where her
strong white teeth tore the flesh from the bone in
that fearful struggle. She never screamed or
called for help, as a weaker woman would have
done, but she struggled to the last, and whenI did
succeed in flinging her down, she cursed me witha
curse which, sometimes, even now, wakens me at
night, and brings the whole scene back with vivid
distinctness !

“Tt heard the splash as her body struck the green
and stagnant waters below—just so had they splashed
when the life of my life was cast down into them to
die—if, indeed, she was not already dead when they
flung her down. I gloated over the thought that just
as my poor Eva had perished, so had one of her de-
stroyers perished, and I stood over the dark hole and
peered down, hoping to ,hear a dying ery, but every-
thing was still as death. I waited an hour, it seemed
to me, but I heard no sound, and I said to myself she
was dead. Andsome day they would drag her out of
there, with the mud and mire on her garments, and
the water dripping from her hair, just as it had
dripped from Evya’s.

“T started early the next day for Cornwall, and
three days afterward, with you beside me, I was out
on the broad Atlantic on a steamer bound for Amer-
ica. I never knew if Victorine Weldon had been
found—I never knew whether she was living or dead.

have engaged a house in St. Paul. Inafew days we
shall go there to live. I have several objects in
view in making this change. f{ want you to have
society advantages, and I want to unravel this mys-
tery; for there is a mystery, and I shall never rest
until I have fathomed it. And now, my dear, you
know the whole sad story of your mother, and [nope
that you will not allow it to cloud your young life. I
have kept it from you because I would not have your
life’s morning darkened by anything I could avert;
but you have forced the secret from me, and [ have
been relieved by the telling. Your sympathy is
sweet, and hereafter, when you see your poor old
tather in the sulks, you will: know what it is that
troubles him, and you will understand how to com-
fort him.”

Rosine flung her arms around his neck and kissed
him, a species of comfort which ought surely to have
been satisfactory to any man.

CHAPTER XLYVII.
WHO RENTED THE FANSHANE HOUSE.

In spite of all the efforts put forth, no light was
sast over the,darkness and mystery of Florence May’s
strange death.

The more Edward Ashleigh pondered over it, the
more certain he became that the lovely girl had not
eome to her sudden end without foul play. But then
the question arose: Who could have harmed her? Soe
far as he knew—so far as any of her most intimate
friends knew—she had not an enemy in the world;
and the more the thought of the tragedy was re-
volved over in his mind, the fuller ef doubts he be-
vame.

The physicians were at fault—at least, if they had
any suspisions, they kept them to themselves. The
plea of heart disease, which has covered so many

| sudden and mysterious deaths, carried little weight

with Edward, since Florence's health, he knew, had
been perfect. :

What, then, had caused her death?

Over and over again—in the still watches of the
night, in the broad flush of noonday—he asked the
question, and his brain grew dizzy and his heart
grew sick.

Whenever he attempted to speak on the subject to
Lucia, from whom he surely felt that he had a right
to expect sympathy, she manifested little interest,
and invariably changed the conversation as soon as
possible.

The brother and sister sat, one evening, over the
fire in the blue drawing-room, Lucia toying with the
uncut pages of anew magazine, and Edward brood-
ing, as usual, over the question which never seemed
to leave him.

“Lucia,” he eried, suddenly, ‘what caused Flor-
ence’s death?”

She started from her seat and gazed at him wildly
for a moment, and then sank back again with an air
of annoyance.

“Why do you ask me? I have no means of even
guessing.”
~ “But you have your opinion? Of course you have.
And now that I think of it, I do not remember that I
have ever heard you express any decided opinion.”

“T do not know. Perhaps I never have expressed
any opinion. But TI have always supposed she died,
as the physicians said, of heart disease.”

“But she had never shown any symptoms of that
malady.”

“Maybe not. But that is no reason why she might
not die of it. Do you not know that our leading
physiologists tell us that by far the greater number
of people who die of this disease are those who have
never exhibited any signs of ill-heaith—who, indeed,
have never themselves suspected that there was
aught wrong with them?’

“T think I have heard so. But Florence was so
young! AndT loved her so! We should have had so
many happy years together. And now I haye missed
it all.”

“My dear Edward! Did you, then, indeed, love her
so very much?’ asked Lucia, wistfully. “Did you
eare for her so much that no other love could ever
console you? Can there not, sometime, be for you
another Florence ?”’

She had drawn near to him; her white, soft hand
rested on his; her eyes, dark, passionate, and dreamy,
were fixed on his face.

A thrill went through him at her touch, her look,
and he said, quickly:

“Tt is too early to speak of anything like that. It
seems to me now asif there could never be another
in my heart. And I have vowed never to listen to
the voice, or be happy in the smile of any woman,
until I have brought her murderer to justice !”

‘Her murderer!” cried Lucia. “Good heavens!
Do you then think she was murdered ?”

“What can I think? Something whispers it in my
ears wherever I go. Waking or sleeping, the thought
intrudes, and sometimes it seems asif I should go
mad with brooding over it.”

He rose and paced the floor hurriedly back and
forth, and Lucia, who had at first sunk back into her
ehair, rose and drew him down beside her on the
divan.

“Edward, restrain yourself! You are giving too
much thought to this. Try and put it away from
your mind. Florence is dead, and nothing can recall
her to life. You have others who love you, and you
grieve them inexpressibly. Do you not see how hard
it is for me to see you thus indifferent to everythin
and to everybody? And once you were so cheerfu
and so vivacious !”

“T know thatIam but an indifferent companion
for you, Lucia, dear; I know that I am dull and dis-
traught, but you have plentyjof friends and admirers
to make up for my loss. And itis passing strange to
me that you do not give your heart away to some of
them. You are the most beautiful woman in the
city; beautiful, fascinating, and loving, you should
make some home happy Vg

“You seem very anxious to be rid of me! I

“My dearest Lucia, itis because I love you so well

”

 

No word reached me from the old country. I had so

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that I want you to be happy with one who will be all

your own. Heaven knows this house would be a
desert without you!”

She clasped his hands in both of hers.

“You do care for me, then? You do, after all, prize
your sister’s love ?”’

“Lucia, how strangely you talk! One would think
you actually doubted me. Because I loved Florence,
because I grieve for her, is no reason that I have
ceased to value you, dear. Never think so for a mo-
ment. For there is nothing upon the earth to-day so
dear to me as you are!”

He drew her to his bosom, and kissed her forehead
and cheek, and wondered why she shivered and grew
cold in his arms, and when she lifted up her head
there were tears wetting her long lashes. But he
attributed it allto a woman’s strange make-up, and
did not comment on it.

“Tf Florence was murdered,” said Lucia, slowly,
‘what would you do with the guilty party, if you
could find him?”

“What would I do?’ asked the young man, the

-veins in his forehead swelling till they stood out like
knotted cords. “What would I do? I would kill him,
and think myself doing a sacred duty !”’

“Would not that be murder?”

“No. It would be simple justice. Do you think

“Please let us not talk about it, Edward. It is too
sad and terrible. Has St. Clair left the city ?”’

“No; business he did not expect will keep him here
some time longer. There is a noble fellow for you,
Lucia. Brave and handsome,and young enough not
to be gouty for some years yet. There is hardly a
man among my list of acquaintances whom I more
ardently admire than John St. Clair!”

“Not even excepting your particular friend from
Boston, Mr. Reade Courtney ?” asked Lucia, with a
slight touch of sarcasm in her fine voice.

“Well, Courtney is a gentleman. In that respect
heis perfect. And you know he is handsome.”

“And blue-bleoded. Yes. But in spite of it all he—
well, never mind. [I have promised to withdraw the
eharge.”

‘‘As you ought to,” said Edward, warmly. “There
Was some inistake. Courtney was as far above any-
thing of the kind as you are.”

“Was he?’ asked Lucia, and the peculiar intona-
tion of her voice made Edward look at herin sur-
prise.

“Of course he was. Lucia,itis useless to say so,
but I would have been very glad to have seen you
Reade Courtney’s wife.”

“Thank you. I never had
direction.”

“No, I believe you. But he has his fiancee here with
him: Have you seen her?’

“T have met them out driving.
high-bred face she has, and a way of carrying her
head which says plainly to every looker-on, ‘I am
well-born. I am from Boston.’ ”

“Now, Lucia, you are too severe. Miss Otisisa
very beautiful and gracious woman, and Courtney
ought to feel proud of her. And I dare say he does.
And the mother is handsome and stately enough to
have stepped from one of the canvases of the old
masters, back into life and the world once more. I
have never seen so graceful and§cultured a woman
as Mrs, Courtney.”

“No doubt she would be pleased to have found so
warm anadmirer. When do these most worthy and
exalted people return home ?”’

”

any aspirations in that

A haughty, pale, !

and fetch him. It’s dull music talking to one’s self.”

The old woman ate her supper, and cleared up the
debris. The shades of night had fallen, and aeross
the river the lamps were lighted in the houses. Old
Kate lighted hers, and, after hesitating for a mo-
ment, she placed it on the window-ledge.

“Tt’s not likely that he’s anywheres round about,”
she said to herself; “but still there’s never any
knowing when and where he may turnup. I'll put
the lamp as I used to, and if it should chance that
he’s in the vicinity he’ll know I'm here.”

Kate sat down over the smoldering fire, and rest-
place, dozed uneasily, and started and muttered in
her sleep. The fire went out, the room grew chilly,
of twelve.

And simultaneously a muffled rap sounded on the
door of the room. A peculiar rap—first two slight
strokes, then a third louder, and then one faint, like
the two first. Kate sprang to her feet, aud drew back
the bolt.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]
intpitaciese tein EE

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

A Wall Street Haul.

By the Author of *‘The Old Detective's Pupil.”

(“A WALL STREET HAUL” was commenced in No. 19.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXYVIII.—(CONTINUED.)

“T ought to ask of you,” said Wilshaw, ‘‘a promise
not to reveal what I am about to disclose to you; but
do not interrupt me; I know that you are a gentle-
man, and I will trust to your honor.”

But I do not seek your confidence, monsieur.”

“Tt does not matter. You have spoken of love to
mademoiselle—I ought rather to say madame.”

“How? What madame rt

“Madame Wilshaw.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! Then you are—”

“The young lady’s husband.”

“But she,” cried Nick, with an air of bewilderment:
“she is with monsieur the baron, and he—oh, mon-
sieur, this would be a sorry jest to play upon me.”’

“It is no jest, but the truth. I am her husband.
Her father does not know it—nobody but you.”

Nick smote his forehead with his hand, and assumed
an attitude of despair, as he cried out:

“Alas for me! Farewell! But hold! Monsieur,
you have acted like an honerable gentleman, and I
thank you. For your wife,’ he gulped, in a woe-

 

“Tdo not know. Mrs. Courtney is pleased with
Minnesota, and fancies the air agrees with her lungs, |
which are supposed to be weak.
delighted with everything. They may not ¢
for two or three months.”

“And they are, where?’ |

“At the Hotel Ryan. And St. Clair is there also. |
They have got acquainted, and are making one party
to visit all the places of interest hereabouts.” |
“Very nice for all concerned,” said Lucia, with the |

t
|

back |

air of one that felt that she must say something.

‘Very.
house is let. We shall have some new neighbors very
soon.”

“Let? To whom, pray ?”’ |

“Well, you will be surprised. Do you not remem- |
ber, at the carnival, being so startled by the resein-
blance of a young girl you saw there to an old school |
friend of yours? Youknow you faintedaway, or next |
thing to it, because your triend was dead, and this |
girl was so like her ?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Lucia, drawing her breath
in hard. ‘What of it?”

“She will live in the Fanshane house, Lucia. I
dare say you will be great friends. It is sonear us.
Her father has rented the house.” j

“Her father? And whois her father, may I ask?”

“Her father is an eccentric recluse. And his name
is Theodore Chester.”

Lucia put her hand to her heart to still its wild
beatings. It almost seemed to herthat Edward must
hear, and wonder at its fierce throbbings.”

“Theodore Chester !” she said, slowly.
he come here ?”’

“To give his daughter advantages that she cannot
have in the wilderness, I believe. He is a strange
man, and at one time in his life he has met witha
great sorrow, so I am told.”

Lucia rese and held out her hand to her brother.

“JT will bid you good-night, Edward, I am going up
stairs. And I hope the dreams of to-night will be
fair and pleasant.”

He held open the door for her to pass through, and
he thought to himself, as she swept away with the
air of a queen, that in all the city there was not an-
other so graceful and so fair.

And she, the false, beautiful woman, climbing the
velvet carpeted stairs, with the shimmer of silken
robes around her, and the sparkle of diamonds on her
fair bosom, she said to herself, as the cold chill of a
dreadful apprehension fastened on her heart:

“What sends Theodore Chester to St. Paul?’

And that reminds me that the Fanshane |

“Why does |

CHAPTER XLVIII.
FOILED.
The search for Rupert Vail seemed destined to be

And Miss Otis is |

| Stairway.

 

fruitless. The arch villain had so long evaded jus- {
tice that he had become a proficient at dodging, and
the authorities were at their wits’ end.

Mr. Smith, who had at one time felt almost sure !
that he was almost as good as captured, had profes- |
sional pride enough to determine within himself that
he would never give up the quest, and every clew |
which offered, however slight it might be, was}
promptly followed. And the result was nothing.

It was believed by the police that the villain had |
left the city by some one of the river craft, and that |
he would not be heard from again; but Mr. Smith did |
not coincide in their opinion. For reasons best
known to himself, he believed that Vail was not far |
from St. Paul. But where? That was the question |
which puzzled him.

Meanwhile, old Kate Flynn had been brought be- |
fore a justice, and the number and variety of her |
erimes had been detailed, and the witnesses called; |
but when the whole thing was sifted, there seemed |
to be nothing sufficient to hold her. And the woman |

vas such a finished liar, that in no way could she be |
made to criminate herself, and the justice was |
obliged to discharge her for lack of evidence against |
her. Theentire police force believed her guilty of |
being in league with Vail, but there was no witness |
to prove the fact, and the old woman was set free.

Three hours later she was snugly ensconced in one
of her old dens, close by the river side, in one of the
most disreputable parts of the city. It was an old
tumble-down tenement-house, where the poor and |
the vile congregated, and where many a deed of blood
and violence had cried in vain to the heavens above
for punishment. The wretched hordes which clus-
tered there. were one common brotherhood, preying
upon the better classes of society, and they kept each
other’s secrets. And this place had been in’ years
past one of the haunts of Vail and his gang of despe-
radoes.

Old Kate got therusty key of herroom from a woman
down stairs who had kept it for her, and climbed the
rickety staircase to the corner room, next the river,
on the second floor. A squalid room it was, with cob-
webs across the windows, and dust lying thickly on
the few articles of furniture.

It was almost a year now, since. a certain dark
transaction having been traced to this house, made
old Kate deem it best to close her rooms and seek
another quarter of the city. The affair in question,
which has no connection with our story, had blown
over, and there was little danger of its being looked
into further.

Kate opened a dusty shutter and let in the after-
noon sun. The river swept along under the window,
rolling sullenly around the rotting piers of an old
wharf which reached out into the water, and here
and there a boat crept along, loaded with lumber or
merchandise.

Across thé river the spires of West St. Paul glit-
tered in the sunlight.

Old Kate looked out, with her bleared eyes shaded
by her hand, and something like a smile quivered on
her lean, brown face.

“Tt looks like home,” she said to herself. ‘’Pears

 

like old times. ’Twas here I fust met the old man.
’T was here, by this window, looking out acrost to the

hills yonder, that he told me I was as bonny a lass as |

he should wish to see. He! he!” she laughed atthe
memory. ‘That was a rare lie, and I knew it. T nevy-
er was noted for my beauty, and a woman as has
lived my life, when she gets going toward sixty, must
be bonny—ha! ha! ha! Well, the old man was like
the rest of the world; he was after the loaves and
fishes. He knew [had money in the old stocking,
and he knew that no matter how old a woman gets
to be, she is never too old to think she’s a beauty
foe the right man tells her so. And I did believe
™m,
drinked it up; and then the deliriums got hold of
him. But he was a rare one! I always said it—I
stick to it!”
She kindled a little fire in the rusty stove, and went
_ out to the corner and purchased a slight supply of

roceries.

“Now, if I only had the cat, I should be fairly set
- up in housekeeping,” she said, looking around on her
_ menage with a certain sort of pride. “Poor Turk! he
was as good company as a human being, and a good

|  dealsafer. And I will have him again. As soon as

a things simmer down a little, I shall go to the woods

And he got the money—blast him!—and he |

 

begone manner, ‘she has been too good to me not to
have punished my folly more severely. Give her my
sincerest homage. Farewell!”

“Oh, but you shall not leave me in such a mood.
Come—we owe you my wife’s life, and believe me, you
will ever be the most welcome friend to both of us.
3e my friend.”

Nick shook his head sorrowfully, but in his heart
he was saying:

“By my soul, if his lovefor Grace has not made him
actually open his heart to me. If he but knew me.”

“Ab, but you must,” insisted Wilshaw, heartily, as

| he locked arms with Nick and went down the broad

“Certainly [ cannot, with the debt I owe
you let you leave me without a promise to call on me
to morrow.”

“How can I appear before—before her again after
my folly ?”

“You have been guilty of no folly.’’

“T cannot trust myself. If I live, I must love her.’

“You will be her friend and mine. I will trust you.
Think that she is my wife, and you will learn to feel
differently toward her. Come, my friend, try my
plan for a month. If it does not work, then I will
say nothing to anything you may choose to do.”

Only his perfect self control enabled Nick to pre-
vent the exultation he felt from showing in his face.

Here was Wilshaw giving him the freedom of his
own and Grace’s apartments—for to be a friend
meant to go and come as he chose.

“T know myself better than you, monsieur, and if I

| accept your proposition, I shall haunt you and your

wife for the next month.”

“That's right,’ cried Wilshaw, cordially. ‘Come
when you will, and as often as you will. Now eon-
fess,” he went on, laughingly, ‘‘that you are dying to

know why I am not furious because my wife is with |

the fascinating baron.”
“Parbleu /” exclained Nick, seeing in an_ instant
that Wilshaw was anxious to know how much he had

discovered; “when you know what has happened to |
py

me you will be certain enough that I am, to say the

least, curious.”

“Ah! And what happened to you?” -
The tone was light and jocular, but there was an
uneasy gleam in Wilshaw’s eye that betrayed his

Nick weighed the matter in his mind, and decided
that the whole truth of what he had done would be
best, since the baron might learn from the two men

anxiety.
|
|

that he had listened, and Grace would be sure to dis- |

cover all the baron knew.

Accordingly he told Wilshaw how, ina fit of jeal- |
ousy, he had followed Grace, and then narrated the |
singularencounter with the two strange guardians of |

the jewel chamber.

From the manner of Wilshaw’s listening it was |

evident that he had had no knowledge of the cham-
ber or its guardians.

When Nick had concluded he said:

“And you really saw Grace taking up handfuls ‘of
diamonds ?’

“Upon my honorI did. She will say as much when

| she tells you.”

“And you heard her say ?””

“*With a used diamond’ or ‘a worn diamond,’ I
forget which, ‘and a marked hand;’ and then I felt
the swords.”

“You overheard nothing more—— ?’

“Not a word.”

“T am sorry,” said Wilshaw, looking relieved, how-
ever, “for I have hardly patience to wait until my
wife shall tell me all.”

“You are more fortunate than I, forI suppose my
euriosity must go ungratified,”

“Not atall. We have trusted you with our greatest
secret, and will have no hesitation in confiding this
lesser one to you.”

“T am ashamed of my curiosity. Do not tell me.”

“But I would like to, as it will explain my wife’s
singular conduct toward the baron.”

“Tell me, then.”

Nick waited with curiosity to hear what sort of

plausible tale Wilshaw would be able to invent on the |

spur of the moment.

“Few families in America,” began Wilshaw, with
an air of trying to recall facts, ‘“‘can trace themselves
farther back than fifty years. They generally pre-
tend to glory in their lack of ancestry; but, in fact,
when afamily can go back a century or more, their
pride in the fact is very great.”

So I have heard.”

“My wife’s family can go back in a direet line for
four hundred years.”

“That is good, even for this country,” said Nick,

gravely, “though I can go back nearly a thousand

years.”
“But in my wife’s family there has always been

preserved a diamond of rare value, which was given |

to Sir Richard Eldredge by King Henry VIII., and
has always gone into the keeping of the eldest child,
and has been cherished as a sort of proof of family
antiquity. Indeed, I may say, it has been guarded
like a sacred relic.”

“T can understand that,” and Nick nodded his head
emphatically.

“Well, two years ago nearly, my wife’s father had
the stone stolen from him by burglars. He was al-
most distracted. Grace and I were engaged to be
married at the time, but such was the father’s frame
of mind that he would hear of neither engagement
nor marriage after his loss, declaring that nothing
should be done until the stone was recovered.”

“He was unreasonable.”

“Yes; we thought so, too, and we were clandes-
tinely married. That was a wrong thing, I know, but
it was done hastily, though I can’t say that either of
us have regretted it.”

“T should think not.”

“Since then we have done everything to recover
the stone, for with it we knew we would dare to go
to Mr. Eldredge and confess to him what we had
done.”

“Good! I see.”

“We employed a detective—the most astute in
the world he was called—and a few weeks ago he
brought us word that he had discovered, in some
way—he would not tell us how——”

“These detectives are terrible fellows,” interjected
Nick.

“Very,” said Wilshaw, dryly. ‘Well, he discovered
that the diamond had been sold to this Baron D’Or-
ment.”

“Ah! I see.”

“Ts it not clear now?’ demanded Wilshaw. ‘She
lets him make love to her in order to persuade him
to sell her the diamond when she is sure he has it.”

“He will not sellit. Suchaman will give it. He
is madly in love with your wife.”

-Wilshaw shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and
said:

“Then he may give it. Once we have it we will
send him its price, and he may throw the money
away if he wish. Ah! here is the banquet-hall.”

“T will not enter. I cannot remain after what has
happened. —

“T will not urge it of course.”

“No,” thought Nick; ‘‘you are glad I cannot stay,

ing her head against the woodwork around the fire- |

the clock on a distant church tower struck the hour |

' and as I can see no possibility of it myself, I will go,

| and endeavor to fathom this mystery in some other
way.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.
“INHUMAN FIENDS!”
|. Leaving Wilshaw at the door of the banqueting sa-
| loon, Nick walked toward the cloak reom to get his
| hat and cloak.
| Not far from it, standing under an arched way,
| were two men, engaged in earnest conversation.

Both were upper servants, apparently; the clder
of them Nick remembered, as he Jooked more closely,
| was the major domo or general manager.

Without any definite object, but on the principle
| of always gathering in any stray bit of knewledge in
| interesting places, he walked slowly, and with a pre-
| occupied air past them, listening intently as he did
so.

“But, Philippe,” the elder was saying, in a tone of
remonstrance. ‘You have not tried it one day yet.”

“T have tried it long enough.”

“Then, if you do not care on your Own account,
think of me. Imay lose my place if you go off so
i unceremoniously after I recommended you so
strongly.”

“Tf you like it here I should be sorry for you; but
for me, I am not a dog that will submit to be kicked
one moment inthe hope of haying a. bone thrown to
me the next.”

“He did not know it was you. Remember you
have not been presented as his valet yet. I told him
you were here and would wait on him to-night.”

“T am sorry,” snid the young man, obstinately,
“but I will not remain here. I go now.”

“You are an ungrateful young fool. The next time
I recommend a nan [ do not know I will deserve to
be taken in. Go then and have the satisfaction of
knowing that I have lost a good place through you.”

“Tain sorry.” repeated the obstinate young man,
walking away.

“Fortune favors me,” muttered Nick, as he has-
tened into the cloak room and hurriedly threw his
things on.

He rapidly traversed the vast halls, and before
many minutes was waiting near the servants’ en-
trance to the palace.

Presently Philippe came out and hurried up the
street.

Nick followed, caught up to him, and accosted him.

A conversation followed, and then the two walked
off together.

About an hour later Philippe presented himself at
the servants’ entrance of the baron’s palace and was
adinitted.

He at once sought the major-domo, and taking that
offended dignitary aside, said to him:

“Monsieur Bailie, I have been thinking. I
wrong. For myself, I would be glad to avoid this
service, but when [remember that I soughtit, and
caused you to commit yourself for me, I feel that I
et for your sake, to stay. I hope you are satis-
tied.’

Satisfied indeed! Monsieur Bailie could have
hugged his master’s new valet; for however others
might feel, he had no desire to leave an employ-
ment where he could not help growing rich.

“Good, Philippe! good!” he cried; “I will return
this kindness some day. Monsieur the baron has not
| asked for you. He is so overcome with having a lady
| here—though she is but a plain American—that he
keeps ordering new wines to be brought.”

“Then he will be royally drunk, and I shall have
a nice job.”

“Not he; he can drink a hogshead.”

“I would like to see this young American again.
It seemed to me I never saw her like for beauty. Is
there any way to see without being caught ?’

“Is there? Come and I will post yon in a good
position.”

Philippe was nothing loth, and from a safe place
was soon watching the banqueters with curious gaze,

They were divided into pairs, Wilshaw absorbing
the attention of the aunt, and wickedly trying to per-
suade her to sip of the various wines, and the baron
ogling and leering at Grace, who bore herself with
the same easy indifference and careless gayety that
always characterized her.

They had evidently exhausted their powers of eat-

ing, and now, as the worthy Monsieur Bailie had
said, the baron was drawing on his stock of wines.
y His vulgar, pretentious air and coarse manners con-
trasted oddly with the gorgeous surroundings, but re-
fined, fastidious Grace seemed quite unconscious of
any incongruity.

Philippe noticed that the baron’s manner toward
her was a singular mixture of deference and famil-
‘jarity; and Philippe, who fer certain easily under-
| stood reasons took a great interest fn them, was led
; to make the following reflection: 5
| “Shé must have made some sort of bargain with
| the bafon already,” i
| And Philippe, who was indeed Guy well-discuised
| Nick, burned to know what that /bargain was, and
| how soon it was to be consummated. —
| “Between Raoul D’Entraigues, the friend, and
| Philippe, the valet,” he muttered, ‘it will go hard,
| but I will soon bring this business to a head. Hello!
| what now!”
| The exclamation was caused by the entrance of a
| lackey bearing a note for Wilshaw.

The latter asked permission to read it, and then
opened it.
| Nick watched him closely, but not so closely that
| he did not notice that Grace was also studying his

”

vas

 

upon his.

The man shivered.

Sarried away by the mad wave of longing that
swept over his soul, he crushed the dainty, dimpled
thing in his two huge hands, and, reckless of who
saw, pressed kiss after kiss upon the round wrist.

Grace laughed as she prettily struggled to free her-
self, but through it all cast a swift look of agony at
Wilshaw. .

Wilshaw answered the glance with one of encour-
agement, and then turned and plied her aunt with
questions.

But Nick could see that even the steeled scoundrel
bit his lip, and darted a look of hatred and menace
at the poor wretch whose offense was of his making.

“Ts it not time, Aunt Laura,” asked Grace, a few
moments later, ‘for us to be going home ?”

“Not yet,” pleaded the baron.

“Oh, it is after midnight!” said Grace, with a. sweet
smile at him.

He tried to move her, but she was firm;
shaw and Mrs. Wilson rose to get ready.

“At least,” cried the baron, ‘‘you will not forget
your promise to let me drive you to Fontainebleau
to-morrow morning.”

“No, I will go, and I promise for my aunt and Mon-
sieur Wilshaw.”

The baron looked at them as if he would have been
better pleased if the promise for them had not been
given; but he said nothing, for, in spite of her
laughing air of carelessness, Grace held him in awe.

He turned to a lackey, and roared:

“Darkey! What do you gape at? Did you not
hear the lady say she waited for her wraps ?”

The man jumped as if a physical as well as moral
kick had been administered, and hastened away

‘Bring them, bring all the things to the drawing-
room,” roared the baron. :

This was the moment Nick had been waiting for.

He slipped from his hiding-place and ran to the
cloak-room.

“Parbleu, my lad,’ he exclaimed to the lackey,
“but monsieur the baronis angry! Here, take thou
the ladies’ wraps and hasten; I will carry the gen-
tleman’s coat and hat.”

The lackey growled under his breath, but did as
he was bidden, while Nick followed with Wilshaw’s
things. .

The baron stared a moment at his new valet, but,
as Nick had counted on, was too much engaged in
the delightful occupation of aiding Grace to give the
Strange servant more than a passing thought.

Nick, with the sedate celerity of a trained valet,
helped Wilshaw on with his overcoat, and even car-
ried his attention so far as to button up the garment,
AESronHy not seeing that he endeavored to stop

im.

Then, with a bow, Nick glided away in true valet
style. A style which seemed to say, “I am a servant,
it is true, but not a liveried one!”

Seeking a quiet spot Nick rapidly drew from his
sleeve an envelope, and took out of it a letter.

“Ah!” he muttered, ‘father was right when he said
a good detective must know all trades, particularly
dishonest ones; and I thank him for making me an
expert pickpocket.”

He unfolded the letter and read it quickly.
in English.

“Successful!
Found them.

and Wil-

It was

The three left eld place for new one.
They are watched by a disguised man.
[know him. Nodanger in L. now. Bob has disap-
peared. Jake watches the three and the man. Dan-
ger in Paris. The man who fell overboard was not
drowned, Aim dead beat. Will sleep at old room to-
pees see youin the morning. Suspect every-

ody.

The meaning was clear enough, but Nick could al-
most have laughed aloud.

What did he care how much they had discovered so
that his dear wife was safe ? s

“In my next case,” he said to himself, with a smile,
“T will take very good care that Ethel takes the stay
at home part. Poor Randone! if he knew he had
been detected he would pluck his hair out in despair.
And that is not all. The clever rascal, Hossick, puts
this and that together, and comes to the conclusion
that since the captain is in the game now, he must
have been before, and was probably instrumental in
saving me. Ah, but I enjoy such a game of wits!”

And he really rubbed his hands with pleasure at
the thought of being pitted against foes so hard to
overcome.

He had replaced the letter in the envelope, and as
soon as he heard the party leave the drawing-room
he ran in and dropped the letter where Wilshaw had
stood, and then hastened out and waited.

The event proved his wisdom. :

In a few minutes Wilshaw came hurrying back and
swept the drawing room with a keen glaneée.

An “ah!” of relief and satisfaction escaped him as
his eye fell on the envelope and he sprang forward
and secured it.

(TO BE, CONTINUED.)
Laie eee
NAPOLEON’S HABITS.

In camp, and during his early campaigns, Napo-
leon feared no fatigue, braved the worst weather,
slept under a wretched tent, and seemed to forget all
sare of his person. In his palace he bathed almost
every day, rubbed his whole body over with eau de
cologne, and sometimes changed his linen several

 

face.

It was aface that could keepits owner’s secrets
well, however, and all that could be seen on it was |
a sudden hardening of the lines of the mouth. |

He read the note slowly asecond time, and then |

glancing up, caught Grace’s eye, and gave her a}

quick sign imperceptible to any but Nick.

She answered it by a slight nod and a look of atten-
tion.

Then he made a few rapid, seemingly idle, mo-
tions with one hand, and when he had finished she
did the same.

As Nick watched them, cold beads of perspiration
stood on his forehead, and a look of agony distorted
his face.

“Piends!

$99

Inhuman fiends!” he groaned.
CHAPTER XL.
NICK RUBS HIS HANDS,
Wilshaw and Grace had held a conversation in the
swift, silent language of mutes. F
Nick, an adept in that wonderful sign-language,
had at once grasped in full the terrible significance

| even a night-lamp.

 

of the communication made by Wilshaw.

“From London. He has done it. Sate there. Danger |
here. Can you do it to-night?’

“No.
answer.

“He has done it.” The thought flashed to Nick’s
heart and seared it like a flame.

What was the one thing Hossick would do to insure
safety?

Kill his wife!

And with her Mattie!

But—oh, the horror of it!—would he not know now
that Ethel was cognizant of all, and would he not
kill her too?

For a moment his head whirled and he lost his
presence. of mind.

He collected himself by a terrible effort, and en-
deavored to give the situation calm consideration.

Why imagine the worst?) Why not wait and learn
what really had been done?

But how learn that?

He could telegraph to Captain Randone. Yes, but
at that hour of the night, even supposing the brave
Frenchman had not shared the possible fate of the
three women, it would take long to obtain an
answer.

Besides, he would be obliged to lose sight of Wil-
shaw, and, under the circumstances, he could not do
that, even for the little time necessary to go to the
telegraph office.

Was there no other way to obtain the desired in-
formation ?

Yes, by reading the note in Wilshaw’s pocket.

How could he get that ?

There were two ways—by force and by cunning.

Force would be the easier, and in his then mood
the more congenial plan to Nick, for he longed to
take the cold-blooded scoundrel by the throat and
choke out his life.

Butit would not do; he must not betray himself
yet. He must resort to cunning, and ‘that, with a
man like ‘Wilshaw, would be difficult, particularly
difficult for Nick, in his present frame of mind.

He would get the note, then, before Wilshaw left
the palace; or, failing in that, would dog him until
he did see his chance to obtain it.

The party seemed inno hurry to leave, and Nick

vas given time to calm himself.

He watched Grace and the baron closely, but al-
most mechanically.

He saw the bewitching creature employ the most
seductive wiles to fascinate and enthrall the rough
brute who was already nearly crazed with the pas-
sion that devoured him.

He saw him lean over the beautiful siren until his
breath must have fanned her peach-like cheek.

He saw her quickly overcome repugnance, and
then redoubled winsomeness.

He saw him whisper eagerly, saw her laughingly
answer.

He was beseeching, she was putting him off with
mirthfulness and jests.

Nick forgot his liking and admiration for her good
qualities and loathed her.

She was sinking every pure and womanly attribute
to draw on this besotted brute, and so whet his de-
sire that to make her his wife he would yield up his
wealth.

Nick knew that was why she was putting forth her
wonderful powers of fascination.

And then, when the fool’s money was obtained,
she would laugh at him with her husband.

But the baron was sincere enough. His adoration
of her was of a day’s growth, but it had become the

overmastering influence of his existence.

He grew passionately urgent and his voice became
husky and pleading. :

But Grace only laughed softly, and, as if by acci-

 

 

Will have to wait until morning,” was Grace’s |
| years’ submersion, are in the most perfect state of
| preservaton. LO | 3
| the logwood state thatit is even better for dyeing

times in the day. When traveling, he did not care

| what sort of lodging he had, provided that no ray of

light could get into his bedroom; he could not bear
His table was supplied with the
daintiest dishes, but he never touched them. His
favorite fare was grilled breast of mutton, or a roast
fowl, with lentils and haricot beans. He was very
particular about the quality of bread, and he drank
none but the best wine, and very little of it. Hetook
a small cup of coffee after his breakfast, and the same
after his dinner. He ate very fast, and rose the mo-
ment he had done, without troubling himself as to
whether those admitted to his table had had time to
dine. He spoke in a loud voice, and when in a merry
mood his peals of laughter could be heard from afar.
He was fond of singing, although he had a bad voice,
and never could sing an air in tune.

$<
SEA-WATER AS A PRESERVATIVE.

The capability of sea-water as a preservative is
shown by the fact that among the articles recovered
from vessels sunkin the harbor of Vigo, Spain, in
1702, there have been recovered specimens of log-
wood and mahogany that, notwithstanding their 184

Dyers who have experimented with

purposes than the wood now imported. The mahog-
any, too, is very fme and solid, one log twelve feet
long and twenty-two by thirty-two inches square
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copper wheels are but slightly oxidized.

 

 

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GROWING OLD.

Softly, oh, softly the years have swept by thee,
Touching thee lightly with tenderest care ;
Sorrow and death they have often brought nigh thee,
Yet have they left thee but beauty to wear ;
Growing old gracefully,
Gracefully fair.

Far from the storms that are lashing the ocean,
Nearer each day to the pleasant home-light ;
Far from the waves that are big with commotion,
Under full sail and the harbor in sight;
Growing old cheerfully,
Cheerful and bright.

Past all the winds that were adverse and chilling,
Past all the islands that lured thee to rest,
Past all the currents that lured thee unwilling
Far from thy course to the Land of the Blest;
Growing old peacefully,
Peaceful and blest.

Never a feeling of envy or sorrow
When the bright faces of children are seen:
Never a year from the young wouldst thou borrow—
Thou dost remember what lieth between ;
Growing old willingly,
Thankful, serene.

Rich in experience that angels might covet,
Rich in a faith that has grown with thy years,
Rich in a love that grew from and above it,
Soothing thy sorrows and hushing thy fears ;
Growing old wealthily,
Loving, and dear.

Hearts at the sight of thy coming are lightened,
Ready and willing thy hand to relieve ;
Many a face at thy kind word has brightened—
“Tt is more blessed to give than receive ;”
Growing old happily,
Ceasing to grieve.

Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory
Have a sweet recompense youth cannot know ;
Ears that grow dull to the world and its story
Drink in the songs that from Paradise flow ;
; Growing old graciously,
Purer than snow.

CHANGED FORTUNES.

BY ROBERT F. GREELEY.

All was silent and dark in the deserted library in

which for years the Austins had been in the habit of

- collecting their treasures of literature and art, there
to slumber amid cobwebs until the arrival of ad-
ditional treasures let in the light and disturbed the
silence which brooded over them.

Perey Austin, the elder, had been a great book-
worm, but only in the sense in which collectors
view the pursuit, and once acquired, there, from
year to year, his riches, literary and artistic, slept,
not even the broom of a servant being suffered to re-
move the dustin which they were enveloped. Only
at times a solitary figure might have been discovered
through the dim twilight which reigned, stretched
at full length upon the carpetiless floor, intently
poring over arare volume which lay outspread be-
fore him, by the aid of a ray of light which streamed
through the half-opened blinds. ;

In every other part of this spacious mansion the

utmost ostentation was manifest, although the pre-
siding spirit had long been in her grave, and the
voice of rejoicing had rarely been heard within it;
but now the master of the house himself lay dead.

But it was not a book over which Ambrose Austin,
the younger, bent with such silent intensity, unless
it might be the just closed volume of a life well
spent; for there, in the center of the large apartment,
lay, upon a bier, an elegant coffin, and two figures,
instead of one, hovered aboutit. The one, the elder
brother, Percy, stood erect and proud by the bier,
unable to repress the exultation which secretly
swayed him; for he was now the proprietor of all
this wealth, which had rendered the name of his
father a household word. The other, Ambrose, bent
over the cold remains—his stifled sobs beingthe only
sounds which were audible throughout the apart-
ment.

For some minutes this depressing silence reigned.
Then the elder brother, turning to the younger, said:

“Come, Ambrose, itis time your little fit of senti-
mentality was over. The great event of our lives
has come to pass, and it is fit that we should meet
the issue like men, not as boys. By the provisions of
his will, the bulk of this property passes into my
hands; and if you prove in all respects worthy of
the name, you shall always have a maintenance at
my hands. But this sniveling over whatis at the
best but an empty shell is as unmanly as it is un-
seemly, and it is fit that we consign it as soon as pos-
sible to earth, and address ourselves at once to the
earnest duties of life.”

“The will has not been formally read,’”’ replied
Ambrose, “but let that pass. At such a time consid-
erations of a worldly nature have with me not the
slightest weight. I think only of the virtues of him
whose ashes lie before us, and pray only that I may
in my own life emulate the virtues of one so irre-
proachable.”

“The reward of a saint be yours, my devoted
brother,” said Percy, sneeringly, ‘‘for a man of the
world would find such principles but little to his
profit here, if they did not bar his pathway to prog-
ress hereafter. And by what kind of course am I to
infer that my sentimental Ambrose is to guide his
eareer in the future ?”’

“Not by eating the bread of dependence,” rejoined
Ambrose, warmly; “still less by extravagance and
riotous living, as others might do!”

This retort was in allusion to the habits of his
brother Percy; who had been his father’s favorite,
and who, with all the money that he wished at his
disposal and no desire ungratified, had indulged to
the extreme in all the vices and follies of the day,
and had been so often in difficulty arising from his
debts, that he had already mortgaged to the money-
lenders, at an enormous sacrifice, a large portion of
his expectations. ‘

Ambrose, the younger, being of a habit studious
and reserved, attracted so little notice that he was
generally regarded as ano-account sort of fellow,
whose acquaintance was not worth the cultivating,
and consequently escaped many a temptation which
beset his brother, whose sins and passions were no
secrets among his intimates. Asis usual in such
cases, the parent had cut his youngest scion off with
a shilling, or at least, with a proviso which it would
require time to fulfill, while to the elder was be-
queathed, without reserve, the whole of his fortune.

“You have made your choice,” said Perey, “and if
there is any blame in the matter, it is not mine.
With my guidance you might become an ornament to
society, and might even attain wealth and influence.
Reject it, and you are free to follow your own inclina-
tions, but not within these walls.”

“Which means that I am either to pander to a
brother’s whims, or that we are to be henceforward
strangers ?”’ said Ambrose, half interrogatively.

“As you please to construe it,” replied Percy, with
haughty indifference. :

“T have made my decision,” said Ambrose, firmly.
“J willleave this roof, where I see so many mortiti-
cations await me, and trust that when I return to it
I shall be able to prove my claim to a character for
thrift equal to that of him who would be my mentor.”

“T appreciate the sneer, and you may rejoice in the
consciousness that your arrow has struck home,” said
Percy, with a sardonic smile. Then producing a
check which ‘had been but recently filled, he added:
‘However, itis not necessary that we should part
otherwise than as friends, and here is a favoring
breeze, to waft pr artly on your Way.”

He tendered the check as he spoke.

“Retain your bribe,’ rejoined Ambrose; ‘‘I have no
need of it. While money has flowed through your
hands like water, I have husbanded a portion of my
allowance, and, like my father before me, am not
afraid to begin the world for myself. Farewell, my
brother, and when next we meet, may it be in my
power to prove that I am neither so helpless nor so
unworthy as you would fain have had the world be-
lieve.”

‘We shall meet again?’

“At the grave of him whose memory we should
delight to honor,” was the rejoinder.

And before the elder brother could further inter-

. he had impressed a farewell kiss upon the lips
of the deceased, and passed from the apartment.

Percy placed the chamber of death in the hands of

aid mourners, and, donning his overcoat, went off

pass the day in_ his usual round of pleasures as
unconcernedly as though no unusual event had hap-
pened to interfere with them.

On the same day, and at the same hour, a some-
what similar scene was transpiring at the home of a
carver in woods and ivory, many specimens of whose
handiwork had been brought to grace the cabinet of
the rich virtuoso, Pierce Austin.

It was evening, and the kettle was singing upon
the hub, and making rich family musie at the arti-
gan’s fireside, while a beautiful golden-haired child
played with the kitten on the hearth-rug, and the
mother—a pale, emaciated woman, evidently in a
decline which was the precursor of death—lay back
in her invalid’s eg and contemplated the scene
with a weary sinile. , ;

“My poor little Elsie!” she said; “my thread is

7 = , eee

of you when the hand of eternity has drawn its vail
between us, and you shall have been abandoned to a
pitiless world? Ah! how I shudder when your fu-
ture confronts me, my poor little penniless girl!”

But still the kettle sang merrily on the hob, and
the clock on the mantel ticked on, a:d the kitten
purred, and the musical laughter of innocent child-
hood rang through the place. The snow-white cloth
had been long ago laid (Heaven knows there was
little on it to tempt the palate), and yet the head of
the family came not. Eight, nine, ten—how wearily
pass the hours when oneis waiting! Eleven, twelve!
The golden-haired child is asleep, and the fire is out.
Will he never, never come ?

The first gray streak is dawning in the east, and the
rattle of the early milk wagons is heard upon the
stones; then the shrill whistle that summons the fac-
tory hands to their toil, and still lay the pale woman
in her easy chair, sleepless still, for her eyes had not
closed the entire night for weeping.

At last a clumsy, uncertain step was heard ascend-
ing the stairs, the door was flung noisily open, and
Gilbert Griffiths, the artisan, stumbled headlong into
the apartment.

Although naturally not an iH-looking man, his
countenance was so inflamed with dissipation, that
he had more the look of an ogre, anda disposition
originally really mild and loving, had become so
closely assimilated to the latter character, as to have
transformed the gentle husband into the brute.

“Ah, you have come!” the poor woman muttered.
“Gilbert, Gilbert, you will kill me with a look, but it
is better you should come thus than not at all, for
while there is life there is hope.”

“Yes,” rejoined Gilbert, with sarcasm, ‘‘that’s the
old cant:

“While the light holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return.’ ”’

“But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t have my
supper.”

“Supper?” she replied, smiling faintly. “I have
tasted none myself. There was not enough for us
both, and I devoted what there was to the child and

you.’

“Well, then, breakfast. I’m as hungry as a wolf.
Be quick, or——”

‘‘Alas! you know well there is none,” she answer-
ed, faintly. ‘‘Where have you been that you could
so easily forget a father’s duty ?”’

concerns you—and he pays well for it. But that’s
neither here nor there. I want my breakfast.”

“T have said there is none.”

“An empty fireside anda scolding wife! Bah! I’m
disgusted with you!”

And so saying he overturned the table, and fell
monewee among the debris, where he was soon fast
asleep.

When he awoke the sun was shining brightly, and
his heart sank within him as his gaze alighted upon
the scene before him. For there, upon the bed in
the corner, lay thé dead body of his wite, already
dressed in the cerements of the grave, with poor lit-
tle Elsie crying bitterly-above:her,‘and several sym-
pathizing neighbors standing around.

He arose a repentant, horrified-man, and at that
instant a vail as of the darkness of night fell upon
| his sight, and the light departed. He had been
| stricken blind!

* =. * * - x * *

It was winter, and snowing, and a stranger, ap-
parently just from sea, was making his way with dif-
ficulty against the eddying gusts through one of the
more obscure streets of the city, when a hand was
laid tremblingly upon his arm, and, turning, his eyes
alighted upon a girlish face, which was, perhaps, all
the more beautiful from the coarseness of the hood
in which it was enveloped.

“Father is starving. Please give me some assist-
ance,” she implored.

“Here, take this, and be off with you,” and he tossed
her a dollar. ‘A pretty girl like you should not be in
the streets alone, at night.’

“Necessity compels me to be a mendicant,” she an-
swered. ‘My father is blind!”

The tone seemed familiar to the man, and he came
nearer.

“Gracious Heaven!” he exclaimed, as he pressed
cee hood and peered in her face, ‘‘Elsie Grif-

hs!

“You know me at last. Iwas a child when you
went away; but you, Ambrose Austin, have not so
much altered but that I can recognize you.”

“My poor, poor Elsie! And what have you been
doing all this while ?”’

“T have worked for your brothrr, the proud and

seems to crave the more.
father. He basely insulted me, and I left him in
scorn, and since then we have almost starved.”

“T comprehend you, Elsie; and indeed it is like
him who drove me away from my dead father’s door,
aoe thinking that he was making my fortunes there-

y.
mine to confer as an act of mercy.
delay to your father.”

Guided by Elsie, who went trippingly on before in
spite of the blast, Ambrose soon found himself in
the apartments of Gilbert Griffiths, the artisan.
Blind as he was, the ivory worker at once recognized
the voice of the younger Austin, and eagerly rose
from his seat as he entered, extending his hands to
greet him.

“Poor Gilbert! and is it thus I meet you?’ said
Ambrose, returning his greeting. .

“It was my fault, the whole of it,” replied Gilbert;
‘and I deserved worse, though the rebribution has
been more severe than I well know how to bear.
And how has it fared with you?”

“Oh, fortune has been kind, and I have enough
and to spare. I must see this proud brother of mine.
We have ascore of long standing to settle, but, as I
wish for a time to escape his notice, I will, if you
choose, share this lodging with you, and that it shall
be of advantage to you, you need not fear.”

“‘T have but one spare room,” replied Gilbert, hesi-
tating, ‘‘and my table a

Ambrose burst into a cheery laugh.

“Oh, never mind the table,” said he. “T’ll take
eare there shall be plenty on it. And as for your
room, I have thought myself well off in more homely
quarters. And as for your rent——”

Here he threw into the lap of the carver a well
stocked pocket-book.

“T suppose that seals the bargain,” said Ambrose;
‘and to-morrow we will look for better quarters. In
the meanwhile, as I’m an old provider, allow me to
oo. and see what I can find to stock the larder
with.

“In such a storm ?” said Elsie, interposing.

“Storm?’ replied Ambrose, cheerily. ‘What is a
storm to me who have fought my ways through tem-
pests from Cape Horn to Labrador! And shall a
puff of wind or a snow-flake deter me now, when an
errand of mercy is mine? Give me your basket and
say no more.”

Elsie handed him a basket with which she had
many a time trudged to market, and he passed
through the door singing.

Elsie fell on her knees and buried her face in her
hands, on her father’s knee, his fingers tenderly
smoothing her golden hair. a8 she said, through her
fast falung tears:

“God has answered our prayers!
We are saved !”

* * * * * * * *

It was cold, dreary winter, but a colder, drearier
winter reigned in the heart of Percy Austin, who had,
with all his lavishness of living, so well managed his
father’s estate that his wealth was now commonly
computed by the million. He was standing one
morning by the blazing fire of his sumptuously fur-
nished office in Wall street, a portly, well preserved
man of some forty years, his countenance beaming
with that satisfaction which springs from success
achieved, when his private door opened and his
brother stood before him. ;

It was Ambrose Austin, indeed, but he was dressed
in a seedy suit that did not go far toward improving
his outward appearance. He advanced half-way, and
stood with his hat in his hand in the center of the
apartment, as if doubtful of his reception.
wae he said, in a tremulous tone, “brother

ercy.’

“Ts it you, Ambrose?” replied Percy, without mov-
ing from his comfortable position; “it is the old
story of the bad penny returned. Flat broke, I sup-
pose, of course.’’

ua am penniless, Percy, and starving,’ was the
reply.

“It was your own fault,” said Percy, “and only
what you were warned of long in advance. You
know the old proverb—‘a rolling stone gathers no
moss.’ And you are the rolling stone.”

“It is true,” replied Ambrose, “‘I am penniless, and
yet, with a little help——” .

“You should have thought of all that before,” re-
plied Percy, dangling his watch-chain. ‘‘You know
I warned you. And times are hard, and I really have
nothing to give in charity.” Thus speaking, he
turned away.

“Stay, Percy Austin!” said a commanding voice
behind him, and he turned in astonishment.

Could that be the same Ambrose who an instant
since had appeared before him so abject and de-
crepit? All signs of weakness had disappeared, and
there stood Ambrose, erect and manly, the fires of
indignation flaming in his eyes, his nostrils dilating
with the inward scorn that he felt at such craven
conduct.

“Can this be Ambrose?’ was Percy’s involuntary
exclamation ?”

“Tt is your brother Ambrose. Forgive the inno-
cent deception. Percy, I am rich, and it was for the
purpose of ascertaining whether your disposition had
altered toward me that I assumed the disguise, I
am satisfied. Cruel, unnatural, heartless brother,
farewell forever !”

And Ambrose passed from the room.

A week later occurred one of those terrible finan-
cial crises by which the commercial world is from
time to time conyulsed. The fortune of Percy Aus-
tin went down in the maelstrom along with the
wealth of some hundreds of others. ‘

And new comes the Strangest part of this eventful
history. On the day of the panic Gilbert Griffiths,

Lead me without

We are saved!

 

nearly spun out. Ah! my darling, what will become

“ve been dancing attendance upon Percy Austin, |
if you must know—although I don’t see how that

rich Mr. Percy Austin, who the wealthier he grows, |
It was he who ruined my |

What he refused to do as an act of justice, be it |

 

who had been under treatment by an experienced

oculist, recovered his sight. The oculist happened

to be a friend of Ambrose, who had brought him to

the afflicted man.

Thoroughly disheartened with his ill luck, and
unwilling to face the world as a poor man, Percy
Austin committed suicide by putting a bullet through
his heart.

Elsie was shortly afterward married to her pre-
server, Ambrose; the carver in ivory was enabled to
resume the practice of his profession, and the little
family led the life of the pure and just beneath their
own vine and fig-tree.

OO Oe

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of con-
tributing toward making this column an attractive fea-
ture of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us
by sending for publication anything which may be
deemed of sufficient interest for general perusal’ Tt is
not necessary that the articles should be penned in
scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to
afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. ]

Too Unanimous.

It clearly was a put-up job,

He knew it all the while;
And though he had to see her home,

He did not like her style.

And when they parted at the gate,
She muttered, with a sigh,
“Tl be at home to-morrow night ;”
He answered, “So will I.”
: E. D. WARD.

How Little Johnnie Revenged Himself.

Mr. Casher was down in the parlor, and little John-
nie came in to amuse the company until his big sister
had completed her toilet.

“Your sister is quite long in coming to-night, isn’t
she?” ventured the ealler.

“You bet she is. It takes sis considerable time to
get allthe different sections together and piece her-
self into shape. Say, d’ye see this?” Johnnie in-
quired, abruptly, as he pulled a length of rubber hose
out of his pocket. :

“Certainly,” returned Mr. Casher, with a patron-
izing smile; ‘what is it for?”

“That’s jest what I am tryin’ to find out. Sis said
she was going to ask you to hold one end in your
mouth while she fastened the other to the gas meter.
You kin bet I wasn’t goin’ to have her doin’ no such
fool things without I knowed some reason forit. You
don’t s’pect she’s gone crazy, do you?” -

“TT really hope not. I don’t know,” stammered
the young man. “Butas I’m feeling tired, I guess
Tll go home and study on it.”

And as he reached for his hat and slid out of the
front door, little Johnnie grinned a quiet, knowing
grin, and stored the hose back in his pocket. When
Johnnie’s sister asked where Mr. Casher was, he
simply said:-

_ “Sis, you’re a smart girl, and if, as Pop says, you’re
gettin’ smarter.every day, I guess you’ll soon know
enough not to sass your dear little brother.”

He Paid the Bootblack.

A smart young man who engaged the services of a
bootblack at the post-office said, after the job was
finished, that he would see the youngster later.

“How iater ?’” demanded the boy.

“Well, in a month or two.”

“Going off without paying me?’

“Haven't any change, bub. The smallest I have is
a fifty dollar bill.”

“T’m very sorry for you, sir; I don’t like to proceed
to extreme measures. It’s not only agin my con-
science, but it raises a row on the street.”

“How 9?

“Well, as you start to go away I ery out ‘Stop
thief.” That gathers a crowd in notime. You stop
and attempt to explain, but I declare that you
snatched a dollar from me. A crowd always sym-
pathizes with a boy, and you’ll be collared and held
until an officer comes. Then we'll both go over in
the patrol wagon, and if they don’t find my dollar
on you some of the detectives will recognize you as
Mollie Matches, Billy Burke, Matt Kennedy, or some
heal crook wanted in Chicago or New York, and
then——

“Say, bub, what’s your charge?’ interrupted the
young man.

“Five cents, sir.” c

“Well, here’s a quarter for you.
you know.”

That Ain’t Where the Trouble Is.

“Oh, how little we foolish women know what we
are dooming ourselves to when we unite ourselves in
wedlock !” sighed Mrs. Nagger, the other day, when
her husband suggested that alittle more economy
might not bea t. thing. “Here I’ve been «piling

I was only fooling,

and slaving ali nfyJife, trying to skimp and save, and
here you are always preaching economy. I could
have married half a dozen rich men, too. It’s my
opinion that no man has a right to get married until
he has a home to which to take a wife.”

“You think he ought to have a home first, do you ?”

“Yes, Ido. Before he gets the bird he ought to have
the cage all ready.”

“Well,” snarled Mr. N., “I don’t see it that way.”

“Ot course you don’t. Men never do. They think
it’s only a woman’s place to work her life away for
them.”

“No, they don’t.” he snapped out. “That ain’t
where the trouble is. But before a man goes to blow-
ing himself on cages and things he’ll find out whether
he’s got a canary bird to put into it, or a darned old
poll parrot that ‘ud chatter the life out of himif he
got her board and lodging in the apartments of Queen
Victoria.”

A Modern Chesterfield.

Oh, once ina while you still come across one of
these courteous old fellows, trained in the stately old-
time school of Chesterfieldian politeness. Saw one
on a street car the other day. Rainy, blustery
day; car somewhat crowded, rather unusual thing;
woman comes in, not very young; used to be young
twenty-five or thirty years ago, maybe; not very
well dressed; every man in the car, old and young,
keeps his seat. Old Chesterfield doesn’t wait a min-
ute; rises with courtly grace, bows to the woman as
though she were a queen, ‘‘“Madam, will you not take
this seat?” Woman thanks him, which no real lady
would ever think of doing, and sits down between
two big men in dripping, loud-smelling India-rubber
overcoats ; the howling draught and pelting rain
swept in upon her back through the broken window
and the oil from a leaking lamp dripped down upon
her bonnet. She stood it half a block, and then re-
marked that she’d ‘‘a heap rather walk,” and left the
car, while old Chesterfield hung on to the strap with
the heavenly expression of a man who esteemed it a
privilege to sacrifice himself for the lowly and poor.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

She Enjoyed the Curtain.

A Wilmington lady who resides on Delaware
avenue has a girl in her employ fresh from some
region far removed from the theater. Thinking to
givo the girl a good treat, and knowing that she had
never seen a theater, the lady purchased a ticket for
a play at the Opera House. The girl went, but re-
turned before nine o’clock.

“What is the matter? Did you not like it?’ asked
the mistress.

‘Oh, I liked it ever so much; it’s a fine painting.”

“But,” inquired her mistress, ‘‘why have you re-
turned so soon? Surely you didn’t see it all.”

“Yes, ma’am,I did. I went in and sat down and
looked at the large picture hanging up in front.
People kept coming in, and pretty soon there was
quite a crowd all looking at the picture. Then they
took it away, and some men and women went to
talking, up there where it had been, about something
that didn’t concern me, so I got up and came home.
But I enjoyed the picture.” /

Opposed to Religious Buzzing.

Little Johnnie is a good boy, and goes to Sunday-
schoolregularly. Little Frankie, on the other hand,
is confidentially reported by members of his social
circle to be ‘‘one of ’em.” On Sundays little Frankie
waylays little Johnnie, and attempts to persuade him
to take long street rambles and surreptitious rides
on therear platforms of horse-cars. Johnnie’s father
was within ear-shot, the other Sunday, when Frankie
made his last attempt.

“Frankie,” said Johnnie, ‘why don’t you go to
Sunday-school yourself?”

“Cause,” rejoined Frankie, ‘’cause Robinson
Crusoe’s never in the library, and the teacher’s al-
ways buzzing me about religion—that’s why.”

; ; A Burglar Mechanic.

Mrs. Brimmer—‘“TI don’t see when a man has a good
trade, why he should prefer to be a burglar.”

Mr. B.—‘‘Who are you talking about?”

Mrs. B.—“‘That man who was caught breaking into
a store last night. He’s a machinist.”

Mr. B.—‘*Who told you that ?”’

Mrs. B.—‘‘The paper says that while he was at the
station-house and the officer was making his report,
the burglar made a bolt for the door.”

Reformation Not Complete.

Salvation Army Man (to hardware merchant).—
“Ten years ago, sir, I stole an ax from you and
here’s a dollar to pay for it.”

Merchant.—‘‘Axes are worth a dollar and a half.”

Salvation Army Man (returning the money to his
pocket).—‘*‘Dollar and a half for axes! I can get’em
cheaper than that.’’

A Change of Luck.

oo to Benedict—‘‘You believe in luck, don’t
you ?”

Benedict—‘‘Not much, I don’t.”

Bachelor—‘‘Why, my dear fellow, you surprise me.
You used to believe in it firmly.”

Bachelor—“That was before I got married, my boy.”

Each Entertained a Different Opinion.
Bobby was in the parlor when Albertus called, and
Maud was up stairs getting ready to present herself.
“Good-evening, Robert,” said Albertus, briskly ;
Miss Maud has not arrived yet, I see?’

 

 

“Nope,” replied Bobby, carelessly; ‘“‘she’s makin’

somethin’ I s’pose.”

“Idustry, Robert, is a shining virtue. But what is
Miss Maud making ?”

“T dunno; they were talkin’ about you atthe tea-
table, and Maud said she was makin’ a mash, ma
said she was makin’ hay while the sun shines, and
pa said she was makin’ a fool of herself.”

He Must Have Felt Grateful.

“So you wouldn’t like to be a minister, Bobby,
when you grow up?” remarked Mr. Whitechoker at
the table.

“No, indeed,” responded Bobby, emphatically.

“And why not?’ insisted Mr. Whitechoker, amused
at the lad’s earnestness.

“Because ma says she always feels sorry for
country ministers, an’ that’s the reason why she has
you here to dinner so often.”

Woman’s Nature.

It was spiteful, but spitefulness cannot be legis-
lated out of human nature.

“Did you hear that Mrs. Smith is having her pic-
ture painted ?”

‘You don’t say! That old thing?’

“Yes, indeed—painted in oil.”

“Well, I[never! In oil? If she ever wants to have
a good likeness, she’ll have to be painted in vinegar.”

According to the Almanac,

The Sabbath-school teacher had spent considerable
time in drilling into her pupils the truth that “pride
cometh before a fall.”

Near the close of the lesson, wishing to test the re-
sult of her efferts, she inquired :

“Can you tell me what comes before a fall ?”

“Yes, ma’am, summer,’ was the reply from the
seat farthest away.

A Verbatim Reporter.

“Did you tell your mother I was going to have a
new bonnet at Easter?” inquired a lady of a neigh-
bor’s child who was visiting her own children.

“Yes, ma’am,”’ answered the little girl.

“And what did she say ?”

“Oh, she said.the fools are not all dead yet,’ an-
swered the child, innocently.

That Settled It.

“Reginald, dearest, father has at last told me that
we may be married early in April.”

“What has changed his mind ?”’ : ’

“Some benevolent friend has sent him a fashion
paper which says that it is no longer in good form
for the father to give a cheok to the bride at the
wedding.”

Mirthful Morsels.

They had been at the masquerade, where she had
recognized him at once. ‘Was it the loud beating of
my heart, my darling, that told you I was here?’
murmured he. ‘Oh, no,’ she replied, ‘I recognized
you by your long legs.”

Flanagan (rising excitedly from the table, after
tasting an olive for the first time)—‘“‘It’s sorry I’d be
to disturb the hilarity of the meetin’, gentlemen, but
I believe some joker has been saltin’ the guseberries,
bad scran to him.”

No_ young man is proof against a gum drop when
she holds it between her teeth and invites him to
take a bite.

An unfortunate man in Indianapolis, who lost sev-
eral toes by a car-wheel, was consoled by an Irish-
man near with, ‘Whist, there! you’re making more
noise than many a man I’ve seen with his head off.”

“Cast Iron Sinks” is painted on the sign of a
plumber. ‘Well, who—hic—said it didn’t ?” chuckled
a drunken man, after studying it over several times.

A fellow who hid under a sofa at an informal Bos-
ton missionary meeting says that the thirty-five
ladies spoke twice of the down-trodden heathen,
and more than a hundred times of anew kind of hair-
dye.

“Is the candidate for sheriff here?” asked a strang-
er, aS he looked into an Illinois bar-room. ‘Yes,
why ?’ answered eighteen men, as they rose.

After throwing eight boys over the fence out
of a watermelon patch, a Clay County, Mo., woman
charged them especially : “Now, see ’ere boys, ye’ll
keep this thing up till ye get me riled.” .

“T can say one thing in favor of this good boy,” re-
marked Mr. Birchem, proudly, patting his favorite
pupil on the summit of his cranium, “he never takes
the last piece of bread and butter on the plate.” ‘No,
indeed, sir,” cordially asserted the fool of the school,
“he ain’t quick enough !”

Among the Zulus young people fight and get mar-
ried. Here they get married and fight.

One point of difference between a timid child anda
shipwrecked sailor is, that one clings to its ma and
the other to his spar.

A commervial traveler, wishing to take a rise out
of a clergyman who occupied the same compartment,
asked him if he had ever heard that in Paris, as often
as a priest was hanged, a donkey was hanged at the
same time. The victim of the joke replied, in his
blandest manner: ‘“‘Well, then, let us both be thank-

‘ful that we are not in Paris.”

“How is Jim Bullard getting on?’ asked a stranger
at the railway station of a Western town. ‘Jim ker-
mitted suicide ’bout a month ago,” replied a native.
“Committed suicide! How did he commit suicide ?”’
‘“‘He called me a liar, stranger!”

$i

SIGHT AND SMELL OF BIRDS.

A hawk ean spy a lark on a piece of earth almost
exactly the same color at twenty times the distance
it is perceptible to a man or dog; a kite soaring out
of human sight can still distinguish and pounce

upon lizards and field mice on the ground; and the
distance at which vultures and eagles ean spy out
their prey is almost incredible. Recent discoveries,
and especially Darwin’s observations, have inclined
naturalists to the belief that birds of prey have

not the acute sense of smell with which they were

once accredited. Their acute sight seems better to
account for their actions, and they appear to be
guided by sight alone, as they never sniff at any-
thing, but dart straight at the object of their desire.
Their counterparts in the ocean, however, undoubt
edly see and smell equally well, but are more guided
by smell than sight.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Mrs, Mary G.’”’—One of the latest ways of making lace
dresses, either white or black, is to have them formed of
the lace and net alone, the seams delicately but finely
stayed with net bindings, but left unlined. In this way,
slips of various colors can be worn beneath them, thus
changing the appearance of the dress to suit different oc-
casions. Sometimes, however, the skirts are permanent-
ly lined, and the bodice portion only is lett for a change of
underwaist. The best qualities of French lace, in thread
patterns, are stylish for black dresses, and Valenciennes
and point d’esprit for white ones.

“Madge W.”—Undressed mousquetaire gloves, in twelve
and sixteen button lengths, are quite stylish, and the
heavy embroidery-stitching on dark tan and other coldrs
is frequently in pink, old gold, or green, with sometimes
the addition of a top binding in black, the glove being
fastened with large gilt buttons. Heliotrope gloves with
pink stitching are among the most recent of these fancies,
and gloves of this color are also stitched with iridescent
beads in the embroidery, while green gloves are heavily
stitched in green of a darker shade, and those of gray
show stitching in either gray or black.

“Stella Rosevelt.’’—The hour-glass table is a revival of
an old fashion, and consists of a table covered with satin,
pretty cretonne, or the furniture covering of the room
nailed around the circular top and base of the wood, and
tied in the center with a broad ribbon, to form a handsome
bow, which is usually of two colors. The tables come in
various sizes, but none exceed the circumference of an
ordinary round table, high ones being used to stand oe. a
bedside, and low ones being employed as parlor tables,
for holding trifles.

‘Miss Dollie A.,” Belleville, O.—ist. Walking costumes
are generally of some light cloth or fancy woolen mate-
rial, combined with plain silk. 2d. We will send a cata-
logue of fashions for five cents. 8d. The short rubber
gloves cost'$1.50, and the long ones, $1.75 a pair. 4th. The

price of the mask is two dollars. 5th. The NEW YORK
VEEKLY Purchasing Agency will supply the articles

mentioned. 6th. Your penmanship is fair, though rather
coarse for a lady.

“Inquisitive,” Great Neck, N. Y.—I1st. A new style of par-
lor screen has flaps or pockets on the outside panel, for
holding cabinet photographs. The panels may be covered

with plush or satin, and the pockets made to correspond,
or a broad, handsome sash ribbon may be drawn diagonal-
ly across the screen, and stitched so as to form places for
the pr eeeete 2d. The price of the ‘‘Baker’s Manual”
is fifty cents.

“E. D.S.,” Lovington, Ill.—Little tables of all shapes
and sizes are scattered around rooms, the newest being

the handy little “tuckaways,’”’ which fold up flat, and are
so light that they can be conveniently carried about.
Decorated with a hand-painting of some floral design
across one half of the table, they make popular birthday
and wedding gifts.

“Dasie,” Bridgeport, Conn.—The flexible rubber bustle
is the most comfortable as well as the most graceful gar-

ment of its kind, as it folds up when sitting or lying
down, and resumes its shape upon rising. The price is
seventy-five cents, and the NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will mailit to youon receipt of that
amount.

“Mrs. C.,” Boston, Mass.—Plastrons of colored surah,
crape, India silk, or fine nainsook, are made of shield

shape, with a double box-plait feather-stitched down the
center, and the sides formed of tiny diagonal tucks

 

feather-stitched, the collar being of folds finished in the
same way, and fastened under a tiny bow on the side.

“Mrs. D. L.”—Large girls wear dark straw hats with
high crowns of plain Milan braid, and wide brims of fan-
cifully plaited straw. The English fashion of trimming
dark straw hats with white lace rosettes has reached this
country, and is becoming popular.

“Sophie,” Philadelphia, Pa.—Evening hoods of black
velvet are made in the form of a half-handkerchief, lined
with red satin, quilted, and tied with red ribbons under
the chin, which correspond with the bow on the point
above the forehead.

“Miss Minnie G.”—Black lace bodices in jersey style
have unlined sleeves of the lace, and vest, turnover cuffs,

and Charles IX. collar of white lace, in duchesse, real
Irish point, or other expensive variety.

“Miss L. M.”—Sateen dresses are finished with velvet
collars and cuffs, while gingham suits have accessories
2 phe embroidery, or the woven border of the ma-
erial.

_‘Frances R.’—We will send you the little book en-
Poet “How To Play the Game of Skat” for twenty-five
cents.

_“Mildred.”—In the language of flowers, a white lily
signifies ‘purity and sweetness.”

“L. C. P.,” St. Louis, Mo.—“Queenie Hetherton” is in
book-form, and the price is $1.50.

“Ruby.’’—Bar-pins, set with Rhinestones, are worn on
evening slippers.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Evolution eitherduz away with the great first cause
or makes it only a sekondary power, obliged to make
men out of crawfish or monkeys.

Full one half of the pitty we express for others iz
nothing more than a quiet satisfaction that we are
better off than they are.

We all expect to be remembered long after we are
dead; but will you pleaze tell me for what?

The closest observers are those who don’t notice
more than haff they see.

The line betweenrite and wrong iz so strait and
narrow that many people are apt to think it iz only
an imaginary one.

The person who reads a good dele should have a
poor memory, or he will get full of other people’s
ideas at the expense of his own.

_ There iz a great deal of the literary culture of the
times that iz like the growth of the punkin vine
on prolific soil—about 20 foot of vine to one punkin,
punkin small at that.

Muscle iz probably the best substitute we have for
branes ; but branes have ruled the world thus far, and
will continue to do it.

Precepts, at.best, ain’t worth more than 50 cents
on the dollar, while examples are always worth par.

Ifa man kould only come out of his grave occa-
sionally, and read his epetaph, fame might be of some
use to him.

A young man, an infidel, iz simply a fool; an old
one is more like a villain.

_If ‘exceptions prove the rule,” the more excep-
tions the more perfect the rule. This don’t look to
me like common sense; it looks like kulture.

Building a fire iz one of them kind of things that
one man can do better than two can.

Honesty iz not always courtly ; but there iz nothin
that will take a polish more readily, and hold i
longer, than honesty.

Evolution iz half brother to infidelity, and owes
what little importance it possesses to the branes that
have been wasted upon it.

It iz very rarely you see a man who thinks he plays
a second-rate game ov whist

oe man who knows himself haz learned one thing
well.

_A man needs to live twice before he knows how to
live once; and then he will all the time keep think-
ing how much better he could live if they would only
let him try it once more.

Old men, like ole dogs, love to sit in the sun.\
_ Oe Oo

DISHONESTY.

Dishonesty in all its forms certainly inflicts much
suffering upon those who are cheated, but it also re-
acts with force upon the knave. Not only does he

suffer the remorse of his own conscience and risk the
penalties of the law, he must also resign the confi-
dence and respect of his fellow-men; he must submit
to be always suspected, always distrusted, always
watched. What he has acquired wrongfully is apt to
be held loosely and parted with easily. The same
tricks that he has used, and perhaps sharper ones,
will be used against him, and the general feeling of
distrust which he has engendered will in many ways
injure him and baffle his endeavors. This is true in
cases from the petty meanness which would steal a
car-fare or take advantage of a mistake in change,
up to the deliberate and wholesale perfidy that spec-
ulates on trust-funds or swindles a corporation.

pacgeniiial
—>

Items of Interest.

~
eo

An unusual performance, which succeeded a Texas
funeral, shows that the solemnity of death is soon for-
gotten when an irreverent hearse-driver attempts to
make a recently afflicted widower “take his dust.” The
event is thus recorded by a Haycreek paper: “Our re-
porter witnessed a fine burst of speed yesterday while re-
turning from the funeral of the wife of our estimable
fellow-townsman, Judge Jaybird. Sandy Harrigan, the
driver of the hearse, attempted to throw a little dust on
the judge, when the afflicted and grief-stricken widower
pulled out of the ditch with his fine bay horse, Three Spot,
and easily passed the outfit shouting and a-flying.”

A Boston teacher was endeavoring to find out the
proficiency of her little friends in mental arithmetic, and
said to them: “Now, children, suppose I have two squash
pies, and divide one of them into 10 pieces and the other
into 100 pieces, which would you rather have—a piece of
the pie that was divided into 10 pieces, or of that cut into
100 pieces?’ There was an absolute hush for a moment,
and then alittle girl answered, timidly: ‘One of the 100
pieces.” ‘“‘Why?’ “Well, please, ma’am, I don’t like
squash pie.”

A fireman, who had rendered efficient service in
fighting the fire-fiend in a Western city, recently died.
His companions sent a fioral pillow, on which was in-
scribed: ‘He has gone to his last fire.” The widow natu-
rally objected to such suggestive personal allusions, and
“fired” the tribute.

At a negro wedding in Griffin, Ga., a short time
ago, when the words ‘love, honor, and obey’? were
reached, the groom interrupted the preacher, and said:
“Read that again, sah; read it wunce mo’, so’s de lady
kin ketch the full solemnity ob de meanin’. I’se been
married befo’.”

For a wager of $10, George Williams, of Chicago,
ate eighteen hard-boiled eggs in twenty-four minutes.
His competitor, Ebenezer Green, gave up the contest on
his seventeenth egg. Each man had to shell his own
eggs. he

When aman marries a woman in Pennsylvania, he
marries her “for all she is worth.” Her property, her
earnings, and, in .a large measure, her personal liberty,
pass into the possession and control of the husband.

It is said that hotel porters are not long-lived be-
cause the strain of lifting and carrying heavy trunks pro- |
duces disease of the heart. If this is true, the railway
baggage-smasher is fortunate in having no heart.

A Michigan town has a dentist who has evidently
taken spelling lessons from Josh Billings. The sign over
his door bears these words: ‘Teeth Extracted Without
Enny Pane. Laffin Gas (10) Cents a Ha Ha!”

An immense captive balloon will be one of the at-
tractions at the French Centennial Exhibition. Its ca-
pacity will be 2,119,000 cubic feet; it will ascend 3,280 feet,
and has accommodations for 100 passengers.

A citizen of Sumterville, Fla., set out an acre of
strawberry plants two years ago, and from the crop alone
has supported his family in comfort, and spent six
months of the year in the North.

A man stepped into the First National Bank at
Lockport, N. Y., with a check for $2,000. The teller asked
him if he wanted currency, .‘‘No, confound it,” he re-
plied; “I want the money.”

The best gloves are made from the youngest kids.
When they begin to eat grass their skins become coarse
in grain, and lose to some extent the valuable quality of
elasticity.

An eminent physician asserts that pulmonary dis-
eases are rare among Germans, because from an early
age their lungs acquire strength in the practice of vocal
music.

While boring an artesian well in Eureka, Cal., the
skeleton of a bird was found at a depth of 580 feet. Some
charred wood was discovered at a depth of 500 feet.