ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE, Two Great Stories'Next Week! iy Be Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887, sy Street é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Vol. 42. Se arte re New York, March 26, 1887 re Ee er tien: No. 21 : P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 9 ’ . Two Copies Five Dollars. ye ’ S - ae ae a8 frie ba Nc al ae “ } 4 Bass ‘ THE FARMER’S LAD. \ “Sit down a moment, young man,” he said, waving > ‘\ wae a aE } Walter to a chair ; *-] would like just to glance at them, | and then I may have some message I would like to send BY R. P. S. back to Mr. Conant.” i Walter obeyed, and took the chair offered him. Glance. Ym certain that I do not know \ ing around him, he noticed that the room was most A better litle lad than Joe, luxuriously furnished and that there were evidences of More kind and open-hearted | great wealth all about him. The many books in their It seems as if the sunny skies | rich bindings and elegantly carved cases; the choice ; Had to his youthful heart and eyes pictures upon the walls, and costly busts of great au- Their warmth and light imparted. j thors, scattered here and there, all spoke of abundant { means. . r o . i Mr. Gordon had become absorbed in his plans, and a Be ereiay crite: en AOS | the stillness was becoming awkward and oppressive to 7 Wieuder he hak Geismar | Walter, when all at once, from somewhere above, there ) Honest in all his words and ways, | ae ma sound of a fresh young voice trilling a popular ‘ S Right joyfully he spends his days, ie tus : ; 5 ons He flushed to his temples, and his heart gave a sud- . And toil to him is pleasure. den bound. ™ P $ . os : | He instantly recognized the voice, and-it. made him Will guloe the plow eee ne. long to look unce more into the lovely face of its owner. ; ‘And help the spring-time’s sowing ; “These plans are certainly very attractive, Mr. Rich- : With sickle firm set in hi¥ hand : ardson.” Mr. Gordon observed, looking up just then; y Will lead the sunburnt reapers’ band ‘but I wish Mr. Conant could have come himself this ’ When autumn’s winds are blowing evening, for there are some questions I would like to ask e c I him—some things that I do not quite understand. How- , \ A few short years—he’ll join the strife ever, I suppose I can go down to his office any day and And struggle of his manhood’s lfe, he will make everything plain to me.” ; With heart that knows no quailing ; | “Perhaps 1 can tell you, sir,” Walter said, rising and i » Trusting in heaven all undismayed, | moving toward the table. ‘I assisted Mr. Conant about ee ; He'll battle on when earthly aid the plans, and am quite familiar with them.” Soe f And hope seem unavailing. | Mr. Gordon seemed well pleased at this intelligence. { | moved a chair to the table for him, and for an hour kept 6 } » Unto such lads as little Joe, | him busy explaining and talking over various matters A debt of gratitude we owe, connected with the new residence he was centem- Because his brave example plating. Shows that the honest, willing mind, |. Just as Walter arose to go, there came a light step 5 In work and toil will ever find and a rustle outside the library door; then a gentile e A joy and blessing ample. | i a ‘Robert, may I come in ?” queried a sweet voice, and, a: ox "Tis such as Joe that swells the ranks jiitiavasrn NNN without waiting for a reply, the door swung open, and a as Ot those who have the wide world’s thanks He vision of loveliness appeared upon the threshold. i The hardy sons of labor— ( Walter stood spell-bound. fr | The heroes of the bloodless fight The beautiful girl of whom he had been dreaming for 1 | With poverty—the men of might months appeared like a framed picture in the door-way. f Who bear not gun nor saber. She was clad in a misty dress of white tulle and lace, . | i looking as if she had suddenly dropped to earth from Toil on, my lad, with smiling face— | Some fleecy cloud. ; Brave, honest toil ne’er brought disgrace— The light, airy costume suited her delicate style of aj The tuture lies before thee: beauty to perfection, and her only ornaments were “5 Go, meet it with a purpose high, sprays of dark-green feathery ferns, that made a charm- woe is And, though temptations round thee He, ing contrast, and nodded and quivered with every, | Ua« “ee God ever watches oer thee. movement of her graceful figure. 7 | “Excuse me, Robert,” she said, flush’ Lee vethn ) tas ee eifal. Haped N th a 3 “ Doct ; utiful. cone-shape orway pines, wit of | (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] Many a native yew interspersed Vere iat there eo with trees whose blushing fruits peeped coyly out y.: | ; : from amid the foliage that refused to wholly hide | J : them, presented a lovely picture from the highway, et which formed, on their northern side, the soundary o | ae of Miss Rodny’s grounds, aud which separated of / them from the wide acres belonging to the ancient , baronial Castle of Ormsby. . ) : myeeyn aoe was BDRDEtY sieve the miedinin in % : ws x 1eight, with a form perfect and a mien command- a By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, ing as that of a Cleopatra.. The matchiess grace ec a o ’ } ° Ler faa, F 5 Author of ‘“The Forsaken Bride.’’ ““Brownie’s Tri- Then she turned again to her brother and webed, ¥ . 4 — of = umph,” *"Thnut Dowdy,” ¥tc. fully: he aa “Can't you come up to Mrs. White’s by and by, Rob- eee “pais Rewanbd” was c sn RA Gea ert? You know I enjoy.dancing with ydu better. thin i E“RUBY’sS WARD” was commenced LAST WEEE. ] any one else, and I’ll save halt a dozen dances for you, if > es you like.” Res , CHAPTER IV. Mr. Gordon-laughed heartily. id ‘“‘What would all your young admirers say, petite, if le “] WILL MAKE THE MOST OF MY OPPORTUNITY.” they could hear that, |] wonder—to prefer a gray-headed g ‘ elder brother to the gallant beaus of the day ?” a 4 Walter learned, upon his return to Forestvale, that “Tis the tashion to admire old things, nowadays, a Edmund had gone to New York, and would not be back s you know,” she retorted, archly; then added, ‘but truly, n- for a week. = : == you always fit your step to mine so nicely. 1 won’t in- , ; ; Ss Pe terrupt youany further, though—that.s, if you think Pll 3 : He was not at all disturbed by this intelligence, how- same — —— do,” she continued, demurely, but with a shy glance, as | ever; indeed he was rather relieved than otherwise, for 7 ™ rw one ¥ 4 i aces : 4 é Ss a e Bo a if she were half ashamed to have any One know that she wt ets : : ; EDMUND ABRUPTLY STEPPED BETWEEN THEM, CASTING A DARK LOOK OF JEALOUS ANGER AT WALTER, | had come for her brother’s approval of her costume be- it would give him an opportunity to mature his plans tore going out eee without any fear of interference on his part. There was a world of tenderness in the strong man’s | ee ee eens gratified at the high praise implied in Mr. ¢ t ightly bel If I | the b iovely s a ee eh ee eee | a aes ae & . : a f: 7 eh prais mplie n Mr. Conant’s | man’s property rightly belongs to you. ever I saw | the business, determined to master it in all itsdetails,in lovely as a dream. Mr. Conant’s office, with the determination to be guided | \ords and manner, “and | will do my ‘best.’, Whencan | anything that looked likéa will, that document that I | order that he might apply its principles to bis future ‘‘You always do, Ruby; but, really, I believe I never nd by his advice, even though it should not be exactly in | I begin ?” signed for him looked likg ene.” | profession. saw you quite so pretty before,” he said, fondly; then 7 s- accordance with his taste or inclination. ‘ aetna pe pleased at mY ees + ‘Tam ag you were wistaken, Mrs. Coxon,” Walter The first three months were indeed very trying ones to added, oe Sy mischievous glance at Walter’s ere a ~ » a ; 1ac 1€ ring of business, Of ehergy and purpose at | answered, thoughtfully, ‘and it does no good to get ex- | him, and he found that he did not care for much but face, ‘anc am sure J am not the only one who will sie He found him in, and was instantly encouraged by the | suited him exactly. cited over the matter.’ No will could be found, you : sleep and rest after his day’s work was done, even aS Mr. think so to-night. Has Mr. Carpenter come for you in genial manner with which he welcomed him. “Monday morning, if you like. That will give you; know; but evenif Uncle Ralph did make one, he might , Conant had said. jet 2” «Weil, my young friend,” he cried, as he cordially shook eee ae wing uD ln apes cog yeaa et have foe ae ve ae thinking it would be He rm ee and sore in every joint; his hands wee eee re at A pec ot that name, ce : eRe sic hs ie Ps ay ve on hand, 1can come to me here at} wronging Edmund to w is property away to a, bruised, and cut, and scratched, from contact with rou “No; but Iam expecting him every moment. ere, i. him by the hand; ‘your promptness speaks well for | seven o'clock. I will then introduce you to Mr. Way- | stranger.” a3 oe | boards, and the awkward use of implements to wich ie that must be his ring now, and 1 must run for my wrap. your intentions. I trust you have considered well what | land, and then you may consider yourself as fairly “Stranger, indeed! Why, Mr. Carpenter just set his ; was so unaccustomed, and looked little like those deli- Good by, Robert. I wish you would come later. Good ‘ 2 I said to you yesterday.” launched upon your new Career. Shall 1 tell him that | eyes by you.” : | cate members, which for years had been white and soft evening, Mr. Richardson.” And with another bewiider- ft “I think 1 have, sir,” Walter replied, gravely you will board with him ” “Yes, I think he waS fqnd of me, and I am sure T|as a woman's, and of which he had been not a little ing glance and bow, pretty Ruby Gordon vanished from » SIT, pied. 8 J: “Yes, sir, if you think it will be a suitable place.” could not have loved hime Metter if I had been his own ; proud. the room. {Has your courage been daunted by the advice which «7 should not recommend it if it were not. You could | son.” ; |” But these were minor trials, and being possessed of a “You must excuse this little domestic by-play, Mr. m 1 gave you ?” not get into better hands, And now,” concluded the “And you ought to-#eye a son’s portion. There's | strong constitution and asplendid'physique. he gradually Richardson,” said Mr. Gordon, turning to Walter, as she : oN re, If I can earn an honorable living, and at the architect, glancing at his watch, ‘] have an epgage-;| money enough, goodnegyknows, for you to have a/| became more used to his work, and soon learned how to disappeared, while a tender smile still lingered on his a NO, SI. : oS ment, but I shall look for you on Monday, at seven } handsome slice, and wrotgy nobody.” | favor himself. His muscles toughened, his sinews lips; ‘‘but I have no children, and I have always made same time have a fair prospect of realizing my aspira- | Sharp.” “Well, regrets are useléss.. The fact remains, I have | strengthened, until at length he began to glory in the a pet of my young sister. I must confess to a weakness tion by and by, I am willing to adopt whatever meas- | ,, Valter assured him that he would be on hand, and | nothing. [am only a pogr fellow, who will henceforth | new powers that were being developed within him, and for liking to see her at her prettiest, so it has been my a ¢ AEDS ESTE fittlag mysas § ~ | then took his leave with a feeling of responsibility and | have to look out for numfer one,” said Walter, trying to | to experience something of the dignity and nobility of custom to have her come to me whenever she is dressed ures may seem best for fitting myself for my business. independence that be had never before experienced. smile, but feeling heavy 4t heart, nevertheless. | labor, albeit his tastes were not exactly sulted thereby. forcompany. ButI thank you for giving me so much in “That's the way to talk; and now for the result of my “Smart fellow; keen, intelligent, and with lots of “I cant’ bear to have you give up college,” replied! After a time he began to feel the old ambition to get. of your time this evening. Ifear that I have detained r deliberations and investigations,” returned Mr. Conant. | talent and grit. He'll make his mark yet, and shame! Mrs. Coxon, stifling asob. Then, looking up suddenly, | on faster rising within him, and one night he presented you longer than I ought.” h “J have an extensive contract on hand that will take | that unfeeling scamp, who, I believe, if the truth were {she added: “I've saved up something, Master Walter. | himself at Mr. Conant’s house and requested that he “Indeed, I am very glad to have been able to explain “2 } nearly a year to complete. I have an excellent master- | known, has cheated him out of a fortune.” If you will only take it;jand keep on, ld be prouder | might have something given him for evening occupa- your plans to you, and 1am at your service at any time, builder in charge, who has consented to take you un- This was the mental comment of Mr. Conant as the | than I can tell you.” tion. if Mr. Conant should be engaged, and I can render you si- der his especial supervision and teach you all that you | door closed after Walter. “I couldn't,’ he answered, flushing, but deeply} The architect, who had been watching his progress any further assistance,” Walter replied, as he bowed t are willing tolearn. It will be hard, up-hill work, my The previous day, immediately after the young man | touched by the affection that. had prompted the offer. | with great interest, and was well pleased with the way himself out, and turned to leave the house. 4 } aw | friend—I will not attempt to conceal the fact—harder for | had left him, the noted architect had paid Mr. Carpen- | ‘I should not feel right td take your money, Mrs. Coxon, | he had conducted himself, willingly complied with his In the hall he encountered Edmund Carpenter face to ae é | you than for many others, because you have never done | ter’s old lawyer, Mr. Fairbanks, a call, and questioned | though I thank you for your kind interest in me. It | request, gave him a key to his office, where he sould face. any work; but. I know that it will pay in the end, if you }, him about the boy whom the rich man had reared. would put me buck in my profession, too, if I should | work comfortably, and began to initiate him in thé more Soit was Edmund after all, as he had feared, who was ne j will stick to it and do your best.” He learned his whole history, and became deeply in- | spend two years more at ¢ollege. I must get at the real | intricate mysteries of his profession. | to escort Miss Gordon to Mrs. White’s lawn party, and a i “J shall do that, sir, for | have made up my mind, and | terested in him, while a suspicion came into his mind } business of life as soon ag possible. I mean to do the This was work that just suited our young hero, and . thrill of pain shot through his heart at this confirmation in will not turn back now,” said Walter, resolutely. that there had been foul play or else culpabie negli- | very best that I can, and if there is any talent in me, [| as time passed, he became more and more inspired with , of his fears. “That is well. And now about the terms. I can’t |} gence on the part of some one, or he would never have | intend to make it count for something.” a love for his business; his enthusiasm waxed stronger, Young Carpenter seemed much surprised to see Wal- promise you very much to begin with—not even as much | been left to shiit for himself after having been reared in “Of course you will. lam not abit afraid but that | while he began to appreciate the wisdom that had ter there,,@nd the old frown of annoyance clouded his be as Mr. Edmund Carpenter offered you. The first three | luxury and affiuence. you'll come out at the ‘top of the heap’ yet,” said the | directed him to master the tuidamental principles of , face as hé recognized him. months you will receive a dollar and a quarter a day and He could not help believing, with Mr. Fairbanks and } good woman, with an affectionate glance into the earn- | construction. | He had not seen him since he had told him he could ral your board. Mr. Wayland will take you into his own | good old Mrs. Coxon, that Ralph Carpenter must have | est face before her; -‘and if you ever want any help, or Mr. Conant was surprised at the rapid strides that he | not accept his offer, but had decided to take his future family, if that will be agreeable to you. The next three | made a will caring for the son of the woman whom he | ever get into any trouble, come to me. I'll always be a | made, and soon allowed him to assist him upon his plans, ; into his own hands. '. months you will receive more, if you earn it, and so on; | had so fondly loved;:but what had become of it was a | friend to you. And mind, you are to bring meall-your | and often consulted him regarding points that required | ‘‘Very well,” he had coldly replied.’ ““I suppose there tbe" & your wages will be gauged according to your ability, | sealed mystery, although it was possible that Mr. | mending. I'll look out tor your clothes—that’s the very | a good deal of thought and “judgment. is nothing to prevent your doing as yO please.” And : ‘yor ow do these arrangements strike you ?” Simons, one of the witnesses, might be able to throw | least that I can do—and ’twouldn’t seem natural not to Toward the last of the year Mr. Conant contracted to , that was all that had been said upon the Subject. on ' Walter sat in earnest thought for a few minutes. The | some light upon it when he should return from abroad. | have the handliug of them after I'd done it for so many | prepare plans and superintend the building of an ele- Now, however, curiosity prompted him {0° stop hin), 4 ee gutlook was certainly not a very tempting one, Seven Walter went directly home after leaying Mr. Conant’s |-years.” 4 gant new residence, that was to be erected upon the ; while he remarked, with something of sarcayni YA his 7. vols — dollars and a half a week seemed very little to him. How | Office, and informed Mrs. Coxon of the change that he “You are ery sepedeRypaiperenDoxON. and 1 know I | banks of the Schuylkill and not very far from Fairmount | tones: ; often he had spent double that to gratify a mere whim, | Was contemplating. shall miss yomand your Many favere every day,” said | Park, the beautiful public grounds of the city. | ‘Really, Walter, I was not aware that you wé¢re a visi- Or upon some pleasure! The boy had always been a favorite with her,.and } Walter, a tear starting to his eye. There was upon these plans considerable work that ' tor to this house.” i mur But he was no longer the protege of a rich man; he | She had been greatly disturbed upon discovering there “It breaks my old heart to have you leave the house,” | Mr. Conant allowed Walter to Share with him, andit was’ ‘I am not,” Walter replied, ‘‘l1 merely cam/e upon a had nothing now im the world but his own energy and | was no will, and he had been lett penniless, while she | moaned the housekeeper, with a Sudden burst of tears ; | not long before the young man became absorbed in it, | matter of business for Mr. Conant.” , hands to depend upon, and he had no right to be dissat- | had stormed and raved inwardly over Edmund Gar- | “but you'll come and see me, won't you, once in a and devoted so much time to it that hisemployerbegan| ‘Ah! Well, how are you getting on, and how do you isfied with what he feltsure must be a fair offer to one | penter’s treatment of him since his father’s death. while ?” to fear that his health would suffer from such close ap- | enjoy the carpenter’s trade ?” who knew absolutely nothing regarding the business he She threw up her hands with horror when Walter “Yes, of course I will. Ihave too few friends to be | plication. But his enthusiasm did not abate until the ' ‘The tone, more than the question itself, breught a hot was about to attempt. At last he looked up, and met | told her that he was going to be a carpenter. a willing to desert the very best one that I have left,” the | designs were completed, and then he was as familiar | flush to Walter’s cheek. Mr. Conant’s eye with a resolute expression. “What! and leave collage, Master Walter ?” she cried. | young man answered, heartily, though his lip quivered with every detail as the great architect himselt. | ‘‘] believe I have been doing very well; at all events I “I cannot say that the work is exactly to my taste,” | aghast. suspiciously over the words. Mr. Conant had promised that they should be deliv- | am sure that the knowledge which I have gained will he said, ‘‘but I shall do as you recommend, and I will “Yes, and ‘leave college.’ 1 haye nothing to pay col- It was very hard to go out forever from that elegant ered to the owner upon a certain day ; but he found that | be of the greatest practical use to me in the future,” he endeavor to make the most of my opportunity; but ” | lege bills with now,” he answered, a trifle bitterly. home, where he had been so happy—where every wish he should be obliged to be out of town at that time, so | answered, with quiet dignity. “Well, speak out, my young friend,” said Mr. Conant, “Mr. Edmund ought to. pay them,” said the woman, }had been gratitied--and spend his future among he requested Walter to take them to a certain street} ‘Indeed; when you graduate let me know, and may- encouragingly. tartly. strangers, who had no interestin him, no affection for and number, with a message to the effect that he | be I shall have a. job that I can give you. Ah! Miss lly ‘Could | not study and do a little office work for you «‘Kdmund thinks 1 have received education enough, | him. would call upon his return and explain anything that | Ruby, you are ready; we have a delighttul evening for bod evenings, so as to get on a trifle faster ?” and that I ought te earn my own living now.” But almost anything would be preferable to the treat- might not appear plain to the gentleman. Mrs. White’s party,” and Edmund Carpenter turned ab- El- Mr. Conant threw back his head, and laughed heartily. ‘Perhaps he didn’t think fe had learning enough | ment he had received since Mr. Carpenter’s death, by The young man was very proud of his commission, | ruptly from the young man, who had shared his home Nd L : “Well, you are plucky, and your ambition does you | when he was only half through college. It’s a burning | which he had been made to feel that he wasan alien and started forth in high spirits; but what was his sur- for many years, the unpleasant glitter in his eyes, the Her a credit; but let me tell you that, for the first three | shame! What would poor dear Mr. Carpenter have said | and an intruder; and the memory of this event went prise upon ascending the steps of the mansion to which disagreeable sneer on his lips changing to smiles as Ppy months at least, you will not care for much but rest | if he could have knoWn that this was going to hap- | far toward arming him with courage and energy for the he had been directed, to find himself before the very | Ruby Gordon came tripping down Stairs, enveloped in a sail ; er’s and sleep after your regular day’s work is done. How- | pen?” and tears of mingled anger and regret rolled over | hard life which he knew was before him. | door-from which had issued the attractive maiden whom | long wrap, a ‘‘fleecy nothing” of blue and white wool hyp otto ever,” he added, seeing the disappointed look on the | her cheeks. a he had encountered that day when he had first started | wound about her golden head. young man’s face, “if you find yourself equal toit, ] “Uncle Ralph knew that I wanted to be an architect, CHAPTER V forth “to seek his fortune,” and who had so entranced “Are you acquainted with Mr. Richardson?” she can give you work and study enough: I should really | Mrs. Coxon, and he. was willing I should study for it,” Aut tr ae , ; : him with her sweet song, and whose beautiful face still | asked, looking a trifle surprised at finding them engaged \ like to see some of the work you have already.done in | Walter said, 40 comfort her. ; IN WHICH THERE IS AN INTRODUCTION. haunted many of his waking and dreaming hours. in conversation. my line.” “Of course; but he would have helped you to itin a At:seven sharp on Monday morning Walter presented He knew that the name of the gertleman who was “~T have that honor; our acquaintance dates back ten “Should you ?” asked Walter, starting up, eagerly. “I | decent manner, He never would have thrust you out | himself in the office of Mr. Conant, who immediately ac- about to build was Gordon, but he had not associated | years or more,” Edmund replied, a screastic smile re- on- ‘. brought down aroll of drawings to show you; they are | of the house that has been your home for so many | companied him to the block, where he was introduced to him in any way with the lovely girl whom he had often | vealing his white teeth, while his face clouded again as : outside. 1 will get them.” years.” Mr. Wayland, the master builder, and set regularly to , longed to meet, but whom he had never seen since that | he noticed the light which came into Walter’s eyes as ' He disappeared from the room, but* soon returned “I know; but really I prefer to go away, Mrs. Coxon.” | work as an apprentice. | bright summer day. they rested upon the fair girl. } with aroll of plans under his arm. I can’t blame you you, after the way you've been treat- We cannot follow him thrnugh the year that ensued:| He mounted the marble steps with quickened heart- Ruby remarked it, also the hot flush which the words Mr. Conant examined them with interest. He made | ed; but you wouldn’t have preferred to go if the master | one or two incidents will serve as links in our story, and , beats at this unexpected discovery, and rang the bell. had called again to the young man’s cheek, and some- no comment until he had looked at them all. Then he | was alive.” show something of the struggles through which he A servant answered the call. how she felt as if she wished to make amends for it. remarked: “No, there would have been no need,” the young man | passed, and the success which he attained. Walter inquired for Mr. Gordon, and was shown into “Tell me, please, Mr. Richardson,” she said, turning to “Mr. Richardson, you just do your level best at car- | said; sadly. He did not like the carpenter’s trade any better than he | the library, where the gentleman sat reading by a hand- | him with her most winning smile, ‘‘were those the plans pentering for the coming year, and there will be no “There should: be no need now,” was the indignant | had anticipated. It was liatd, rough work, and not at | some table in the center of the room. for my brother’s new house that I saw upon the library- trouble about your going ahead as fast as you like after | retort. “I tell you, Walter,” dropping her voice, and | all suited to his taste ; but Mir, Conant had said that it He delivered Mr. Conant’s message, and handed the | table ?” ; hat, and I will give you all the help I can.” glancing around to see that no one would overhear, ‘I | would be an important stepping stone toward the goal| plans to him, whereupon the gentleman cast aside his “They were, Miss Gordon.” t “You are very kind, sit,” Walter responded, much am almost sure that a gooa big slice of the old gentle- | which he was seeking, so he threw his whole heart into. paper and was instantly all attention and interest. “And did you make them ?” ; 6 93+ @ By BERTHA M. CLAY. ie MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD, By FRANCIS S. SMITH. -» smile, whiie he was sure that the same could not be said _ of many of her admirers; ‘‘but how does Mr. Carpen- ~ - gome, ¢ bom Stances.” “Oh, no,” replied, Walter, with a smile, ‘I am too young in the business to have such a responsibility upon my shoulders. 1 merely assisted Mr. Conant about some of the minor details and with the specifications.” “I am very impatient to see them, and IJ shall make Robert show them to me the first thing to-morrow. Per- haps,’ she added, with a coquettish little toss of her bright head, ‘‘I may not be exactly suited with the ar- rangement of my rooms. Do you suppose the great architect could be prevailed upon to make any changes at my suggestion ?” “T am sure he would be very glad to please you, if he could do so,” Walter responded, his whole face aglow with admiration, for she was so pretty, so sweet, and = natural in her manner that it was a delight to watch er. “Ahem! Miss Ruby, ] am afraid that we shall lose our first quadrille if we linger,” Edmund Carpenter here interposed, He was raging inwardly that Walter should presume to stand there so composedly and converse with the young girl, and he abruptly stepped between them, while he cast a dark look of jealous anger at the young man, Ruby lifted a pair of wondering eves to her escort at this rudeness, and she saw at once that he disliked her hew acquaintance. But she wa inclined to resent this surly treatment of a gentleman i., her brother’s bouse. ‘T suppose it is time for us to go,” she said, a trifle coldly, and drawing her slight figure more erect; then she added, more cordially than she had yet spoken: “Good-night, Mr. Richardson, 1 hope I shall meet you again, soon, then I will tell you how | like the plans,” and with a triendly smile and nod, she took Mr. Car- penter’s proffered arm and passed out to the carriage which stood waiting for them, while our young architect went back to his humble room in Mr. Wayland’s modest house, taking with him a gleam of sunshine that brightened many a subsequent day, - ™ CHAPTER VI A NEW REVELATION. ? Edmund Varpenter had met Ruby Gordon at a bril- liant reception given by a mutual friend during the pre- “ey Winter. Jt was the young girl's first season in society, and she was as fresh, beautiful, and charming as it was possible for a debutante to be. Of course she at once attracted a great deal of atten- tion. She was not one of your regulation society belles, whose one ambition has always been to “come out” at a certain time, and whose education has been conducted solely with reference to that object. She was natural, sweet, and piquant, with a mind of her own, and plenty of spirit to speak out her honest opinions, and to show her approval or disapproval of the modes and customs of oe and the many admirers who crowded around er. Edmund Carpenter had been fascinated from the first moment of their meeting. He had freqnented fashionable circles for a number of years, and showered attentions upon many belles with- out ever having been captured by one; but he thought he had never seen any oneso lovely as Ruby Gordon. She was not yet eighteen, and was like a sweet, wild rose ; her spirits were light as air, every movement was full of unstudied grace, and she was quick and keen as a brier in conversation and repartee. Besides all this, it was a well-known fact that she was quite an heiress, independently of being the sister of the wealthy Robert Gordon, Esq., who occupied an enviable position in Philadelphia. Young Carpenter was what might be called a hand- some man. He possessed a fine form—tall, strong, and symmetrical—a well-shaped head, surmounted by rich, dark hair, regular features, and fine, intelligent black eyes. He was well educated, polished and affable in manner, and possessing large wealth, was deemed a “great catch” in society. But no one, as yet, seemed to possess power to secure more than friendly attention from him; for. notwithstanding the fact that he was twenty-six years of age, he had never been engaged, and no one had thought him likely to be, until Ruby Gordon appeared upon the scene. He was attentive to all the belles alike—rode, danced, flirted with and sent Howers to the many but no one in particular. Butfrom the moment of Ruby Gordon’s entrance into society, a change seemed tocome over him. He hovered about her continually; he had no eyes orears for any one else, and devoted himself to her exclusively, while he appeared to regard the attentions of others as an in- fringement upon his rights. . People began to talk about it—to say that Edmund Carpenter, the “‘male coquette and flirt,” had been cap- tured at last, and soit seemed. Robert Gordon was not displeased with this state of __ things; indeed, he viewed them with complacency. _ He had Jong known and respected Ralph Carpenter, as 2 oo elise had done, and though he had not met I y Ninos iv, he believed he must be a ~ natural to her, rather than that she had been actuated by any special regard for principle. She was so invariably bright and happy, so care-free, that he had never imagined her pretty head could ever be seriously troubled by the more serious questions of duty and obligation. It was like a solemn revelation to him, and made him feelas if he had been guiltily neglectful not to have sought to know before more of her inner life. He feared that he had treated her too much as a child, a. pet, a plaything, and thus starved her, when he should have fed her with strong meat suitable for a more fully de- veloped nature, But it was a new bond between them, and drew them nearer than ever to each other. He reached out his hand, and laid it gently. on her ‘shoulder. Z “It is well to set your standard high, dear,” he said, “but we must not forget that everybody is human, and we have need to exercise toward others that charity which ‘covereth a multitude of sins.’ I will confess that I have been pleased with Mr. Carpenter’s preference for you, for I have considered him a worthy young man; and if—mind, my pet,I would rot influence you a feather’s weight—if he should find favor in your eyes, it would give me great satisfaction. He is wealthy. He owns a beautiful estate not far from the city; and it would be a great comfort to me to have you so pleasant- ly settled, while thus, Ruby, I could always have you near me.” “Robert!” cried the young girl, with a startled, crim- son face, ‘‘1 have never thought of anything like that, Iam not yet eighteen years old, and—and. x “I know, dear, that. you are very young, and under any other circumstances I would not have spoken so plainly. But I have eyes. I can see that Mr. Carpenter will not be content to remain long in a state of single blessedness, if he can gain the prize that he covets, and so, Ruby, I have sald this that you may not be taken unawares. There was another and stronger reason why Robert Gordon had tried to sound his sister’s feelings. From time to time he had warnings that all was not as well with him as he could wish, or as it should be with a man of his years. Severe pains in his left side, certain sensations as if his heart suddenly turned over and then ceased its ac- tion entirely, made him fear that he might not remain long in the world to care tor his beautiful, orphaned sis- ter, and he experienced a strong desire to have her happily settled in life before any ill should overtake him and thus leave her without a protector and at the mercy of unprincipled fortune-hunters. He had been correct in his suspicions, Edmund Car- penter had resolved to win lovely Ruby Gordon for his wife, if possible. She was not only beautiful in form and feature, charm- ing in manner, winning every heart by her sweetness, piquancy, and grace, but nobility itself in character and principle. He had been astonished, as his acquaintance with her progressed, at the depth of thought which she manifested, the intellectual ability that she displayed and the lofty sentiments which pervaded her conver- sation and shone forth in all her deeds and bearing. He had never met any one like he,r and. he had set his whole heart upon making her his wife andthe mistress of his elegant home. ‘ : With this object-in view, it is not strange that he sought to mask the baser elements of his own nature, carefully governing his language and deportment, when in her presence, and exerting every art and fascination of which he was master to achieve his cherished pur- pose. (TO BE CONTINUED.) —____ > @<—____—_ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.} A Detee Ve Dy (hance: A CHASE ROUND THE WORLD. By MARIPOSA WEIR, Author of “The Wickedest Man in the Mines,” etc. (‘A DETECTIVE BY CHANCE” was commenced in No.7. Back oumbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XL. And he reeled backwar ; tonishment and dismay; while, almost in the Sanvér moment, a dark, thickset man of some fifty years— though he appeared more than ten years younger— stepped across the low window-sill into the room. The intruder’s shaggy. beetling brows, and the malignant, ferret-like eyes. which scintillated like sparks of greenish colored flame glistening far back in the bosom of some dismal cavern, were indeed sufficiently repulsive, without the added ugliness ‘which his square, massive lower jaw and coarse mouth, with its severe, angular lines, gave to a ye y O ie ‘ another blow. was safer to make their attack where the gigantic gray- beard swung his ponderous weapon, or where flashed the cimeters of that terrible swordsman and his un- daunted comrade. ; Mustapha himself seemed disconcerted by the unex- pected turn the affair had taken. But he felt the necessity of doing something\to encourage his hesitat- ing band. \ “There are but three‘of them,” he said, in a low tone; “shall they keep twenty of us at bay? Upon them, all together! Fifty piastres to him who cuts down the first man !” Ray of t Thus stimulated, the Nubians advanced to the attack, whirling their cimeters aroand. their heads, and en- veloping the devoted three ba circle of flashing steel. But still they seemed reluctant to come to close quar- ters with theirredoubtable antagonists, and fought with caution. For several culatfites blade clashed against blade ; blows were struck anil parried, but no wounds inflicted. The assailants moyed round and round the little phalanx, seeking in vaiii for an opening. Stand- ing shoulder to shoulder, facing every way; cool, skill- ie wary, and alert, the three'still held their enemies at ay. ¢ benef At length one long-armed.)sinewy fgllow, naked to theewaist, ventured within reach,cf D’Kstree’s weapon, when the latter, advancing apace: with a sudden and rapid movement, thrust him through the ody, using his cimeter as a rapier, and spraig back to his place, as the man fell mortally wounded. Mustapha gnashed his teeth with rage, and swingin his long cimeter round dis’ head, advanced 'towar Juan, as if determined ai mething ae Yet it a ee te ee ee his tury did not deprive him of caution. h his eyes fixed upon those of his antagonist, watching his slight- est movenient, he approached until just within the reach of his unwieldy battering-ram, and brandishing his blade endeavored to provoke an attack, holding him- Self ready to spring back in fime to avoid the stroke, and then to rush in and cut down the Californian before he could arrest the sweep of his ponderous weapon tor accustomed to every species of combat practiced by civilized or savage men to falla victim to so simple a stratagem. ; ~ “No, you don’t !” he muttered, shaking his head, with a scornful laugh of derision, _**What do you take me for, ° unts and erokydiles! why you foolish nigger ? at. ses yer SO can’t yer come a litt V bashiul? Whatiees irth ? That ain’t bizness, that “aint, a standin’ thar grinnin’ like a laftin’ hyeny and shakin" your cheese knife. What are yer afeard on? You ougater be ashamed of yerself. You're the biggest nigger the lot, and you oughter set the rest of the gang a bétter example, Why don’t yer walk right up ?” : Mustapha’s features worked strangely, as the Califor- nian uttered these jibes of deiiance. “Look out for him, Juan}” said Irke, in a voice of warning. “If he once gets'past the end of your club he'll have you ata @ Vantage.” ; “Let him come on!” ansWw¢red Juan, “I'll try to take keer of him when I git him af close quarters. But he’s too bashful. He’s the most modestest nigger I ever sot eyes on.” {v The words were non es of his mouth, when But Juan was too old a ie and had been too long > = the dragoman, who, notwithstanding his enormous bulk,-was as nimble as a wthonkey, made a. prodigious bound toward Juan. The latter had been expecting this attack, and was not taken by surprise, but still the Nubian, by his extraomMinary agility. had got so far within the range of Juah’s clumsy weapon, that when caught by its sweep, he was not struck by its end, and consequently the Blow was not attended by serious consequences. He Was, nevertheless, borne to the ground, and Juan, dr the upturned root, drew his knife and darted the prostrate drago- man, with hate and vengeafce in his eye, eager to in- flict upon him the just penalty for his treachery. ° But the fated hour of ‘‘Musfapha the Swift” had not yet ome. He Saw the eager app op ch of the fierce avenger, and without attempting to tisé to his: feet, rolled over and over like a teetotum,.wif} wonderful rapidity, until he had spun himself into site, st of his band, while the baffled and astonishet returned to his post. And now there was anothpr pause on the part of the assailants. Those who were eed urged those in front to advance; but the latter ‘siank from encountering those terrible adversaries who faced them so unflinch- ingly, and who seemed to pdssess nore than mortal skill and prowess. t aN Mustapha, breathless with exertion, and all bedrag- gled with dirt, regained hisfeet, and saw at a glance that his band, notwithstanding their superiority in numbers, were thoroughly disheartened. For an instant he stood apparently irresolute, in a listening attitude. Then heseemed to have arrived at some sudden determination. “Come !'F he cried; ‘‘it is time to end this at any risk!” And drAwing a revolver trom his breast, he leveled it full at Jyan, and advanced with deliberation, as it about te fire. / ; ° A TERRIBLE, BUT UNEQUAL COMBAT. La ty compan hd riod been surrounded. Gormlay, knowing him to be a mere adventurer, was bad enough. but to continue the acquaintance since he has become a rebel against his soverei and atraitorto his ecountry—a proclaimed o with a price upon his hexd—is simp] and in conflict alike with deceu: the land.” He ceased foras , and witha tre ‘nding down, he grasped “~UnCH Cc, none ‘in the that influenced him, for Ruby weuld have these if se never married at all; but he had been pleased with - the young man, and although he knew there was con- siderable difference in their ages, yet he argued that he was all the better calculated to take care of her from that very fact. He had always said he would never dictate to her in a matter so important to her interests; she should be free to choose for herself—to decide regarding her own happiness, and he would have sanctioned her choice of any worthy and honorable man, without regard to pos- Sessions or station. Once or twice he attempted to sound Ruby regarding her sentiments toward her suitor. “It seems to me that young Carpenter is getting . Ca ‘ ¥ ‘: was not Edmund Carpenter’s wealth and position quite friendly in this neighborhood, Ruby,” he remarked, }: with significant emphasis, one evening after the gentle- man had made a protracted call.* “Oh, he only dropped in to bring mea book that we were talking about the other day,” Ruby responded, but with a little extra color in her cheeks. “Isn't it a trifle strange, petite, that you should prefer his society to that of others nearer your own age ?” asked Mr. Gordon, bending a searching glance upon the fair face that was so dear to him. “J jike people who talk sensibly to me, Robert,” she returned, with an expressive shrug of her pretty shoul- ders, “Sensibly ?” he echoed, in surprise. “Yes, most of the young men whom I meet in society talk such nonsense.” “Such as what, for instance ?” “Oh, about my hair, my eyes, my ‘pretty feet,’ and ‘lovely dancing,’ comparing them with somebody else’s imperfections, and allmanner of absurd chatter. I de- Spise flattery and compliments;” “Oh, Ruby! when you alwayscome to me to be told how pretty you look, before you go anywhere, and seem to like it, too!” retorted her brother, roguishly. “Well, of course,” She answered, laughing and blush- ing, ‘‘you love me, and you always mean what you say.” “True,” replied Mr. Robert Gordon, with an amused ter’s conversation differ ?” “He talks to meas if he thought I possessed some brains ; aSif “he imaginedI could think of something besides dress, and dancing, and gayety. Heis fond of music; so am {. Hecan tell you the name and some- thing of the history of almost any eminent composer. He knows a good deal about arts and artists. Then it is really quite like a review lesson to hear him talk upon history, both modern and ancient, while the standard authors are like household names to him.” “You enjoy his society then ?” *Y-es; I enjoy talking with him. It isa relief after listening to the small talk of some of the others.” This was rather doubtful praise, Mr. Gordon thought; not at all whafa young girl should bestow upon the man whom spe was learning to love. But he was not satisfied to Qfop the subject just yet. < nter stands well, Ruby. He is rich, hand- d well educated, and I suspect that you are very much favored by his attentions. I feel rather proud of his preference for you.” Ruby blushed at this, but looked grave. Yes, he is well educated and rather good-looking, and he is\pleasant company,” she said, musingly ; ‘but % “Well, but what ?” questioned her brother, watching her expregsion closely. “T am not quite sure that he is a very good man,” was the rather startling reply. «What /'do you mean bythat, petite? I have never heard a word against Mr. Carpenter's character.” “Of course not; neither havel. But, somehow, when he gets to talking upon some subjects he expresses him- self in a way that I do not like. He is hard and cynical. He is not sympathetic and charitable, as I think every good man should be, and he is sometimes overbearing and-—and not just kind toward people in humble circum- “You must not be too critical, Ruby.” ar “No, Lhope I am not, Robert,” replied the young girl, ‘fting her earnest face to her brother, ‘‘but I believe I have high ideals. I could never really like or respect any one who was not noble and good at heart. I might enjoy @ man’s society because of his intellectual ability ; but I could not admit such a one to my confidence and friendship, if he were not possessed of honor, integrity, and kindness of heart.” “And do you consider that Mr. Carpenter is devoid of those attributes ?” “T shouid not like to say just that, Robert, and yet he Says and does a good many things that jar upon me.” Robert Gordon was surprised. His sister was show- ing him a new phase of character to-day. He had no idea that she possessed so much penetration ; that she was in the habit of thinking and reasoning so pro- foundly, or of weighing the character and motives of people so nicely. He knew that she was good and kind and gracious to- ward every one; but he had always believed that it was . ndous effort tore it up by thevroots, heavy with the ra earth massed around them./ Then seizing it by the fop with both hands, hej aru the ponderous weapef round him with such rapidify and force that the assailants who were rushing upon jim shrank back to keep clear of its tremendous sweep. One of them, however, was a second too late; the earth-bound root caught him on the shoulder, and over- threw him as if he had been smitten by a battering- ram. With a movement rapid as that of an eagle pouncing upon its prey, Irke darted to the spot, seized the fallen man by the wrist, wrenched his cimeter from his grasp, and stepping back a pace, clove him to the chin with a terrible downright stroke as he strove to regain his feet. As the'man fell a corpse at his feet, Irke turned, just in time to see two stalwart Nubians with their cime- ters uplifted over D’Estree’s head in the act to strike. There was this difference between Irke and his friend. Both were brave, both skilled with their weapons; but D’Estree, without a weapon, was helpless; and when he To associate with Robert — aN sprang to a young | found himself unarmed, surrounded by a throng of fierce assailants, resistance seemed vain, and he prepared to | die with fortitude. He could not fight; he would not } fiy; and folding his arms, he calmly taced his enemies, | with unflinching eyes, and the dignity of a courageous | spirit that will neither shrink nor quail in the presence of the inevitable. Irke, on the other hand, conscious of matchless phys- ical strength and activity, and trained from his earliest boyhood in all manly exercises, strong of hand, quick of eye, and abounding in resources for every emergency, was of a disposition which no danger, however sud- den, could disturb. From his very nature he could not yield to despair while the breath of life remained in his body. Overmatched as they were, his heart had not for | a moment failed him. He perceived at a glance that the Nubians had no fire-arms, and he understood, with the quickness of a flash of lightning, that they would not have ventured upon an attack so near a traveled highway, with weapons the noise of which would betray the bloody deed which they had undertaken. It was necessary that their work of assassination should be done ‘quickly and silently.” So rapid were his movements that, even as he turned, a blow from his cimeter struck the weapon of one of D’Estree’s assailants from his hand, throwing it to the distance of nearly twenty feet. Then the point of his blade sank, and rose again with a motion too swift for the eye to follow—rose just in time to intercept the | weapon of the second assailant as it was descending, with the full force of a sinewy arm, upon D’Estree’s head. The blades clashed as they met with the loud clang of a hammer upon an anvil. Then Irke’s turned, and as the Nubian’s was lifted for another blow, he was almost cleft in twain at the waist by a whirling back- stroke, to which his terrible antagonist imparted not only the whole strength of his iron wrist and arm, but also the weight of his body, swinging himself more than half round. with the impetus and momentum of the mighty effort. As the man who had been disarmed recoiled in terror to regain his weapon, D’Estree snatched up the cimeter of the dying wretch who lay at his feet almost dis- severed by that prodigious back-stroke, and the two friends sprang to the spot where Juan stood like a Titan, holding his foes at bay with the ponderous implement of ee that he had torn from the bosom of the earth. “Back to back !” cried Irke, in a voice that rang with encouragement and defiance—“Back to back, com- rades, facing the assassins on every side, so that they cannot stab us from behind. We will show them, in spite of the odds, that we will not die like sheep.” All this had passed with inconceivable rapidity. Irke’s watch had not ticked twenty seconds since the treacher- ous dragoman gave the signal for the attack by drop- ping the stone into the pool; yet already two of the assailants lay dead or dying beside it, and the destined victims stood unharmed. in an attitude of formidable resistance, They occupied the center of the only spot near the spring that was free from rocks and trees—a small cir- cular space, less than twenty-five feet in diameter. There, Shoulder to shoulder, in a little triangle, just far enough apart to allow their weapons free play without interfering with one another, they stood facing the foes that encircled them, and awaiting their attack with no sign of trepidation though so fearfully outnumbered. The Nubians had observed with amazement, not un- mingled with awe, the prodigious exertion of strength by which Juan had uprooted the date-tree, and the ap- parent ease with which he handled it, as if it were a willow wand. And they had been equally impressed by the marvelous force and skill with which Irke wielded his cimeter. They had expected to surprise their vic- tims and cut them down without resistance, but they were now called upon to face quite a different pro- gramme. No wonder that they hesitated in doubt whether it .” said the latter; »withed bitter laugh. “If that’s. ne, it’s all up with t&.. we might as well pass checks. Clubs and eutlasses air no match for six- 8, and the smartest fencer that ever slung’a iron can’t ward off }oullet.” oo d before now they fatality should are at Sh a intervene——” . ? = * Da Ponte raised his hand wih a.warning gesture and glanced toward the page, wh looked pale as a specter, and seemed strangely agitate: Giorno arrested himself suddenly. “You may go, Stefano,” he said, ter, boy? You look ih” “Indeed, sir,” returned the page, in a feeble and broken voice, ‘‘I am farfrom well, I have always, from “What is the mat- ao .e- © + —______ 4 QUEER CUSTOMS. The modes of salutation among savages are very cu- rious. Kissing, which seems so natural to civilized people, is quite unknown to Australians, New Zeal- anders, Papuans,’Esquimaux and other races. The Poly- nesians and Malays sit down when speaking toa supe- | rior ; in South Africa,the natives turn their backs in simi- S; while some tribes in the Neilgherry “Zook cup and brush your and a an “SPECS Boap Pl be your briae Sea “LT will; but if,” cried Dan, 4_ “You razor hope you will dispel, There'll beara death, you'll gee; And if there’s scrape on my déor-bell, My chair will empty be.” “JT do not shampoor fellow,” said Miss Barbara, perplexed ; Oil though when your first wife is dead, You'll quickly cry for ‘Next !” Whispering Stones. Among the first curiosities shown at the Washington Capitol are the whispering stones in the Statuary Hall, my childhood, been accustomed to abundant exercise and fresh air, and the continement to which I have of | late been subjected is affecting my health. I think, sir, I should feel much better it [ were permitted to walk | for an hour or so in the garden, instead of being locked up in my room.” , “I should fancy,” said Da. Ponte, suspiciously, <‘that | it would be a very bad thing for an invalid to stroll about in the middle of the day beneath an Egyptian | sun. By and by, when it is cooler, you shall have the | run of the garden for an heur, if you wish; and to make | your promenade more agreeable, you shall have my | company.” a The page shot toward the’’peaker a glance of deadly hate, and seemed about to appeal to Giorno, when the latter said: ; “Go now, Stefano, and make. your preparations for a | journey. Weshall leave Cairo this evening. And say | to Signora Spagnoli that I wa speak with her for a | moment.” ; S The page still lingered. His features worked strange- ly. as if he were suffering from keen distress or over- Whelming terror. His lips parted as if he were about to | speak ; then, appearing to make a strong effort to col- lect himself, he bowed to Giorno, and turned quickly to | leave the room. “Not so fast, good Master Stefano!” said Da Ponte, | rising. ‘I will accompany you, at least so far as to the door of the signora’s apartment. And when you have delivered your message, I will see you to your own room, where you had better.attend to your preparations for the journey.” Stefano made no reply, and Da Ponte attended him to the apartments on the second fioor occupied by the signora and her charge. When the page, after rapping at the outer door, was admitted, Da Ponte awaited him in ine corridor, and when he came out walked by his side to his own room. There Stefano paused, and eying his companion du- biously, asked: “Are you going to lock me in ?” “Most certainly, fair youth. Wherefore not? You have your packing to attend to, and will have no time for promenading.” ‘Signor Da Ponte,” cried the page, in tearful tones, “why do you persecute me in this unmanly way? Of what evil do you suspect me ?” “IT have no time to bandy words with you,” answered e@ page © uly through the door, Da Ponte, pushing” e : out the key and which he then putting it into hi eet een. As the sound of his footsteps receded along the cor- ridor, the page clasped his+iands as if in the bitterest anguish, and lifting his eyes to heaven, exclaimed, in accents of despair : f ‘Holy Virgin! this is too horrible! What shall I do? What shallIdo? Alas! I can do nothing!” Uttering these broken exclamations, he fell on his knees by the side of his bed and gave way to a passion of tears. But this despairing mood was of short duration. “Good heavens!” he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, ‘what a miserable coward I am! Why did I not break away from that cold-blooded murderer, Giorno, as we passed through the streets? What prevented me? Nothing but my own feeble heart. He could not have pursued me. J will not remain here a prisoner while this bloody deed is being done. I will at least make an effort to warn the victims.” So saying, the page went to his window and looked down into the garden, The distance to the ground was little more than twice the eight of aman. There was no one in sight. Throwing open the blind, he let himself drop from the window. Then with a light but rapid step he made his way to the end of the garden, where he threw him- self down, trembling with excitement, behind a great clump of callas. From this place of concealment he could see the gate of the garden and the front entrance of the house. Not a human being was to be Seen, and the silence of mid- night reigned on every side, “I have no time to lose,” he murmured to himself, <‘for Imay be missed at any moment. And now, may the Virgin protect and aid mel, With this fervent ejaculation he began to steal cau- tiously along the garden wall, keeping himself as much concealed as possible by the shrubbery until he reached the gate. Peeping stealthily through the foliage, he | the hall. which used to be the Old House of Representatives. ‘There are several sets of these stones. A person stand- ing on one can hear a second person whisper, if that per- son is on the corresponding stone on the other side of One of the most curious of these stones is the capture. long distance one. The stone is near the north door of | the hall, while the person who talks must stand on the | threshold of the door-way of the south entrance, some twenty feet away. Any one Standing on the stone near the north door can hear the familiar whispers uttered | on the doorsteps of the south door. The other day a/ bride and groom were among the visitors. They were | from New York, and one of the groom’s friends was showing them around. Of course he was explaining the whispering stones to them. The bride was on the north stone, and the friend stood upon the steps of the | south door. He was whispering to her several ttle | things of interest about the hall. She had her back tw- ward him. @ <-_____——- EXAMINE YOURSELF. The more fully we come to understand the heart and life of any one, his motives and his aims, his purposes and plans, the more mysteries we discover. So the more we know of ourselves, the more we find that is inex- plicable and contradictory. Let any one who thinks he has fathomed his own nature and sounded ifs depths watch his daily life closely, and he will finda thousand fractures in the smooth and comprehensive ideal he has imagined to himself. He will be surprised at a heroism of which he had not thought himself capable, or he will be shocked at some meanness which he had Subpeeae impossible ; here he will discern marks of an ability of which he had not dreamed, and there he will pause in wonder to see how far short he falls of his own inten- tions. ' ——__——_ > 9+ WomMEN accomplish their best work in the quiet seclu- sion of the home and family by sustained effort and pa- tient perseverance in the path of duty. The influence they exercise, even though it be unrecorded, lives after them, and in its consequences forever. AGE is not to be feared ; the older a good and healthy person grows, the greater becomes his capacity to enjoy the deeper, sweeter, and more noble kinds of happiness which the world affords. Ae Prery and virtue are not only delightful for the present, but they leave peace and contentment behind them. RicHEs either serve or govern their pessessor, ARROGANCE is the obstruction of wisdom. : Mies Be SAL ann Oey ae Ce Os PETE ee ge et emer tne h etinee ener == ie £ ae lp _1. {its story WILL Nor BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] : The be ( ; iN ‘THE FALSE HEIRESS. - gome definite plan. ~~ heavily. VOL. 42—No. 21. eeaiowenecnin —_—— seein ~ WHEN FIRST THY SMILE. ‘BY TOM GIBBONS. When first thy smile upon me fell— That morning long ago— Within the calm and peaceful dell, Where grew the purple sloe, The flowers that decked the verdant plain Were beautiful, | vow; — But not a flower in all the train Looked half so fair as thou. Thine eyes were like twin meteors bright, Thy cheeks twin roses red, Thy hair like clouds in darkest night In wavy ringlets s: Ld ; Thy glance was like the smile of morn When summer skies are gay ; Thy bosom like the milky thorn That blossomed on our way. The lark, from out the clear blue sky, : Sweet welcome sang to thee ; Ry The linnet on the alder high " Rejoiced thy smile to see ; The usa thy virgin sighs ; On light wings bore along, _.. And at the glory of thine eyes a The woods broke forth in song. a ~~ Tis long since then, and yet to n Thou seem’st as young and fair As when, beneath the shelt’ - I breathed my ardent prayer. Thy glance as then is soft and kind, Thy smiles as sweetly rise ; And now, as then, my love, I find A heaven in thine eyes. ‘ Ot the Palace; OR By LENA T. WEAVER. (“% <6 BELLE OF THE PALACE” was commenced in No. 11. Back nx.ambers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] ‘| He could not, for the life of him, have told whether he CHAPTER XXV. A BOLD STROKE FOR LIBERTY. All nigh, ong the Indians rode like furies, and Vail, securely strapped to his horse, cursed and shouted in vain. His captors seemed to take a savage joy in listening prance - to his oaths, though it is extremely doubtfulif they un- derstood his style of profanity. At daylight they halted, and making a fire, cooked some venison steak, and offered some to Vail, who sul- lenly refused to touch it. They rested two or three hours, and then took horse again, and it seemed to Vail, who was pretty well con- versant with the lay ot the land in that vicinity, that they doubled on their course, and were going back in the direction from which they had come. What object they had in thus doing, Vail gould not di- vine. but during some years’ residence am them, he had no difficulty in believing that they were working out And in spite of their numbers, and in spite of the ap- parent hopelessness of his case, he expected to be able to outwit them yet. It is surprising how much may be brought about by a stern determination not to yield to circumstances; and yf any man doubts the influence of mind over matter, let him set himself, ‘for all he is worth,” firmly against a certain thing, and the chances are that he will succeed | in conquering it. 5 So Vail set himself against fate, as he had aone ae } times before. He did not lose heart; he meant to tri- umph over his captors, and have the story to tell to his ‘The captain and th gineer evidently accepted their gang of desperadoes when he should rejoin them. ng’ ment as a tacif fact, and would edge awesy and | As time drew. on, he was tully satisfied t they were \feave fhe yoting peop alone. Mrs. Courtney did the | returning toward the Jumper tosion where. d Jake was sane, Se 7 coe locaved, Aue XN | 4 e Var tat Wy wasco ve} The On OF lover was forced’ CPoL ehpr delivered into the hands of his enemy, and that his fate | he iiked it or not: i pee , was to be decided by the man he had wronged—only he | knew how deeply. ‘ 5 The thought that Theodore Chester was to sit in judg- | ment over him filled him with fury. He would rather | be roasted alive by the Indians,.for he rememberea how much cause Chester—alias old Jake—had to hate him. As the night shadows fell the party, having reached a sheltered ravine, stopped, tethered their horses, fed them from the of grain they carried strapped to their saddles, and kindling a fire, prepared something to eat. Again they offered food to Vail, and again he refused. “Ugh!” grunted the leader; “starve to death, save ling! Indian have all the more meat!” and he pro- | eeeded to devour Vail’s portion with evident relish. A consultation was held by a half-dozen of the red- | skins, but they spoke in low voices, and Vail. could not | eatch the drift of their deliberations. That it regarded | himself he knew well enough. from the covert glances | ever and anon cast in his direction. After they had finished their talk, two of them exam- | ined the cords by which their prisoner was bound, and | evidently considering him perfectly safe for the night, | they threw a blanket over him, and all of them except | one, who was left on guard, lay down tosleep. | They bad clear consciences, if sound sleep be any in- | dication, for in twenty minutes they were all breathing | The sentinel, alert and watchful, paced slowly ) back and forth with noiseless tread. | Vail, under the shelter of the blanket, had been work- | ing on the cords which held his hands, and being some- | thing of an expert at untying knots, he found that with | a slight effort he could get his hands free; and this ac- | complished, it would be short work with the cords that | pound his ankles. But the camp-fire shed too much | light abroad to make it safe for him to disengage him- self as yet; he must wait until the brands burned lower. | Wearily the time passed on. ‘The moon, now inits last quarter, came up from out of the line of forest on the dis- tant hills, and black clouds quickly obscured its light. A storm was brewing. Lower and lower burned the fire, flaring up now in fitful gleams, and then dying away inblackness. At last the sole remaining stick fell down black lifeless, and nothing but the coals and ashes were lett. The sentinel Indian had seated himself on a hummock, and with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, was taking his vigil as comfortably as he could, evidently thinking that all was secure, and thinking it was best for him to get his “beauty sleep” while he could. Vail, with eager, burning eyes, ping from beneath a corner of his blanket, watched the scene and took note of the situation. Very cautiously he released his hands, and drawing a clasp knife from his breast, with one blow he cut the cords around his ankles. He was at liberty. TFuily realizing the risk he ran, he crept out from under the blanket, and crawling closely crouched on the ground like a snail, he worked his way noiselessly to where the Indian sat, half awake and half asleep. Swiftly and silently Vail rose behind him, and his heavy d descended on the coee word ee ia or a groan fell over in a shapeless heap, an to the ground and listened. No sound except the restless stamping of > Lape and the gut- tural breathing of the sleepers. Their last night's vigil had told on them, and they were sleeping it off with a eance. r roughly satisfied, Vail arose to his feet and making his circuit among the horses selected one which he had particularly noticed during his torced journey, and de- cided that he was a beast of great strength and endur- anee. He cast back a longing look at the sleeping savages. “The cursed redskins!” he muttered, ‘1 should like to scalp half a dozen of them to show the survivors how well 1 could do it, and as a slight token of my esteem for em; but time presses and I forbear. Now, then, m beauty,” to the horse, “we will see what we are bot made of.” The animal, a powerful black meee with a vicious eye, anda pair of ears that showed his fiery temper, reared violently as Vail mounted him, but he found that a master’s hand held his bridle, and he was constrained to come uct down to four legs again. Vail pl spurred heels into the animal’s sides, and with a mad leap they were off, followed by the plaintiff whinnying of the dozen other horses left behind. One of the Indians, more wakeful than the others, sed himself on his elbow and looked around. He saw the blanket out of which Vall had crept lying in a heap in the aaa il had been left, and taking it for anted that the prisoner was still there he dropped Back to his slumbers with a grunt of satisfaction. Meanwhile, Vail dashed on steadily toward the east— guided by the faint streak in the sky which showed where the beclouded moon lay—heeding nothing which stood in his way, intent only on placing distance between himself.and the Indians he had left behind. He knew enough of their nature to feel sure that if they pursued him and overtook him he would be shot on sight, and his ‘est chances for safety lay in getting as far away from pursuit as possible. : On and on he rode, the powerful horse he bestrode showing no signs of fatigue, through dell and dingle, over wide tracts of wind-swept country and across | $4 ‘where a man is concerned, and the finer and more patches of brushwood, always toward the east. — By and by the way seemed to grow to Vail strangely familiar, he felt sure that he had been there before. He a back his hat from his brow and peered around m. Surely he knew that ravine—wooded and somber—into which he was descending! Surely, at some time not very far remote, he had passed that lightning riven pine that stood a little apart by itself on a slight elevation, And then his horse, with a neigh of satisfaction, leape forward and struck into a path over which horses ha recently passed and logs had been dragged. Vail suppressed a cry of surprise. Yes, there could be no mistake; he was in the path leading to the Sajnts’ Rest—the lumberman’s cabin. : A nameless thrill swept through Vail at this discovery. was glad or sorry. Certainly he had not taken the route woe with this end in view, but fate had led him er. And Vail, like most other great villains, believed to a certain degree in fate. A man must believe in something, and if not in God, then he believes in fate, or chance, or whatever he pleases to call it. “Well,” said Vail to himself, as he drew the pony into a slow walk, ‘‘a few days ago I barely escaped hanging through having been caught fooling around this place ; to-night I have escaped the saints know what, and now I have been led back here agajn. And here's to taking a look at the surroundings. There is nothing like know- ing just how the land lies.’ He dismounted in a little thicket and tethered his horse. He stood a moment with his hot forehead bared to the cold winds, deliberating. What was he to gain by the risk he was taking ? What purpose would it serve him to cross the track of Theodore Chester again? The girl he had called Mary White was probably dead by this time. Dead? and how? He shuddered slightly as the thought crossed him and suggested to his mind the question. Well, it was but another crime added to the Jong score inst him—but a little more to be balanced at the final settlement—and he did not greatly believe in final settlements, either. And yet away down in his black heart there arose a something which spoke to him and told him as plain as words, that the ‘‘wages of sin is death.” i He could not have told where he had heard the ex- pression—he might have read it in some old book, he might have heard it at his mother’s knee in that fair home beyond the sea—but it came back to his memory, and he dashed it away with a smothered curse. “Bah! I am squeamish as any old woman! If it suited my purposes and interests to take this petted heiress from her home and give her a taste of a rougher kind of life untill she came to her senses, well and good. And if she declined to come with me peace- ably, I could only compel her in the best way I could. And that, too, was weil and good. So, my tair Lady Lucia, your trouble was all brought about by your own contumacy. I wash my hands of it.” He stepped cautiously along the snow-covered ground, and following the path, soon came in sight of the lum- bermen’s cabin. A faint light gleamed from the small window, making a golden gleam on the white snow. Vail paused and looked well around him. Everything was quiet. No sound broke on the still night air, save now and then the sharp cracking of the ice wrought upon by the frost, or the falling of a broken twig on the hard crust. : He stepped to the window of the cabin and looked in. For amoment he could not see clearly, the interior ae - dim,.and then he was able to discern things plainly. The doors and windows were tightly shut, for the warm weather of a few days before had given place to a hard freeze, and a great fire burned on the hearth of the cabin. The rude bed stood just where it had been when he saw it last, and stretched out upon it he saw the shape of the motionless form under the coverlet. Rosine, wrapped in a shaw], sat leaning, pale and with closed eyes, against the logs which tormed the walls of the cabin, and by her feet, with his nose against her knee, crouched the great watch-dog, too much absorbed in his mistress’ sorrow to listen for the steps outside which gave forth no echo. And Vail stood and gazed silently into the room, and through his brain there rang the question he had put so many times to himself during the last few days: “Ts she dead ?” CHAPTER XXVI. MRS. COURTNEY IS MADE HAPPY. A day of rest and treedom from excitement quite restored Mrs. Courtney's mental and physical equi-. librium, and Theresa Otis, having behaved like a hero- ine while in danger could not well do otherwise when danger was past. — : The more he saw of Theresa the more Reade Courtney | admired her, and the more he respected the taste and | judgment of his mother. He acknowledged to himself j that he ought to fallin love @ith her, and marry her, and | he wondered a little why the falling in love process did | not come about. He had saved her life, he had been in the water with her, with only a plank to cling to, and | according to all established precedents, he ought to; hasten to offer to make her Mrs. Courtney. One of the boats hag reached a neighboring island, | and a large number @f the steamer’s crew were in it. The loss of life had not ‘been so heavy as had at first ap- peared. * In a day or two a vessel bound for the coast of Florida | would touch at the island for fruit, and it was expected | that she would take those of the wrecked steamer’s | company who wished to go on board. Mrs. Courtney was the most anxious one of the com- | pany. She had had enough of sea voyages, she said, | if she could only set her foot on the solid continent of | America, she would never trust herself on salt water | again. ‘No, not even to cross the ferry !’ she emphati- | cally declared, when Reade laughingly asked her to make that exception. But what about her health ? and the cough which had demanded a sojourn in a warmer climate than Boston ? She was perfectly well, she declared. Her cough had been absorbed and spirited away, while she had floated in the Atlantic, and if it had not, she would rather die in Boston than live anywhere else. And as this is the view ot the average Bostonian, there is nothing particularly strange in Mrs. Courtney’s choice. Reade was always reacy to humor his mother’s whims, and Theresa made no objection to returning. So, when the vessel came, she bore away to the Florida coast our three voyagers, and left the others who had survived sible. There is not another girl in the world like Theresa !” j “Tf will go and smoke now,” said her son, glancing out of the window upon the distant ocean sleeping darkly beneath the murky light of the soft southern skies. ‘so Cr *Good-night, my son. I hope you will think of what I have said.” A “J will think of it,” he answered, quietly, as he stepped out on the piazza, and from thence wandered slowly down to the Shell-stfewnh shore, where the lazy waves lapped the sands as if they had all eternity to do it in, and the sleepy south Windswept up in fitful puffs, and died away in languid repose. Reade Courtney lighted a cigar, and slowly paced back and forth across the sands. The night drew on. The mists rose whitely from the, water ; the Southern Cross got higher in the heavens} .but still he kept up his ramp. eI He was thinking with desperate energy. He was thirty years of age, heir to a large fortune and an old and honorable hame. Half of his life was doubtless gone. eae He owed it to his old family—to his ancestors, if you will—to marry, and leave behind him sons and daugh- ters to keep up the ent name. His mother was right. He had idied away life longjenough. He had _ lived selfishly for himself; it was time now that he began living for others. j And what was to prevént him from pleasing his mother? For surely, it he married, he thought, he was not doing it to please himself. He had been in love—at least he had called it by that-name—many times in the course of his life, but it had in all cases scarcely sur- vived a week’s absence. : 2 His heart, if he had one—and he supposed he had, or his vital machinery would stop-—-was as yet untouched by woman. \ Then, why not marry Theresa Otis, always suppos- ing that she would accept hirn? for Reade Courtney was not vain enough to hnagine, as many young men do, that he could have any woman for the askin He glanced back at Motel. “A sin the second floor was lig fwas hey window. He had seen her leaning. his # ¢, and was she also keeping vigil? ~~ at te ; Did she, indeed, care for hin ? or had the biased judg- ment of aftond mother fancied that necessarily all-wo- men must see Reade Courtney, with his mother’s partial eyes ? ‘2 Sap Then the young man’s mind reverted to his stay in St. Paul, and the attendant qircumstances. Again he saw the glitter of the Ice Palace, again he saw the bright and varied costumes of fhe merry-makers, again he razen instruments as the bands struck up, and again he saw the lovely face and form of Lucia Ashleigh as he Rad seen it then—as he had seen it when she lay. fora moment helpless and wounded in his arms—and the old hot tide of passion swelied up in his heart full, aad strong, and masterful. A something no other woman had ever wakened in him—a something no other 4 f gle window on : woman would ever again waken. “T did not come here to do so to his feet, “I came here to Ask ; eae I came here to * my wife? ae She also started to her feet, and regarded him with a look of surprise. “Your wife, Mr. Courtney ? Laid not kiiow that you “Why, no, of course you ote he said, warmly, Le fas ng? .” he said, starting something, Miss yyou if you will had even thought of such a t) being resolved, now that he ha@ decided on his course, to be inearnest about it; ‘‘but Lhave had some chances of getting acquainted with you since Ivyhave seen you— such chances as do not often occur in ordinary inter- course. My dear girl, you know all about my follies, no doubt ; you know my latest infatuation at St. Paul, and it is my privilege to tell you that my heart is all my own again. mother loves you; you are worthy of the devotion of the best man in the world, and of all the women I have ever met, you are the only one to whom I would put this question—will you be my wife 2” , citted tint, With the fto fe sent.*- Who Is 107 clock, and that his] qaricer? She's, a stunner, anyway. | | 1 the reading line does not | | the handwriting of his friend and ked pat the wip—y Ake the hotel, and past | ~ the excitement and | | and at «ata THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $= He took her hand and looked down upon the beauti- ful, high-bred face, and saw underneath the pure white skin the faint pmk flush which crept up to her cheek. She lifted her great dark eyes and met his earnest gaze. “Why do you ask me this question, Mr. Courtney? Is it because you—you love me ?” “It is becauseI want you for my own,” he returned, warmly, for a Man must have been indeed a man of stone to have wooed Theresa Otis and not felt thrilled at the contact ; ‘‘it is because I want a lovely woman to sit at my table, to wear the family jewels, to bear the Courtney name, and to reign in my heart. I want you, Theresa—will you come ” He bent over her and held out hisarms. She sighed a little sigh of longing yet unsatisfied. He had not said that he loved her. Then she glanced up at him, and saw his dark face glowing, his deep eyes shining down upon her, and she let him draw her to his bosom and touch his lips to hers. A moment thus, and then she disengaged herself, and stood blushing like the morning. «Shall 1 tell my mother ?” Reade asked, as with tender hands he wrapped the shawl about her, for the wind was rising black and chill. “Tf you like.” “She will be so pleased! So delighted! Theresa, it Will be almost like living over her own youth again !” And so in eloquent silence these two young people went up the path to the hotel, and met Mrs. Courtney in the deserted ladies’ parlor. The few ‘last things” which had claimed her attention had waited, evidently. She was there to receive her children. Reade led Theresa directly up to her. ‘“Mother,” he said, ‘I have broOught you a daughter. I need not ask you to love her for her own sake, for that you do already, and I know you will love her for my sake, for she has promised to be my wife !” Mrs. Courtney’s earthly ambition was satisfied. In that moment she felt as if fate had given her every- thing that she could ask. Nothing more was needed. She took Theresa in her arms and kissed her again and again. : “My little love!” she said, fondly. ‘“May God bless you both! And I do believe that I am happier than either of you!” CHAPTER XXVII. THE MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW. Mr. Ashleigh, the banker, was in an almost distracted state of mind when his son led him back to the carriage. Lucia was lost again! Oh, Heaven! were all the old grief and trouble to be lived over again ?” Judge then of his delight and surprise when he saw Lucia sitting quietly among the fur robes, awaiting evi- dently the coming of her party. *‘My dearest girl!” cried the old man, ‘you gave us such a fright! We thought you had been again ub- ducted! Where have you been? Why did you leave us ?” He had taken her hand in both his own, aiid was lean- ing over her pale with excitement. She looked up at him with a quiet smile, and not an added touch of color in her beautiful face. “Why, father, you are surely getting nervous. You should have an occasional anodyne. I stepped aside to see the slides from a different point ——” “But St. Clair saw a disreputable looking man speak Me you. A short, thickset fellow, with bushy eye- rows P “Yes, 1 believe they are all short and thickset and possessed of bushy eyebrows,” said Lucia, lightly; ‘that is the description the novelists give of them, but unfor- tunately this man was Only acommon beggar. Beggars seem to have a knack of selecting me as their lawful prey.?” : «Well, well; Iam only too glad to see that nothing has happened to you, my dear. And now shall we drive turther or go home ?” «It is cold,” said Lucia, ‘and Iam hungry. home.” So the horses’ heads were turned toward home. On the way the conversation was gay and spirited. No one gave utterance to sallies more bold and witty than John St. Clair, but he was watching Lucia Ashleigh with strange interest, and the banker, who marked his ob- servent countenance, said to himself that the young Englishman was surely smitten with his daughter’s charms. When they arrived at Ashleigh House, St. Clair pleaded an engagement and declined to come in, and Edward drove him to his hotel. He went to his room, and flinging himself into an arm- chair before the grate, he fell into a fit of hard thinking. He sat there half an hour; then rousing himself he glanced at his watch. ; “It is time for the western mail to be in,” he said to himself, ‘and surely I ought to hear from Hardy by this time. I may be crazy on this matter of Miss Lucia Ash- leigh, but 1 want to solve my doubts, if possible. She tells me, her father telis me, several of her intimate friends tell me that she has never crossed the water—and yet! Could my eyes so deceive me? Are there, could there be in the world, two women so much alike ?” A moment later and his mail was brought in. turned over the pile eagerly and pounced upon a squgre package, bearing a Texan tmark, and addresse artner, Hardy Let us go fhe wrappers- anded wsquare past MDRAR Jonn: Herewith fi / Some favorite actress, or b Hope the sigha of her will do you good. Everything all right at the Gplt Ranch. Flocks and herds pees, % Weather mijd. Take care of yourself, old man, and don’t allow the sirens of St. Paul to bewitch you. Ta—ta. ‘HArRpDy.” St. Clair removed the cover of the box and took out the cig ofa woman in an ebony frame. It represented er at half length, leaning upon a desk, and with her right hand uplifted, while her left rested upon an open book. lt was the precise attitude which would be taken of a person being sworn to give testimony in a court of ustice. : St. Clair looked at the pictured face long and critically. The woman or girl, for she could have been scarcely more than seventeen, was wondrously, magnificently beautiful ; her eyes dark, luminous, and deep as wells, looked out from the frame fearlessly and met your own. The hair rippled around a low; full brow—the features were perfect—there was a half mocking smile on the soft lips which seemed almost ready to break out with a laugh of scorn. «It is Lucia Ashleigh over again!” said St. Clair. ‘She must have looked just like this picture when she was the age here represented ; and yetitcannot be! Itisutterly and entirely impossible !” He shut the picture up in the box impatiently, and went down to dinner. There is nothing more soothing to the distracted nerves of the average man than dinner. * * é: \ 2 picture you req That night, when the family of the banker were in bed, and the house was given over to darkness, forth from a side door there issued a figure of a womazn, | wrapped in a gray cloak. She paused a moment to look around her, and then walked rapidly down the street, he corner was joined by a tall man, who strode ; by her side. oticed that a little behind them, on the op- of the street, shielded by the darkness and on sile Neit. posite s the dept: ulster anda seal-skin cap well pulled down over his face. When the couple before him quickened their pace, he quickened his; when they lagged, he laggedalso. At length they reached a vacant lot, where trees and shrubs had been allowed to grow without the care of a pruning hand, and they turned aside and stood in the shadow of a brick wall which had once formed part of a stately | edifice, several years previously destroyed by fire. The man who was following them stepped lightly upon the other side of the wall, and remained stationary. “Well, Victorine,” said the woman’s companion, ‘have you brought the money 2?” “Only a part of it. What do you think? Do you think that the old banker’s house is full of gold, which | has to be swept out daily, like the dust? You are ex- tortionate” «How much have you brought ?” “Five hundred dollars; and that is money given me for anew dress and ornaments to wear at the wedding,” returned the woman, in a hard voice. “The wedding! Ido not understand,;you. Who is to be married, pray ?” “Mr. Edward Ashleigh.” «Ah, yes, [remember to have heard a whisper of it. And this marriage—is it going to dethrone you at Ash- leigh House? Will the new mistress be a mistress in- deed, or only a lay,figure? I should suppose that this question would be one of considerable importance to you.” Satie “Naturally it would. Miss May isa very beautiful and lovable girl, so I am told.” “But you know her, surely ?” “Oh, yes, I know her.” “And hate her, of course, as in duty bound. That is right. When does the event come off ?” “The twenty-sixth.” “So soon?” Why, it is onlya matter of eight or ten days.” “Exactly.” The man laughed softly. amusing. Then he said: “Victorine, I make no suggestion. I only ask a ques- tion. Why do you allow this happy event to take place ?” She started nervously, and grasped his arm. “Stop !” she said, sternly, ‘I will not hear it!” “As you like. But you must get me the other five hundred ; and very soon ; I am going away.” “Going away !—when ?” ‘What would you say if I should tell you that I con- template crossing the water, and perhaps in the course of time calling on my Lord Geoffrey. “Jt might be dangerous. You do not know how far his pridé of family might influence him, Would it be stronger, think you, than the hatred he so justly bears you ?” “T think it would. But hark you. Victorine. There is something I will say to you, but the very air must not listen. Bend your ear——” He whispered a few sentences rapidlyin her ear, the purport of which, though he strained every nerve to the utmost, the listener did not catch. The woman drew a short, convulsive breath. “T shall never feel safe again until the sea rolls be- tween us. And even then!—who can tell ?” “Trust me, Victorine. Your interest is mine, so long as the banker can be squeezed to disgorge his green- backs. But money 1 must have.” And arr I refuse to yield to your demands ?” “T think I have answered the question before. I give His thoughts were evidently nargileh passed about amongz the ladies of tix of the shrubbery, stalked a man in along | — ——— you the same answer to-night. I should blow on you to your respected father! Father! Ha! ha!” “Do you forget that I, also, could ‘blow’ upon you? What, think you, would your life be worth if I should open my lips to tell the world the half I cowld tell 2” “Not much, if they caught me. And on that I should take my chances. I have led the officers of justice many a wild chase, and I am still at liberty. But I have no fear of your ‘opening your lips,’ as youcallit, because my ruin would involve your own. Of course, I should feel obliged to indulge in reminiscences, and they would make vastly al tela. Vit for the papers which ne Peete = report criminal intelligence. Victorine, you and I are in one boat—it is for our good to pull together.” “And you will take her away with you?” asked the ere anxiously, changing the subject. **¥es.” ‘But how is she? What are the chances ? return to life and reason ?” “You ask me too much. I will answer no more ques- tions. Suffice it that she shall not trouble you. You are playing a bold game, and I admire you for it, and I would not break it up for the world.” «Shall Isee you again ?” «Possibly. To-morrow night I shall take the 8:20 train for St. Louis. I have business to transact there. After that I will see you again. And could you not get the other five hundred in two weeks’ time? 1 say, Victorine, how would it do to contrive another burglary ?” “Hush!” she said, sharply, ‘you forget there may be listeners.” “Listeners, indeed, in this place!” said the man, scornfully. ‘By the way, is it not. about time for that youg Boston cove, who was accused of cracking Papa Ashleigh’s crib, to come back and be tried? Ha! ha! it makes me laugh when I think what a thin job that was Will she ten syllables, and women who want the suffrage, and. you did it well, my Victorine.” The listener behind the wall softly brought his hand down on his leg, slapping himself in a congratulatory sort of way, in the absence of anybody else to slap. ‘will you not give usa kiss, my girl, in memory of the old times when we were young andinnocent? Ha! ha!” She.drew back from the arm he extended, with a ges- ture of disgust. “You talk folly, Rupert! You know. that the day for that sort o#thing was over long ago.” “As you like, my dear. I will let you know when I return from St. Louis. And I will leave you here.” He drew his cloak around him, and walked rapidly away. The woman stood looking after him a moment, and listening to the sound of his receding footsteps. “Curse him !” she cried, shaking her fists atter him in impotent rage, ‘he has been the bane of my life. I could kill him with a will!” And as she hurried away from the spot, the man who had listened behind the wall rose and stretched his cramped legs, and stepping out of the shadow, he went iy - nearest lamp-post, and looked at his watch by the ght. “‘Half-past twelve,” he said to himself, ‘‘and to-morrow night he takes the 8:20 for St. Louis, does he? Well, we Shall see.” And Mr. Detective Smith made his way back to his house. : (TO BE CONTINUED.) > Oo 4 — THE TURKISH HAREM. Some interesting information concerning the harem is given by Gen. Lew Wallace, ex-Minister to Turkey, in his very entertaining lecture on ‘“‘Turkey and the Turks.” We make a few extracts: Every Turkish house is divided into two parts, the selem-lik and the harem-lik. The selem-lik is that por- tion in which the master of the house receives his friends, where he sits and smokes and transacts his business ; the harem-lik is sacred to the ladies of the household. Only the master can enter there. When a Turkish lady marries and enters a harem she says farewell to her father and all her male relatives. Her subsequent situa- tion in respect of them is much the same as that of ladies who enter some of the well known religious institutions in America. 1 get my information concerning the Turkish harems from ladies who have begged my wife to take them to see a harem. When the ladies returned from one of these expeditions they always had plenty of opinions to exchange, and they sat in my parlor to exchange them. I, being interested in the subject of harems, listened. The stories were always the same. A person who had seen one harem had seen ali, one might say. Upon entering the harem of a pasha the ladies found it to be a spacious apartment strewn with carpets and rugs which age only made more precious, Silken por- tieres served for doors; there were confections of rose leaves and sweatmeats of various kinds, and the jeweled pasia’s.. adult ce of slaves, whitte ai were there, and musicians who played wret two stringed guitars and eon mandolins. ‘The were clad in airy gewns of silk and other colored fabrics, which draped beautifully. The mistresses of all this splendor lie amid fat pillows on divans; they pose beautifully; their feét are clad in gay slippers which look remarkably small peeping out trom the wide legged trousers, which match the slippers in color. A bright sash girdles the waist and a sleeve- less jacket of blue or crimson embroidered with seed pearls, completes the dress; diamonds are in the hair and ears and at the throat, the eyelids are darkened and the finger tipsand nailsare pink with henna. The ladies seem perfectly contented, so my intormarits say. I asked, among many others, the wife of a United States Senator, to give me a sample of the conversation. She said: ‘‘Well, they asked us where we came from, and we replied that we came from America, and they asked where America was, and we replied that it was over the sea, and they asked was the sea very broad, and we said it was, and they asked if we were sick, and we said we were very sick. Then they conversed with each other -in Turkish in a very animated manner and finally asked us if we wore vails in our country. We said, Oh, yes, when the weather was bad. and they asked if we some- times went without vails on the street, and whether the men did not see our faces, and we replied that the men did see our faces, and that we didn’t pay any attention to the men at all.” The American ladies all agreed that the Turkish la- dies had the manner and intelligence of half-grown chil- dren; they looked on their hosts with contemptuous pity. I am inclined to suspect, though, that the con- temptuous pity was mutual, and that the Turkish ladies estimated their visitors at just about the same value. Ifthe Turkish women are so lacking in intelligence, it seems to me very Strange that generals and governors tremble when they know that ladies who have access to the imperial harem are intriguing against them. Itis a great mistake to imagine that ladies of the ha- rem are prisoners. They go shopping, with their own slaves, and their own carriages. Before they start, their | faces are enameled and painted by an artist; their eye- | lids are darkened and their eyebrows are penciled. The } last thing adjusted is the yashmac. or head-dress. I | Suggest that ladies who now wear the high hats about ; Which so much has been said, throw aside their Parisian |} and London finery and adopt the yashmac. it makes | the homely look beautiful, and the beautiful angelic. One corner of it is drawn aside just enough to let the | eye do its duty. The faintness with which the eye is seen adds to its loveliness. I think that Western nations have very much misun- derstood the life of Turkish women. Nowhere is the love ot the mother for her children more marked or more beautiful; nowhere is the family circle stronger than in the harem. A Turk might ask me after my wite’s health, but for me to ask after his wife would be an in- sult of the gravest kind. Western nations have imag- ined that this arose from contempt borne by Turks for their women. [am sure it is otherwise. I am sure the ‘Turk refrains trom speaking of his wife because her name is too sacred to be mentioned to any but his chil- dren. The children are masters of the harem in Turkey, as they are in the homes of America. “The wor a synonymous with our word home. > @-—< FOOD FOR INFANTS. The temperature of infants’ food should be about ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit; a trifling variation either way may dono harm. Butin this, as inall things else expected of mortals to do, there is but one way which can be sanctioned, and that is the right way. In every home where there is a baby there should be a thermometer. It is needed not only when preparing the food, but also in making ready the little one’s daily bath. Now, when theinfant’s food is to be warmed it should not be heated by diluting with hot water. The bot- tle containing the mixture, properly prepared, should be placed in a pan of hot water, or first in cold water, which can be heated on the stove, over a gas jet, or as one pleases. The food made ready, the bottle well rinsed in cold water and filled, and the nipple adjusted, the child should be taken upon the mother’s lap, and here, half reclining, be allowed to enjoy its meal. The operation will need constant watching; if the base of the bottle be held too high the milk will flow in a stream without suction. which it ought not to do, and if held too low, the neck or the bottle not being filled, the child will draw in and swallow air, a harmful practice. An infant must not be hurriedly fed; ample time should be given it, and it will be well to withdraw the nipple and allow it to rest for a moment occasionally. Returning again to the preparation of the food, mothers should feel the importance of being exact in their measurements. If milk, water, sugar, etc.. are used, then, when the proper quantities of each, suited to the child’s digestion, have all been determined, it will not do to vary them much, especially while itis very young. —————_>- © +____—__ Horsford’s Acid Phosphate For Exhaustion. Dr. A. N. Krout, Van Wert, O., says: “I found to put up on the young native of the land of words of _ udants™” light, gay signifies the sacred place, and the meaning is exact 5 it decidedly beneficial in nervous exhaustion.” | xi Bey “Well, Victorine, | must be going!” said the man, ~~ J P s <o~< He Kissed the Blackberry Girl. BY DAN DE QUELLE, ie wa. Here in far-away Nevada we seldom see hickory nuts, black walnuts, chestnuts, or the other nuts so common in the Atlantic and Middle States as in places to bea “drug in the market.” Occasionally, however, small lots of all these nuts find their way to the fruit and nut stands of the Comstock, where they find ready sale at Why will people continue to do the things that are to their disadvantage? This is a problem which has puzzled us for a long time. Why will a man with a mouth like the entrance to the Mammoth Cave shave his face smooth, when by allow- ing his beard to grow he might conceal the opening he so unhesitatingly offers to all the world ? : “Why willa short woman always wear plaids, which may be his uniform, tainly isn’t the man make her look even shorter and more dumpy? And why do tall women take naturally to stripes? Look about you when you take a walk down one of our fashionable streets, and notice the fact that the plainest faced women wear the most striking costumes, as if hoped by gaudy colors in. dress to. make - undue length of noses and excess of freckles | | prices that would make the heart of the Western or New England boy glad could he obtain them. Hickory nuts, bla¢k walnuts, hazel nuts, and all kinds of nuts common in the Eastern States, here retail at twenty-five cents a pound; and, of some kinds, it does not require very many to weigh apound. | \en such-myts are exyosed for sale they always ct great attentioh am the old and niddle-aged, hearts they speak of the old. home and .of © Women wear fur-lined circulars, almost to | hap an individual} and tall, lean women affect short walk- ing jackets, and look like liberty poles with night- gowns on. $445 Snape! Long-necked women invariably “do” their hair in a French twist, so as to let all creation observe the fact that their necks are long; and short-necked women stick to frogs on the napes of their necks, and from be- hind present the appearance of their heads resting on their shoulders. Small, short men appear in tall hats, under the im- pression that the tile adds to their height, while in reality it gives them the appearance of a hat walking off with aman. One sees a good deal more hat, propor- tionally, than he sees man. Why will women go shopping after samples that they never will buy anything like, and know that they shall not? Why will men lie in a horse trade, when they know they shall get found out when the purchaser tries the horse ? Why will people run down every other religion but their own? They know that they never make any con- verts by so doing. -Why can two of a trade never agree? Why does a young man, when he is going a-courting, act as if he were: doing something he was ashamed of? Why do old people so hate to see young people enjoy themselyes ?”. 4 What makes everybody like to hear of bad luck com- ing to somebody else ? by days oF childhood. Often persons.wiil* stafding before the witdow of a shop in‘which the na- tivenuts are displayed, so lost in thought as to be utterly oblivious of time and their surroundings. Inspirit they are back in the old home State ; they are childen again, and again in the beautiful Indian summer days are rov- ing the hills and bottom lands in search of the treasures up the nut trees. Thoughts of the brothers, sisters, cousins, and other youthful companions who composed the old nutting parties arise, and often a tear may be detected in the eye of a gray-haired man, or seen creeping down the wrinkled face of some venerable dame. The old man and the old woman may be strangers to each other, but as they stand gazing in- to the window, regardless of the jostling throng of young Pacific coasters, they are in soul brother and sister. Recently, while standing in front of a small shop where was on sale a box of genuine shag-bark hickory nuts, an old man came up an4 cried out, excitedly : “Why, bless my soul, there are some real old-fashioned shell-barks !” “Yes,” said I, ‘and they are from Ohio, too, my native State. I may even have. gathered nuts, when a boy, under the same trees from which these came.” “Are you from Ohio? I also am a Buckeye; lived there till I was twenty-one years of age—tilll was my own fool of a master.” “Ah!” eried 1, “forty years ago, when the old forests were still standing in thousands of places, it was a beautiful land. I have never since known such beauti- ful and balmy spring weather; every tree and shrub There are good souls in the world who will say that they do not enjoy anything of the kind, and perhaps | they think so; but just let a scandal arise affecting the | minister of ‘‘the other church,” and see how active. those | very same good souls will be to find out every minute | particular. , Why do boys like to break glass? and stone cats? and tie tin dippers to dogs’ tails? Why do men like to seea ranaway? Why does everybody in a crowded railway car watch the woman who has a crying baby? Hasshe not enough to contend with, without feeling conscious that every man, and woman, and old maid, who knows about as much concerning a baby as an elephant knows about frying doughnuts, is looking at her, and wondering why she doesn’t do this, and why she doesn’t do that? Why do dyspeptics keep on eating baked beans? Why do fat people, who agonize over their adipose tissue, keep on eating candy and using sugar? Why does a person with “poor circulation” hover over a hot stove, and make the circulation aforesaid still poorer? Why do men marry women unfitted for them, and be- wail their fate forever afterward? Why does a girl unite herself for life to a man whom she knows drinks, ge ee Lane d her life-time in groaning over her lam- a e misfortune ? - Why, co they do tt ? op Vee OAS EO the questions, but we are no nearer auswerilg aby of them than we were at the beginning. e@ LITTLE BY LITTLE. BY HARKLEY HARKER. do ti It is not a bad rule for work. You area brain worker, let me suppose. You have several tasks always on hand. Jt is true that some writers have suffered themselves to get into what is called ‘the mood habit.” That is, they can never write except when the fit is on them, or they feel like it ; and then they wish to put through the whole task at one sitting. This is expensive in several ways. A long sitting is a great physical strain, because the confined attitude interrupts the circulatory system’s free work; because nervous force is overdrawn; because prain tissue is burned in excess. A better way is to begin early in literary life to habituate the mind to the “chest of drawers” system of labor. Work on a task for awhile. Then shutthat draw and lock it. Then pull out another drawer and work a little while on a differ- ent task. So proceed with several. The result is an immense accumulation of work ac- complished before you are hardly aware of it. The discipline of mind needed to drop one thing and firmly grasp another is a fine acquisition in itself, and will stand one in good stead in more than one crisis of life. The essential rest and recreation ministered to the mind by such a sudden and absolute change, no one who has the habitude once established would ever forego, to re- turn to the old slavery of continuous topic for any amount of money. There is also a freshness of thought that you bring to your task this way that is a surprise to yourself. It reminds one of the fallow ground law of the old Jewish dispensation—once in seven years the Israelite was to leave his fieldsfallow. The soil got new productive powers by this nieans which no fertilizers of modern times could have givenit. The task that your there bore blossoms and gave forth some scent to per- fume the air. And where else, in the autumm,could you find leaves so brilliantly dyed as in the old) State? ‘Then, in summer, it was a land of the early spring. when all was green and went fishing, and the minnows we caught h as fresh and pleasant as that from the swelling the trees; in the summer we searched the thickets for berries, and in the fall went nutting.” “Ah!” said the old man, ‘‘ah, the berry gathering! Never shall I forget it. It wasin a blackberry patch that I met my first love.” A tear came into his ‘‘hither eye,” and he sighed deeply. Presently turning to me, and searching my face for a moment; the old man said : “it yowl promise not to laugh at me, I'll tell you a little story. “{ promise,” said I, “forstories of those old days sel- dom put us in a laughing humor.” The old man thus proceeded : “What Buckeye boy has not ‘met by chance,’ in some boundless contiguity of briers, his darling Jennie, Kitty, or Lizzie? Yet their encounters, however agreeable in some’ respects, were oftentimes a sort of painful pleas- ure, and very embarrassing to bashful young beaus. “Never shall I forget that particularly bright and balmy day on which I met my sweet Kitty Tyrrell in the center of one of the old-time vast wildernesses of brambles. It was a whole continent of briers, alders, elders, and choke-cherry bushes, and-of. the famous wild plum and crab-apple trees of the old Buckeye State. It seemed not alone the center of the blackberry patch where I met my Kitty; the blue vault of heaven seemed to mark it the exact center of the world as well. “Her eyes were as black as the berries in_ her basket, and as brilliant as those of the cat-bird chattering in the top of the alder tree over her head. Her lips were twin rubies; her teeth pearls that peeped out between ; while her cheeks were of the same tinge as the south side of aripe peach, with two purple streaks of truit- stain reaching from the corners of ber mouth nearly to her ears—yet, heavens ! wasn’t she lovely ! “My basket being already filled, 1 volunteered my as- sistance in filling that carried by Kitty. “Ag we worked together, the conversation.on my side was somewhat limited and arduous; but Kitty rattled away as cheerily and incessantly as any bluejay. “Often, while we were plucking the melting fruit from the same huge, newly discovered cluster, her curls— Kitty had curls, black, glossy, glorious curls—her curls brushed my cheek. Sometimes, too, her curls became entangled in the briers, but they nowhere stuck so fast as in my heart. “J thought that somehow her curls were very often getting in the way of my cheek, yet it always seemed quite by accident. Somehow, too, we were always work on the same bushes and clusters, and at times Kitty's pouting lips were perilously close to my own when she turned to speak. «*An! ah-ha! tee-hee!’ cried the cat-bird up in the tree. “When that smiling little mouth came so near to mine, my heart-thumps seemed to shake me all over; they seemed to be audible: and terribly loud was the hum of the great black-and-yellow bumblebee as he thundered ast. r “At last—to my great surprise—Kitty pouted, and for atime was silent, if not sullen. I feared that I had said or done something to anger her, and I watched her out of the corners of my eyes. she almost succeeded in coaxing into her smooth, white prow one or two indignant wrinkles, at which the cat- bird up in the tree scolded terribly. «Don’t you think,” said she, presently turning to me, “don’t you think, the other day, when I was out here alone—just as we are now—with Harry Jones, the naughty, naughty fellow up and kissed me?’ Her black eyes flashed, and d, stupid, lazy set of ceman can’t be found in a museum. ce, Who are generally e dangerous class are s the dangerous class m a bit afraid of the himself, for a more” giants than the av on the face of the ea Itis not. so with th called constables. afraid of these, wher are -river. He said he had a numbet: A-GRAY-HAIRED Old man in Berryville was attacked by two masked burglars the cther,night, one holding a pistol to his head while the other ransacKed the house. Next morning the old man’s locks were of arayen hue. His white hair had turned black from fright in a si wight! A GREEN COUNTY Man wWé hing and réturned home with a dozen of the 12 s ever taken from the the only people police ete through. the csely.¢ very ba 3 » noe hen go t ortrait collection k will find most of the to maké up your mi ought to be.) } You never see ro: a The constable won't allow it. any. ; : The country constable considers himself an officer of the law, and when he condescends to speak to anybody beneath the rank of judge or justice of the peace, he picks out the most distinguished citizens he knows. Maybe this is because he is his own boss, which the city policeman is not. Usuaily the officer in the city has sO many bosses that he does not know which to obey, and in trying to oblige all of them he has about as hard a job as thecircus clown who tries to ride six horses at once, and can’tstick to any one of them long enough to be sure of his footing. ; When an officer in the country sees a rascal fighting, or ‘‘painting the town red,” he simply arrests him and locks him up; but the city policeman genefally has to think first which political party the man belonged to, and what alderman he worked for at the last election, and how big a gang the fellow can call to rescue him, and which politician is likely to.go bail for him and then work to get the officer dismissed. By the time the et has thought oF all these things, the rascal as got out of the way. He even has to be careful what he says and does to | bad boys. I heard of a respectable citizen who one day | saw a bad little boy pulliagsup. some plants which the citizen had in his front-'yatd. He ch the little scamp, collared him, led him alge unt he met a policeman, | and made a complaint= Th® officer looked uncomfort- | able, and then whispered : “I can't arrest that little wretch. He ought to be put | in the reformatory; but the fact is, his father keeps a | resort where a lot of Alderman Blank’s heelers hang out.” I'll kick the little wretch and let him go,” said dquarters—a (And it’s pretty safe them as aren't there 0 a country constable. chooses his own com- } <7 the respectable citizen. “Don’t do that,” said the officer—‘‘please don’t, or Tl have to arrest you.” “What for ?” t “gig? “Well, for disturbing the peace. Unless,” continued the officer, “‘youw’re somebody in politics. If you are, I beg your pardon, right now.” The country officer is supposed to. be all eyes and ears, but elty policemen fulfill the Scriptural saying: “Eyes have they, but they see not: ears have they, but they hear not.” Why not? Because they daren’t. They see men going into gambling dens all day and night, ‘water, but they broke his hooks @ during the winter, and fails to ¢ ( | ofa trace chain, but she will be sold to any one who | will agree to treat her right. | gun which goes with her. but if they should say anything about it they would get into hot water with whatever high official might be pro- tecting that gambling-place, or making a living by black- mailing it. ‘ One day I meta policeman whom I had known twenty- five years before as a fing young soldier. He was stand- ing in front of a building that looked to be a private residence. | «What's this ?” 1 aske “No, it’s a gamibll tell every body “That keex. “Oh, yes; no “Then you're breaking tp tne Vile business ?” +. : “Oh, no! I guess it Won't come to that. (The boss gambler will get scared into paying up to the ward de- tective, who, they say, collects blackmail the captain. Then I'll be taken off, and the business will go on undis- turbed. If you ever hear, after this, of the police not breaking up gambling dens you'll know the reason why. And if you ever hear of me going to perdition, you’ll know it’s on account of the example my superior officers set me. Yet at his own home the iceman is as decent a fel- low as any of his friends, He is generally sober, pays his bills, sends his children to Sunday-school, and does all else he can to appear well among his fellow-men. But. he has always to faee the depressing fact that the “Your house ?” said he. “I’m put here to rt of place it is.” world—uniless ke resigns and gets into some other busl- ness. MR. STETSON'S DARKEY. John Stetson, while talki r the other day to a few friends in the lobby of the Fifth Avenue Theater, told the following story: s ; “J had a colored man about my Boston Theater,” said he, ‘who was, I think, the laziest darkey I ever en- countered. [stood him.as long as I could; but when he reached the point of sleeping all the morning, and dozing all the afternoon, I had to get rid of him. He came to me a few days after his discharge, and asked to be taken on again. I refused him on the score of Soe and he then begged hard for a recommenda- tion. “You jest give me a ricommend, bos, an’I won't arsk nothin’ mo’: “Well, I finally consented, and you should have seen his eyes glisten as I handed him the following: «*To whom it may concern: The bearer, John Smith, is fully competent to perform any duties for which he is qualified. JOHN STETSON.’ better man he is the less chance he has to rise in the | way stated. 2d. We suggest readi ora 1as a the: der than any degrees higher than his neighbor’s during the hottest ner in summer A FOUR COLUMN interview of : appeared in a daily paper recently, “md next day the man in- terviewed published a card stating that the interview was a literal transcript of his conversation, and complimenting the interviewer on his excellent memory and faithful and honest work. THERE is a Six-months-old baby in Fairville, and its mother has never been heard to declare that itis “the sweet- est, prettiest, cutest ‘ittle darling in the world.,” She’s deaf and dumb. pe eg A LIVELY Cow. “Owing to ill-health,” says Bill Nye, “I will sell at my residence in town 29, range 18, west, according to govern- ment survey, one crushed-raspberry colored cow, aged six years. She is a good milker and is not afraid of the cars—or anything else. She is a cow of undaunted cour- age and gives milk frequently. To.a man who does not fear death in any form she would be a great boom. She is very much attached to her home at present, by means She is one-fourth short- horn amd three-fourths hyena. Purchaser need not be identified. I will also throw in a double-barreled shot- In Mayshe generally goes away somewhere for a week or two,,and returns with a tall, red calf, with long, wabbly legs. Her name is Rose, and 1 would prefer to sell her to a non-resident.” = Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH i, . §" Communications to this department will not be noticed unless the names of respon ible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good,faith of ‘the writers. ‘ ne 2S Warren Watson, Wheaton, Ill.—When ink blotches have been formed over writing which it is wished to decipher, it is recommended to brush off the spot carefully with a weak solution of oxalic acid by means of a camel’s hair pencil. As soon ag the letters are visible, the brushing should be con- tinued for a time with clean water, so as to arrest the ten- dency of the acid solution to make a further change in the ink. A modern ink eraser is thus made : Take of chloride of lime one pound, thoroughly pulverized, and four quarts of soft water. Shake the solution well, and let it stand twenty- four hours before using. Then strain through a cotton cloth, and add a teaspoonful of acetic acid (No. 8 commercial) to every ounce of the chloride of lime water. e eraser is used by reversing the penholder and dipping the end of it into the fluid, and applying it, without rubbing, to the word, figure, or blot required to be erased. When the ink has dis- appeared, absorb the fluid with a blotter, and the paper will be ready to write upon again. ; Music, in the Form of Lectures.” Young Artic poor al John W. K., Long Prairie, Minn.—Performers on the bag- pipe play almost entirely by ear, though it is said that schools existin some of the Scottish Islands for instruction on the instrument. As it is ignored by educated musicians, we find little music written for it. The tunes played on it consist only of a few notes, and all set on thesame key. It was probably introduced into Ireland and Scotland by the Danes and Norwegians at avery early period. The instru- ment consists of a leather bag, infla' through a valved tube the mouth or a bellows, connected with which is a flute pat called the chanter, perforated with holes, and fur- nished with a reed, the action of the air from the bellows upon which produces the music. Three pipes or drones, two of which are in unison with D on_the chanter, while the third. or great drone, is an octave lower, complete the bagpipe. we. Sweet Sixteen, Newark, N. J.—1st. Every lady’s ambition is to have soft,and. white hands. One secret is to keep them always clean. Whenever they require it, wash them in'soft water, slightly tepid, with the best toilet soap, and then dry them carefully and thoroughly on a roughish towel, Brisk rubbing, by causing rapid circulation, tends to produce a transparent surface on the skin. There are various soaps recommended to improve the color of the hands, among them sand , which is a co tion of soft-soap, sweet oil, and finely sifted sand, worked up to a pect consistence, and left to harden. This soap will be found quite effective in removing the roughness of the skin occasioned by exposure to sharp winds. Pure honey-soap is also good for the hands. 2d. Daily practice will improve your handwriting. Anxious Mother.—St. Vitus’ dance, or chorea, is described as a disorder of innervation, characterized by an irregular action of the voluntary muscles, occurring usually in young persons from the age of ten to twenty, and more frequently in females. It is preceded by languor, general disorder of the stomach, and sudden muscular contortions, apparently posing causes are the involuntary. The most frequent predis; i Ts ays shat ee Malvern Hill, Manassas, Va.—The “Albany aie was @ name popularly given in the United States to a junto of Democratic politicians who influenced or controlled ~ leadin the scnon of the Democratic party for many years. Albany, N. Y., was their headquarters. : ” rig Beppo, St. Paris, Ohio.—1st. No knowledge of its use in the z Ritter’s “History of 3d. Chopin is pronounced van; Beethoven, ba-to-ven: Liszt, list; and Bach, bak. » _Broaliway, in 1876. by French resi- was ‘Bae Bartboldi ; the same artist who de- the statue of Liberty on Bedlow’s Island. ~ . A. H. D., Rome,.Pa.—We advise you to consult a lawyer of ~ Rae, Dees the State in which the property referred to is situated, there being im subject 0 rtant differences in State enactments upon the heirs at law. % Scarecrow, Scranton, Pa.—As you have tried the only remedy we could suggest, we cannot aid you, save to recommend you to keep “regul in the open air. ; ar hours and take all the exercise possible — Frederick S.—The play of “Therese, or the Orphan of Ge- neva,” was written by John Howard Payne. It was first pro- duced in London, in 1818, with Edmund Kean in the prin- cipal part. Martha, Long Island.—‘“The Usages of The Best Society’ will cost 50 cents. If you desire it, write direct to the NEw YorK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. : Anne, Newburgh, N. Y.—Poughkeepsie, N. Y., was origi- nally settled by several Dutch families in 1690—1700. It re- ceived a city charter in 1854. > Henry A. G., Indiana.—No recipe that we could recom: mend as harmless. An experienced physician might be able to sug- gest a remedy. : Bentley Foste | Columbus, Ohio.—According to the law recently passed, women can vote at municipal elections in Kansas. o Constant Reader, Cameron, Wis.—The number of miles srom New York to Denver, Colorado, is1,982. Mail time 92 ours. William B., Covington, Ky.—Copper coin may be cleaned by immersing it in sweet oil and wiping it dry with a soft Tag. : C. L. L., Bridgeport, Conn.—The Sound steamboat Pilgrim is 373 feet in length ; the ocean steamship City of Rome, 560. U. J. R., Brower, Pa.—The elephant Jumbo was killed by a collision with a railroad train in Canada on Sept. 16, 1885. Jennie B., Wilkes Barre, Pa.—The NEw York WEEELY Pur- chasing Agency will send you the article named for $1. .O. J C., Sun City, Kansas.—We can furnish you with a coin book containing the information desired for 25 cents. F. V.—ist. A stay of proceedings was granted in the case re- ferred to. 2d. Lunar caustic will remove warts. g C. E. M,, York, Pa., and J. J.. Spokane Falls, W. T.—Busi- ness addresses are not given in this department. - M. W. M., Glen Haven, N. Y.—The first number of the New — York Tribune was issued on April 10, 1841. pad Jennie L., Hartsburgh, Il.—Unable to aid you. The name | is not in the peerage of Ireland. Ce G. A., Oswego.—Mrs. A. T, Stewart died of pneumonia in _ this city on Oct. 25, 1886, aged 8: mit M. W. H., Hartford.—‘‘How to Draw and Paint” will be sent to you for 50 cents. : : A. H.D., Garden Island, Ontario, Canada.—No personal - knowledge of it. i pe Sag of wo. J. B., Wood Si Edi lished before. Frank W. S., Greenfi of the kind. } Widow and Daughter, Trenton, Mo.—No personal knowl- edge of it. YS eal teh Mrs. A. E. M., Walden, Ga.—We have made a note of your request. : f ; : Tumor, Chicago, Ill.—ist and 2d. No. 3d. Fair. Rover, Pomeroy.—In employment at St. Louis. J. H. P.—Nom de plume of E. Z. C. Judson. L. S. W. and Mrs. D. D., Boston, Masé—No. . A Ten Years’ Reader, San Francise9.—No. pted J ; red Hopes ; Kyle's Ruse Tom’s Ludicrous Blunder ;” “Her Beautiful Tee :” “What to Buy Her ;? “A Regi 3? “The Fate of The —__——- > © - Two Stories Next Week. The next issue of the New YORK WEEKLY will con- 4 tain the opening installments of re haa TWO CAPITAL STORIES. | a MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD, Be By Francis S$. S ae ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE, he: VOL, 42—No, 21. cmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &3<- THE FUTURE. BY SARAH K. BOLTON. I cannot know when grass will grow Above my grave; What friends will stand, with empty hand, And tears to lave The daisies fair, that flourish there— I love them best ; Icannot tell if hill or dell . Will give me rest, I do not pine for marble shrine Or graven stone, Or fragrant bowers of costly flowers By dear ones sown ; But plant a tree to shelter me, Of dainty green ; The mountain-ash, whose berries flash With ruby sheen. And come, sometimes, when sunset chimes Their chorus ring; And with the birds your loving words In concert sing. And I shall hear the notes of cheer From worlds above ; For heaven is nigh to those who die With hearts of love. - -Oo~ [ HIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] | Street Haul: A BOLD STROKE FOR A FORTUNE. By the Author of ‘‘The Old Detective’s Pupil.’ (“A WaLL STREET HavUL” was commenced in No. 19. Beck numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER VIL. OFF THE SCENT. Though caught in, the very act of listening, Nick did not lose his presence of mind, but, with great coolness, exclaimed : “So that’s your little game, eh? Well, you can’t play it here, so Shake out your cvat-tails and dust! look here, Johnny—just you steer clear of this next ‘ room, too, for that’s my game. Savey ?’ “What's your game?” demanded Wilshaw, in a tone hovering between suspicion and anger. : _ “Look here, now, Johnny!” exclaimed Nick, angrily; “lower that gentle voice of yours, will ye? And never mind what my game is; | don’t want any partner. I’m goin’ to play a lone hand. and don’t ye forget it.” Reassured by the words and clever acting of Nick, Wilshaw shut the door and avanced into the room, with a wicked smile playing about his mouth. “So you don’t want a partner ?” he said, in a low tone. “Oh, you’ve tumbled to it at last, have ye es said Nick, sarcastically. “But I s’pose if you'd had br; na equal to your cheek, you needn’t have waited to be vu.i.” “You think I've got a good deal of cheek, eh ?” “Yes, and a very hard one. None of that!—I’ve.got the drop on ye!” Wilshaw, having advanced to within afew paces of Nick, had suddenly thrust his hand into the bosom of his coat; but Nick, with a still quicker movement, had drawn his pistol and covered the discomfited young man before he could accomplish his purpose. “It's no use,” said Nick, coolly; ‘‘I’m too fiy. Say, Johnny,” “what is your lay ? ness—‘“‘a fly-cop? If ye are, by the hokey, you can say your prayers before you try for my collar !” Wilshaw laughed carelessly. ‘ “I’m no fly-cop. Drop your pop-gun, and let’s parley.” “I can hold the pop-gun and parley, too. Talk quick now. Who are you, apd what d’ye want ?” “Tm nobody you know or ever heard of, and I came here by accident—made a mistake in the room,” ‘Too thin. Why were you going to draw on me ?” ' “So as to make you do the explaining insteadjof doing it myself? But see here—what’s the use of wasting time like this? You're a crook, aren’t you ?” «Johnny, Lhold the pop-gun, and censequently I do the asking of questions. Digest that, will ye ?” «That's all well enough; but if you ave a crook I’ve a word tosay to you, and that is that [’m crooked, too, and so is the party in there.” “Do it up in cotton and lay it away in camphor, Johnny. Crooked or not I’ve got the drop on you, and you'll oblige me by throwing up your hands. I’m going through you.” “No, youre not.” “Why not?” “Because I won’t let you. You don’t dare shoot, and you know it, so what’s the use lallygagin ?” Nick seemed to consider ; then said: “Youre very fiy. Ill tell you what I'll do. You get out and keep mum, and we'll call it square.” “Agreed, but I’m giving it to you straight when I tell you I belong with the party in that room.” “Go way |” Lae. “Then I’m barking up the wrong tree.” “How so ?” “I saw a young swell go in there; and just nowI heard a gal singing in there, so I kind o’ «oncluded he was spending the old man’s money, and thought I’d like to Anger a little of it; butif you've got hi ain tow 1 won’t interfere.” “He’s my game.” “That's straight, is it ?” ‘Straight as a string,” “Allright, Good-by, Johnny. I say, Johnny—ask the ae aS us that French song again, will ye 2” “T will. And with all his shrewdness Howard Wilshaw, who | really had entered the room by mistake, having just left | Grace to make some inquiry of the head waiter, went away without a shadow of suspicion of the man he had caught listening. “Got off easier than I thought I would when you put your wicked face in here, Mr. Wilshaw,” said Nick to imself ; ‘‘but I know for a certainty that if ever I should fall into your hands, and you should know me for Harvey Jones, you'd kill me with no more compunction than you would a flea.” : CHAPTER IX. GRACE AND HERBERT. Knowing it would be useless to remain in the room any longer, and being, moreover, anxious tou examine the studio, if possible, before Herbert reached it, Nick left the room not long after Wilshaw. He hurried at once to the studio, fearing he would be too late, and so he found he was on arriving there. Light was streaming under the door, and, listening, he could hear the regular footfall of a man pacing the room, Entrance there being out of the question, he looked about for some place to secrete himself where he could overhear what he was sure would be an interesting con- versation. It seemed as if the adjoining room might afford him “the desired'place. At any rate he could try It. .yHe examined the door. It was locked; but that did not.discourage him, if only it were nc* occupied at that ‘moment. Itwas quite dark in the room. He knocked gently, fearing to attract Herbert’s attention. There was no answer. “I guess I'll risk it,” he thought. And with the noiselessness and skill of an expert burglar he picked the lock and opened the door. Closing it behind him again he drew his tiny dark lantern, without which he never went from home, and lighting it, glanced around. he reom was absolutely bare of furniture, much to Nick’s joy, for he was sure now of being unmolested. The next thing was to learn how good a place it was for listening. No light penetrated from the studio, though a door opened on that side. Nick turned the light of the lantern on the door. It had a glass transom over it, and, unless it opened into a wanes seemed as if it ought to communicate with the studio, He did not dare to pick the lock of the door, lest he" should be heard by Herbert, so he sought some way of reaching the transom. A chair or table would have been convenient now, but Nick was not to be balked for want of either. He had noticed that the windows had inside wooden Shutters. One ofthese he unscrewed from its place, - and planted like a ladder against the door, __ The end of the floor was kept from slipping by a short, keen, broad-bladed dagger which Nick always carried, and which he now thrust into the floor. " Climbing on this improvised ladder he was easily enabled to reach the transom. He opened it very carefully, but was still unable to see any light, though he could plainly hear the regular footsteps. Putting his hand through the opening he quickly be- came acquainted with the cause of the darkness—a heavy curtain fell in front of the door. . Taking out his penknife Nick cautiously made a down- ward cut. Then giving the sharp blade a turn he cut at ‘right angles to the first direction, and so made a slit ih which enabled him to move aside a small piece ot the “| everything, and told him where we were. cloth, and so gain a perfect view of the studio and its uneasy occupant. Nick knew at once that the young man, so nervously pacing the fioor, was Herbert Bedford. ‘Up and down he walked, up and down, every few minutes looking at his handsome gold watch. He was haggard and anxious-looking, and his disor- dered dress proved that he had paid but little attention to his personal appearance for some time. For five minutes Nick silently watched the solitary pacer ; then a light footfall in the hall caught his ear. Herbert, too, must have heard it, for he stopped and looked eagerly at the door. .< A scratching noise ati the lock for a moment and the door fiew open, admitting Grace Eldredge in her male attire. “Oh, Herbert!” she cried, with a half sob, ‘“‘whata terrible thing this is !” “You know what the papers say abeut me then?” ‘Oh, yes.” “And your father gave them the information.” «Yes, yes!” she was wringing her hands. “If I had known what he was goingto dol would have braved But after- ward—I don’t know, Herbert—it seemed to me that I could not publish to the world a story that would for- ever rob me of my good name and honor.” “You could not,” he said, gloomily. “But I will, Herbert, before you shall suffer for a girl- ish freak of mine. ‘1 will tell everything, and then”’— she covered her .face with her hands and sobbed—‘‘I will go hide myself from the world. You, at least, shall not suffer.” «You are a brave little creature, Grace ; but you don’t suppose for a moment that I would let you do such a thing. No. A disgraced man may live and be honest; but for a woman, disgraced as you would be, there would be no choice but between death and dishonor. For myself, Grace, I do not care; but my father, my dear, good father! This blow will go nigh to killing him.” “It shall not, Herbert,” cried Grace, fervently. ‘Say what you will, I must tell where we were, and save you this misery.” «You shall not, Grace.” “You cannot prevent me.” “T will deny the truth of what you say, and plead guilty, if they catch me.” «Are you going to try to escape ?” “Certainly, after I find out where father is; and that is what I wanted to see you about. Has he been ar- rested ?” 5 “No, he has escaped. A reporter was at the house only a few days ago, and said so.” *‘Where can he have gone, I wonder? Oh, Heaven! to think of my father, who never so much as thought a dishonest thing, a fugitive from justice! Heaven bless him! And all because his love for an unworthy son led him to try to save him from the consequences of his own wickedness. Ah, if I were guilty, Grace, that thought would drive me to suicide. If I could only find him, and escape with him. He would believe me if I said I was not guilty, and would respect my promise never to dis- close the events of last night. You are a wild little And | But, [| he inquired, with an air of curiosity, | You’re-not”—with sudden fierce- | creature, Grace, but you shall not forfeit the happiness of your life by any such confession as you threaten to ; Make. Why, what would Howard Wilshaw say if he | Should know where you went, and with whom? Frank- | ly, Grace, I don’t like the man, but you love him, and that is enough. He would never marry a disgraced woman.” “I know, I know; but how can I let you suffer for a crime I know you are innocent of? It would kill me, Hertert. I could never be happy. If you were to be captured and put in prison, could I be happy? No, Her- bert. I swear to you, if you will not let me bear witness to your innocence, and you are convicted of this crime, I wili write out the whole story, and then kill myself,” -That is sheer folly, Grace. Besides, Iam not going to be captured.” “Do you think you can escape?” she asked, eagerly. “Of course I can,” he said, confidently. ‘Have you any money ?” #-Oh, -yes.” “How much ?” Herbert laughed recklessly, and answered : “Five dollars.” “Oh, Herbert, you know that will do nothing. Here are a thousand dollars I was saving to fit up the studio. Take it. I can never have any more pleasure here.” poe } | . | { | | “JOHNNY, I HOLD THE POPGUN, AND CONSEQUENTLY I DO THE ASKING OF QUESTIONS.” of the room. When she came out again, she had a roll of bills in her hand. “You will take it, won’t you, Herbert ?” “Td rather not, Grace.” There was a look of repugnance on his face, which made Grace cry, beseechingly : «Please, Herbert, do. It is only right, after I have got you into the trouble, to do something to help you save yourself.” “Well, I will take it, and use it, if I find I need to.” ‘‘Where will you go ?” “TI don’t know. To the house first, and find out from Susie where father is. She may know. And f must go at once.” “Do be careful, won’t you, Herbert ?” “I will; and remember what I say, Grace, you must not tell the story of last night; for come what may, I | Swear to youl will never reveal my part in it, nor per- fe you to. Will you not promise me not to speak | of it ?” ' | “If you insist so, I suppose I might as well promise ; | but it does seem too bad that a little fun at a masque- | rade ball should have such dreadful results.” ‘“T should not have yielded, Grace. place for you. Another thing, Grace, why not give up | going about in these clothes ? caught, and then there will be a great to do over the singular freak Of thé,millionaire’s daughter. It will be no use, then, to plead, love of art as an excuse. The world will excuse a great artist like Rosa Bonheur for dressing like a man, but never pretty Grace Eldredge.” “I will give up dressing so, and as soon as you are gone will put on the garments of my sex.” She spoke so humbly that Herbert laughed and said; «There, Grace, that was said more like the quiet, shy girl I used to know than anything I’ve heard from you this many a month.” “When I think of your dreadful position, Herbert, I cannot help being sober.” | | through somehow. you again.” hope you will succeed in escaping. hard of me for my part in this, will you ?” She broke down and sobbed like a little child, “Don’t, Grace, don’t,” he said, soothingly. ‘I shall never think anything but good of you, and even if I wanted to, I don’t believe [ could remember you as any- thing rut the daintiest, prettiest, merriest little imp-of mischief in creation. Now don’t cry, there’s a good girl; and don’t lose any time in getting off these clothes and getting your proper ones on. Good-by, little lady.” *Good-by,” she sobbed. CHAPTER X. A WELL-PROTECTED RENDEZVOUS. “Well,” thought Nick, as he listened, ‘I’m glad he’s ipnocent, and I’m glad I know enough to stand between him and his folly, if it should happen that I cannot help him from arrest. ButI must do that; and yet it is even more important that 1 should keep on the trail of this fascinating little fiend. Though I do believe she is half in earnest in her solicitude about this victim of Wilshaw’s,” Turning the matter over in his mind as he listened, when Herbert said his final good-by. He sprang lightly from his perch, and running to his door threw it wide open and waited. In one hand he held a gag of his own device, which was suited to just such quick, silent work as was neces- sary now. Herbert was less quick than Nick, but he opened his door and came out a few moments later. ‘Shutting the door, he started briskly off. Nick waited until he was a little past the door-way, and then with an agile spring was on him. With one sinewy arm he pinned Herbert’s arms to his side and lifted him clear from the floor, while at the same instant, and before a sound could escape his lips, he had thrust the gag into his mouth. Not a sound had been made, and despite the young man’s desperate struggles, Nick was not more than two minutes in binding him and shutting him upin the empty room. He then pulled his dagger from the floor and ran softly down the hall and out of the building. While listening he had made use of the time to alter his disguise, so that he now looked like a rough of the worst type. It was not a fig | | furniture. You may some time be | | He tried the larger and found it locked. Nick finally came to a conclusion, and was ready to act_ | free of access, Nick passed ¢arel Nick saw her go behind a screen in the farther corner | | was not to be deterred by any o } ; | } | } } } } | | 1a } | | } As he had supposed, Grace had no intention of don- ning her female habiliments again, but having waited a reasonable time, came out of the house the same jaunty young swell she had gone in. She did not return to the restaurant, but was silently joined at the corner of Fourteenth street and Broadway by Wilshaw, who walked by her side around the block to the corner of Thirteenth street and Fourth avenue, where both stepped into a waiting hack, and were rap- idly driven over to the east side of town without a word having been spoken to the driver. So seldom does a carriage go terough that part of the city at night that Nick. had little difficulty in ‘following it a a safe distance without fear oflosing it among other hacks. At Tompkins square the driver drew up, the two oc- cupants of the hack stepped down, Wilshaw paid the man, and he drove off, while they crossed the park to Avenue B. “Wilshaw is a master-hand at this sort of thing,” thought Nick, ‘‘and I must be careful, for I don’t doubt he crosses this open park, with its electric lights, for the very purpose of finding out if he is shadowed.” : “OH, HEAVEN! TO THINK OF MY FATHER, AN INNOCENT MAN, A FUGITIVE FRON JUSTICE!” That, probably, was his purpose, but it availed him very little, for Nick jumped upon she car going through Avenue A, and gotoff at Seventh street, never losing | sight of the two figures crossing the park, and skilltully shadowing them as they turned into Avenue B. Down town they went at a brisk pace, and never stopped until they turned into Delancey street. Nick knew he was being taken into the very worst section of the city, but that did not trouble him, for ne knew every nook and corner of if. At the corner of Delancey anf Clinton. they stopped and waited until two men passed them with an almost imperceptible signal. Then they turned and followed, going through two or three dirty alleys, and finally vent into a dingy, ill- lighted liquor saloon. ; “Its no use to follow in thers,“ thought Nick, “but I'm not going to be balked so easily.” The building was an old-fashioned wide one, with a peaked roof. '% Excepting for the dim lightinthe saloon the whole house was dark and without sign of habitation. On one side was an old junk shop; ou the other a wretched tenement. Knowing that the tenement-hguse would be open and Sly. through it into the back yard. The fence between itand the ext one was unusually high, but Nick had made up hi mind to cross it, and minary obstacle. He measured it with his eye, gnd, high as it was, felt | confident of his ability to jumpfnd catch the top with his hands. After that the rest Would be easy. Stealing softly to the further ‘end of the yard he gathered himself together, and wibjA prodigious bound caught the fence top. az Two seconds later he was peeringyover into the other yard, andin as many moré wag ipAt, prepared to risk his life if need were, but deteryined to gain some of the secrets of the mysterious cotfplé he had shadowed. Not even in the back of the hdpse was there any sign of life, not so much as a glimmePpf-light from the floor on which the saloon was. Feeling the need for the Wiest caution. and im- pressed with the idea that he ¥as‘about to unearth a Startling mystery, Nick ad¥a house. : Not a sound came from it It Was a dark. night, but and at once made up his nie possible. ros Feeling for the keyhole We cai and heard the bolt slide batk; found it would not yield. “Bolted,” he murmured. He next examined the win probable reason why no light pee “istening ear. ad see the back door, BY by it itthat were iously picked the lock, © on trying the door he zy, and discovered the ated it. Heavy iron | shutters closed it on the inside. | | } “Oh, well, don’t be troubled about me. I will pull | Good-by ; | don’t know when I'll see | “Good-by, Herbert”—she held out her little hand—‘‘ | Please don’t think | Baffled there, he stepped bai as the gloom would permit, the ] In another moment he had s drawn himself to the top ot the #nce, Standing upright on it, he réached over and caught the projecting ledge of the oe One window. Half swinging, half springing, Re was, in another sec- cond, standing on the cornice of:the door below, while his hands held with precarious gfip on the stone ledge. With one hand he turned the siats of’ the shutter and peered in. Either the room was dark, or, like the one below, was protected inside by iron shutters. He could determine that by opening the outside shut- ters, which he did at some risk $f falling off. Yes, there were iron shutters ‘here. To many another this would have been a final dis- couragement. Not so to him. In the precautions taken to insuré secrecy, he only saw the greater reason for penetratilig the mystery that had come before him. “T must take a risk here or give it up,” he said to him- self; ‘‘and giving up is not in my line.” He drew from his pocket a lokg, thin, stiff blade, and with it pushed back the Wwinday poten. Then opening the window softly, he gently preged the iron shutters, to determine how they were fast6ned. To his joy and surprise they yielded, and in another moment he had softly entered the house. lt was too dark to gain the faintest notion of where he was, but closing the shutters, he drew out his little lan- tern and with it cautiously illuminated the room in which he stood. It was asmall, square room, completely destitute of c, and studied, as well per windows. ung upward, and had Two doors, one larger than the other, opened out of it. i | a DESPITE THE YOUNG MAN’S DESPERATE STRUGGLES, NICK SUCCEEDED IN BINDING HIM. Putting away his lantern, he picked the lock, only to find that the door was bolted. Every evidence of anxiety to prévent intrusion only added zest to the young detective’s pursuit. He turned from the large door to the smaller one, and finding it also locked, applied hig instrument,‘and soon felt the bolt shoot back. Still the door did not yield, but there was a peculiarity in its resistance that made him tage the direction of his pressure, when, to his satisfaction, the door slid back and disclosed an empty closet.of considerable size. CHAPTER XI. CAUGHT IN A TRAP. An examination of the closet disclosed nothing to Nick, and he would have withdrawn to make a further effort on the other door, when he heard a footstep startlingly near him, and he waited expectantly. The sound came from beyond the wall of the closet, but was so distinct that Nick knew the partition must be very thin, ~pautiously toward the “Vere’s the matches?” he heard a rough voice, with an unmistakably English accent ask. “Here they are,” came the answer in Wilshaw’s voice. “Light up, quick, and let’s have the particulars, Is the man dead or alive ?” “Halive. ’"E’s not the sort to die h’easy, ‘e ain’t, y— “There, that'll do, Bob; I don’t want any long-winded yarn about somebody you once knew that nobody could kill. Has Hossick done anything yet ?” “You cut a cove short, you do,” grunted Bob. “Then don’t talkso much. What about Hossick ?” ‘* Hi don‘t talk ven dere’s vork,” said Bob, sulkily. “Who said you: couldn’t work ?” cried Wilshaw, with angry impatience. ‘‘Do you suppose I'd have anything to do with you, you sullen fool, if you couldn’t work.” “Now, don’t git mad, hold man.” ‘What about Hossick ?” “Well,” muttered Nick, ‘‘he’s evidently boss.” «E says a8 ow the bills his hall right.” ‘Any fool might know that.” “Jest vot Hi thinks, thinks Hi, ven ’e told me that, old man.” “Will you shut up, you everlasting idiot! What—— The fiends, be thanked, here’s Hossick, himself. Hos- sick, you’ve come just in tiine to prevent me from breaking this garrulous old fool’s head.” “Don’t get mad, cap; don't get mad,” answered a gay, jaunty voice. ‘Bod is trying, I know, but-I will say for him that for anything between a jimmy and a bludgeon he hasn’t an equal. And if he does talk a bit tiresome among friends you might kill him before he’d squeal to an enemy.” “Hand hive as good a right to talk as anybody,” grovled Bob. ‘About the bonds. Hossick.” “I've gone through the lot, and they’re worth all of twenty-tive thousand.” “Twenty-five thousand!” thought. ‘Twenty-five thousand, was Bob’s equally wondering exclamation. ‘Vy 7 “There now, Bob,” said Hossick, blandly. rE for you; give it up, my boy. give it up.” ““But——” “Oh, well,” there was a despairing resignation in Hos- sick’s voice, “if you want to argue the question and say you know more about these things than I do, why, lll let you attend to ’em, that’s all.” “Hi don’t say hany such a think, Hossick, you know as ow Hidon’t. Vot Hi do say - “If I’ve not given satisfaction, cap,” interjected Hos- sick, sadly. “I'll give up this part of the job. Til turn the bonds over to you before morning.” «You'll do nothing of the sort,” said Wilshaw, warmly. “T think I’m the head of this affair, and I’m satisfied. If Bob don’t like it he can do the other thing.” Ho, look ’ere, now,” expostulated Bob, humbly, vot’s the sense rv “No, sir,” said Hossick, obstinately. “I go in for satis- fying everybody. WhenTI don’t I drop out.” “But don’t Hi say as ’ow Him satisfied. Blowed if a feller kin say anythink.” “T would shut up if I were you,” said Wilshaw. “Oh, yes, you vould,” growled Bob. “There boys, cried Hossick, ‘‘I didn’t mean to start a row. Your hand, Bob. No hard feeling, oldman. I’m too touehy, 1 know. Cap, you needn't look sour at Bob. He’s all right. He never did pretend to be much on head, but his heart’s all right. You'll never find him going back on his pals, eh, Bob ?” “Hi could be scragged fer them as treats me right.” “So he would, cap. I know him. those arms, cap! And that chest! They don’t grow that kind in this country, now, do they, cap.” “No, they don’t,” admitted Wilshaw. ‘And, of course, Hossick, you know Bob best. There, Bob—there’s my hand, too. No hard feeling now, eh? We'll leave Hos- sick his business, and you yours, and me mine, and no interfering, eb ?” “Hi don’t want to hinterfere. This cove’s satisfied.” “A little whisky On it, cap, what d’ye say ?” ‘Suits me.” ; Glasses and liquor were evidently at hand, for Nick could hear the clinking, and then a chorus of “Here’s at you!” «Unless {’m mistaken,” thought Nick, ‘‘there are two high-toned rascals in there trying to cheat an ignorant one. Maybe I can make some use of this little game. 1] must get a look at these new men.” “How about the girl?” asked Wilshaw, a moment later, was Nick’s wondering “It’s too SexLooN { - ert | ‘IT’S NO USE TO FOLLOW IN THERE,” THOUGHT NICK; ‘“‘BUT I'M NOT TO BE BALKED.” ‘“‘Now you've got me,” ansured Hossick. ‘Of course it’s all wrong, and we ought to get hold of her as soon as possible. maybe you could get—you know—to go see him. would be the cheese. she’s running loose.” “You're right; ['ll send her to-morrow. What is it?” He was evidently speaking to some new-comer. ‘All That You see we're not safe as long as | right, Pll be back in a few minutes, Hossick.” There was a silence of some duration, and Nick had begun to grow anxious when he heard what seemed like the tiptoeing of some one—probably Hossick—from the room. A few moments later he heard Hossick say : “While we're waiting for the captain, Bob, give us that song of yours about the ‘Jolly Miller’.” «The captain’ll be mad if Hi make any noise.” “Not he, Bob. You don’t know him yet. Come, strike up.” «Oh, if you says So, vy ’ere goes.” And Bob in a hoarse, thundering voice started the song, Hossick beating time noisily on a table. “I don’t like this,” thought Nick, uneasily. only a blind to cover something else. have been discovered ?” He crept cautiously from the closet, and listened at the door. Somebody was certainly there, for he could hear the stealthy drawing of bolts. He was so anxious to avoid having it suspected that he was working: on the case that he first thought of es- caping at once. : He ran to the window and threw the iron shutters open. The windows were closed, and the outside wooden shutters as well. This was proof positive that his entrance had been dis- covered ; and without loss of time he turned, pistol in hand, and was making for the door just as it opened. He crouched instantly to the floor, and tried to pierce the darkness with his keen eyes. Nothing could he seen, however, though his intent ears Caught the faint sound of some person breathing. Presently the singing in the adjoining room ceased, and a death-like stillness reigned throughout the house. Nick waited with every sense on the alert for some eee to betray the position of his hidden antago. nist. None was made, and even the faint sound of breath. ing was stilled. Yet Nick did not move, for he knew his enemies must be waiting for that very thing. Suddenly, however, a glare of light was thrown full in his eyes, blinding him for a moment. And before he could recover a low voice said, fiercely : “One move, and you are dead !” (TO BE CONTINUED.] > @—~< - Words of Wisdom. THAT experience teaches fools, is a lie; for the man who profits by his experience is the wise one. Wiser still is he who profits by the experience of others. The fool profits not by his own experience or that of others. DIGNITY does not consist in possessing honors, but de- serving them. No eloquence is so efficient as the mildness of a kind heart. The drops that fall gently upon the corn ripen and fill the ear; but violent storms beat down the grow- ing crop and desolate the field. GRAND temples are built of small stones, and great lives are made up of small events. To be able to fix the thoughts or the attention exclu- sively upon one subject, and to keep them there with- out wavering as long as is necessary, is a most impor- tant element of success in every occupation, BE pleasant and kind to those around you. The man who stirs his cup with an icicle spoils the tea and chills his own fingers. THE great high-road of human welfare lies along the old highway of steadfast weli-doing. NURTURE your minds with great thoughts, in the heroic makes heroes. A HOMELY truth is better than a splendid error, : “This is Can it be that I To believe And just look at | I didn’t dare go see the old man. but I thought | THE WAY OF FT, BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. This is the way of it, wide world over: One is beloved, and one is the lover ; One gives, and the other receives. | One lavishes all in a wild emotion, One offers a smile for a life’s devotion ; One hopes, and the other believes. One lies awake.in the night to weep, re And the other drifts into a sweet sound sleep, | One soul is aflame with a god-like passion, One plays with love in an idler’s fashion ; One speaks, and the other hears. One sobs ‘I love you,” and wet eyes show it, And one laughs lightly and says, ‘I know it,” With smiles for the other’s tears. One lives for the other and nothing beside, And the other remembers the world is wide. This is the way of it, sad earth over ; The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover, And the other learns to forget. For what is the use of endless sorrow ? Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow, And life is not over yet. Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other, That Passionate Love is Pain’s own mother, -o~< (THIS STORY WILI. NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOE-FORM.] A LATE REPENTANCE OR, Bs The Little White Hand. By MRS. MARY A. DENISON. (‘A LATE REPENTANCE” was commenced in No, 4. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.} CHAPTER XXf. HOW SHALL I UNDECEIVE HIM ? The room to which they repaired was fsoline’s, in which she generally sat to read or sew. Adjoining that was her bedroom, from which led her dressing-room. Every appointment about this suite was perfect. The walls were frescoed in blue and gold—the gold so pale and faint that it seemed to well out of the blue. All the furniture was in pale blue satin or brocade—the deco- rative part in fine satin-wood. F Isoline still held her letter out of sight. Laura tried to lead to the subject, but Isoline kept to her secret. “Do you know I've just fancied that you are sweet on Lieutenant Stanhope ?” queried Laura, at last, driven to desperation.” «7 !—on that little puppy, of all things!” cried Isoline, explosively. ‘‘Why, Laura, you must be out of your wits!” «Well, if you could have seen yourself just now! I was asked by at least one if the lieutenant wasn’t mak- ing a declaration !” “What fools they must be!” exclaimed Isoline, say- agely. “Yes, that’s what I have found the people in society to be,” replied Laura, demurely. ‘But, for all that, you did turn as white as a sheet. I happened to be looking your way, and for a moment I thought you would faint.” ‘“‘Hlow very kind of you to be observing me so closely !’” “Not at all,” said Laura, ignoring the irony. “We / can’t help oureyes; they wild see things that others would rather they wouldn't.” “Why, what else did they see? Pray tell me.” “Nothing much; only that the lieutenant gave youa letter.” “Well, yes, he did—a letter from one supposed to be dead and gone. What wonder I was somewhat un- nerved ?” “Dead and gone!” finger with the start she gave. Laura ran the needle into her The blood spirted out, | and came near staining the white satin of Isoline’s dress, She wrapped her handkerchief about it. ‘Dead and | gone !” she repeated, mechanically. “Yes. well tell you. wreck.” { ‘Saved from the wreck!” came in detached ywords Laura sank down as she spoke—farther and Yarthe down. Slowly her face blanched. All the bright colo: went out of her lips. She grasped atthe chair from which Isoline arose. She felt the cold come into her heart; saw the room go slowly round and round; and presently sank her whole length on the floor. “Why, Laura, have you no more spirit?” were the first words she heard, consciously. *“What—what is the matter?” she murmured, trying to sit upright. “Why, youfainted away when I told you Dunnisten was alive.” “T wonder,” she murmured, still speaking in a drowsy voice, ‘if you had been down there in that terrible, swirling grave; if you had partedin the midst of the I see you will have it, and I suppose I may as Mr. Dunniston was saved from the | blinding waters—their roarin your ears, their thunder | deafening you—and the remembrance came over you as it did over me at those few words you said—if you would not have fainted, too.” “Perhaps, I dare say. Forgive me, Laura, I didn’t think of that. Here, let me bathe your forehead. I was very thoughtless. Are you better now? There, sit up here while I] read my letter—for the letter is from him, dear, from his own hand—and though I was very angry with him once, yet | am anxious now to see what he has to say for himself. You did not know that he had come into the title, did you? I don’t suppose he knew it himself till after his arrival. I can imagine why he has not written before; and any way, I am not sure E shall forgive him.” “From hin /—the letter from him!” gasped Laura— her lips dry, and her mouth fixed, while her fingers wan- dered nervously over the sofa pillows. “Has he—said— anything—about—me ?” “Why, how doI know? I haven’t even looked inside the letter; and—why, Laura, what is the matter with you ?” ‘‘Nothing—only—I don’t feel very well. Oh, will he tell her, 2as he told her, that I forged that letter ?” she said to herself, writhing in agony. “Lie down while Tread. Jt would be very strange if he didn’t say anything about you, parting with youas he did. There, now.” She shook the pillow, and forced her friend to lie down. Laura would have made good her escape, but she really had not the power. Her limbs failed her; her temples throbbed; her head felt dull and sore. With alt this, that strong, overmastering love, that she could not conquer—that she had prayed might leave her—for one who, if his confession were proved true, was not worthy of any honorable woman's love, still conquered her rea- son. If he were alive, she held his secret ; with that, she might make her own terms—if he had only spared her in this letter. Meantime Isoline read with burning cheeks, and eyes that in their splendor outrivaled the flash of the dia- { monds at her throat. “He only speaks of you in this way,” she said at last; “for I can’t show you the whole of this letter.” And she read : ; ‘I saw the last of your friend, Miss Laura Veschoff. She stood on the deck with me, and 1 did my utmost to save her, by tying her to my arm with a woolen scarf; | but when the mast fell we were parted, and I have since | thought she must have instantly gore dOwi, Sie was avery charming girl, and ladmireti her, even lovedher —as your friend,’ : \ LA “You see, he underlinestiat; “you mustn’t be jeals ous,” she added, laughing’ Jealous! if that-was what Laura felt at_ that moment, then the fangs of a tiger would have been more merciful. “But only think, Laura,” continued Isoline, drawing a long sigh, ‘‘the letter I received was a forgery! Did you ever hear of anything so contemptible? Why, it came near costing me my life. Who could have done it ?” “Some enemy,” murmured Laura, faintly. “Of course. He says he knows very well who was its author; but as the hand that penned it is now cold in death, he forbears to disclose the name. That shows him to have a fine sense of honor.” “Very,” said Laura, still writhing, and drawing her breath with difficulty. , “But if everl meet him IJ’ll get it out of him,” con- tinued Isoline, a sense of triumph in her voice. “So pe ; you see, I really am in correspondence with a ord.’ Laura bit her lip. ‘Well, now, do you feel well enough to go down, dear ?” asked Isoline. ‘They will miss me, particularly as it is almost time for supper.” “Let me stay a while; I’m a little dizzy yet,” mur- mured Laura, “Certainly; but had I not better send Stratton up? She will bathe your head.” “No, no—in merey! There, I didn’t mean to be quite so dramatic; but I have been so startled—and that dreadful scene came up before me with such vividness, T’li be down as soon as I feel better. ’ “Very well; then I'll leave you; but come down soon ;” and Laura was left alone. The first thing she did was to groan audibly. Then with a frantic gesture, she clasped her hands over her head, with one long, wild wail of anguish, all the more bitter that it was partly suppressed. - “Living !” she cried, writhing and trembling, “living! and he thinks me dead!—how shall I undecelve him ? And, oh, that terrible interchange of confidence !—could | he have meant it? I have heard that men willfully in= vent such stories, sometimes even when they aredying, where they wish to wound, And he would deny it now * + * . —yes, he would deny it. Oh, why have I loved-him in _ ‘spite of all? I cannot see him marry another! Shall I - tell her ?’—she sprang from her seat, her hands locked _. “Shall I tell her that he asked me to be his wife ?—that I have the first right? And then confront him with his confession ? It would be dearly purchased bliss. And he is writing love to her—to her—when I knew he loved me. first. If 1 had been rich—ah! if I had only been rich, he never would have thought of her—no, never! Oh, what shall ldo? Will he be here again, I wonder ?” She sank down pale and faint, trembling in every limb now that the force of her passion had spent itself. “7 have the best right,” she murmured ; ‘lam pledged to him. I wonder if she knew the worst of him, it she would marry him? No, never, never! while I——. Oh, God, be mercifultome! WhatamIsaying? Hethinks me dead. Well, let him. My life would only be a re- proach to him—he shall still think so. I will ask her as a special favor not to mention me in her letters—not to say I am. here, or there, or anywhere. Let me be as dead to him till——yes, yes, my time may come.” CHAPTER XXIL DOTTY’S RETURN. A beautiful woman, with the bloom of health on her cheeks, exquisitely dressed, sits by one of the front win- dows of the old Staak’s house. The room has been much ‘relieved of its somber hue by a fresh coat of paint and a@ prettily tinted paper that lines the old walls. New and beautiful furniture of the modern style replaces the heavy chairs and cumbrous tables. Light, cheerful, elegant, that is the present aspect of the room to which the same woman came, anxious, depressed, unacknowl- edged, not so very long ago. The magic by which this metamorphosis has come to pass ismoney. And she loves to lavish, not as a spendthrift, but as one surround- ing herself with beauty and purity. These things, besides, are fixtures, intended to bedeft when she leaves, all but the pretiy swinging cradle in which lies a rosy boy, a boy so beautiful and so noble that he looks like a young od ae Yes, Eden was her old self again. Evenin the black silk that she wears in token that she has lost her nearest nd dearest, site looks like a fresh young maiden. lips are wreathed in smiles, a tremulous flush keeps rising in her cheeks. Hope has stimulated and in- creased her beauty—she has heard from Dotty. On the porch Andrew sat with his book, studying Latin. He had become a protege of this deserted wo- man, and she had laid her plans to educate him, not in any niggardly, parish way, but out of the abundance of her great Sympathy for the poor and neglected. Near him sat Dalton, looking down the road. Dalton was going abroad to be educated. He had already adopted the pretty foreign term of the Germans, ‘Little Mother,” and so he loved to call her. ‘-There’s the coach,” cried Dalton. “Now, don’t fly off at a tangent,” said Andrew, coolly; ‘perhaps the man hasn't come.” ‘‘And perbaps he has. He said this morning, and I take it, if he’s a man of his word, that doesn’t mean to- morrow morning.” “All right,” Andrew responded. know.” ; The coach dréw up with a flourish. Dalton flew up _the stairs with the information that he saw the face of a little girl, and then could hardly wait for the evidence that would make his wish a certainty. Eden, not less excited, walked the room hastily. “How aml to know for asurety ?” she murmured. “Will my heart tellme? May I not be deceived ?” Another moment and she was down on her knees, scanning the features of a lovely child, who neverthe- less held fast by the hand of the tall, good-looking me- chanic who had brought her hither. ‘Little mother, she looks like you,” cried Dalton. “That she do. Jsee the likeness myself,” said the man, Winking hard, and trying to steady the muscles of his mouth. «J teel as if this was my baby,” said Eden, holding the child in herarms. ‘But why does she wish to get away from. me? I was foolish enough to think she would know me.” P “Carry me back to mammy,” said the child, clinging totheman. ‘Take me home again.” It’s but natural, you see, ma’am,” said Stephen, ‘troubled that the tears started to her eyes. “How long has she been with you ?” asked Eden. “Four years and seven months, ma’am, and we’d be- gun to look upon her as our own, seeing no one took an interest in the little thing.” “Yes, thatis just the time my darling has been away from me. Youshall have the money, sir, every cent of it. Oh, now that I know she is mine, how bitter to see her cold tome! How shall I teach her to love me ?” ‘It'll all come in time, ma’am,” said the man, with an unsteady voice. Yes, yes. Did she—your wife I mean—love her very dearly ?” “Indeed it did come nigh to break her heart, I think, to part with her,” and now the tears were fairly drop- ping from his lashes. «Poor soul! I know how to pity her. Think whata hungry heart I have carried for all that time.” “Take me to mammy,” persisted the child, putting up her beautitul hands. “This is your mammy, dear,” said the man, bréaking down, and turning to the window he took out his hand- Kerchief and wiped his eyes with a great sob. “Oh, I see its very hard for you. Money won't pay you, but you shall have the two thousand pounds and whatevenis due besides. Tell that poor woman how I pity het, but 1 can’t give up my little one, because, you . see, God gave it to mefor my very own. Now go”—Dalton had enticed the child, with some pretty painted toys, to anotber part of the room—‘‘while her attention is taken off. I hope you won't wish to kiss her good-by, though I couldn’t blame you if you did.” “No, ma’am; Ltook my last in the coach,” said the man, as he softly sidled out of the door. Presently he was missed, and then there was a scene very trying to the mother. It was days and days before Dotty ceased to mourn for ‘“‘mammy,” and though it. roused some little antag- onism in Eden’s gentle heart, yet she had the good sense to let the child’s grief have its way. Meantime she still “We shall soon # Daiton was to go as her right-hand man and protector. With a good nurse and experienced waiting-maid, she hoped to get comfortably through the voyage. CHAPTER XXUI. LIVELY TIMES AT ALDERBOUGHS. “Land sakes! I haven’t seen you so chipper for a long time, and it’s right glad I be,” said Mrs. Leslie, with a beaming countenance, one cheerful day in spring. “TJ have good reason to be, Mrs. Leslie; I have news ‘from abroad.” ‘News from the young country, is it, my lord ?” “Yes; and you may get ready for company. I want all the rooms done up, for 1 have invited some ladies who are coming to England to make Alderboughs their bome while they remain.” ‘Ladies ! should see a woman.in the old place—a real lady, I mean? In the old lord’s time they never came. I sup- pose you’ve heard the silly old distich that’s to be found somewhere in the records ?” “No, I never heard anything of the kind. Do you know ?” : “Oh, yes. They say twas spoken by old Sir Edward, who got dreadfully crossed, and that’s why it happens on the records, Is’pose. This is it: - “ «There ll be trouble, and ruin, and death, I vow, When a lady shall reign at Alderbough, It’s writ in’ the dreadfullest, old-fashionedest English— ‘enough to make you cross-eyed to read it.” “Oh, well, we won’t Say anything about the reigning part at present. These ladies—there will be gentlemen With them, too—are coming as visitors.” “Prynly, truly, and glad enough Ibe. Why, it.will put. such new life into the old house! But, sir, shail I hire -mnore maids? We'll surely need them.” “Yes, yes; get all the help you want. you the money this time.” ; : “Surely, sir, that’s spoken like one o’ the old line. It’s ‘been years enough since there were any doings of the kind here. and it willdo my heart good. Shall you fur- nish new, my lord ?” ; “Yes, two or three of the rooms en suite. Find out for me which will be the best adapted to young and pretty ladies. They have been used to having every comfort and luxury.” “Prey ab. nothing they’re used to, my lord, and I Mon’t think theg’ye a many such castles as old ’ Alderbough’s in that American land. Lord, how they'll -4+~* brighten up the grounds! I ean seem to see ‘em now all a fitting in beautiful dresses. “Well, I hope we'll not be * lonesome, never no more.” “J hope not, Mts. Leslie. I depend upon you for keep- ing up the honor of the house. Let me know this even- ing which rooms had best be attended to, and I'll send n upholsterer here to-morrow.” . Bue agreeable, sir ;” said Mrs. Leslie, delighted at her appointments. ‘We'll raise a dust, depend on't,” she paged, in an undertone, 28 Dunniston went back to his den, as he called the study. From that time on the house was noisy enough. One improvement made way for another. The upholsterer was really a genius in his art, and suggested some ideas that in their working out cost the new lord a mint of money. Windows and doors were open—bright colors met the eyes everywhere. Old stores of linen were brought out of odd closets—old silver was taken out of its secret recesses, and rubbed and placed ready for use. The grounds were beautified. A glass door was added to one of the rooms opening on to the garden—one crystal in a frame—so that the oceupants had a fine view of winding walks, shrubbery, fountains, and flowers. This was to be used as a break- fast-room, and in its adornments, drapery, and finish was simply perfect. Never had Lord Dunniston been so nearly happy as while superintending operations—never had he so nearly forgotten the past. True, his dreams were troublesome, but Dunniston seldom gave himself the opportunity of criticising them—they were, gone with the darkness. He was busy all day, now with the new gardener, now with the upholsterer. His stables were thoroughly renovated; né bought several horses, and a new and ‘dashing earriage, and for all these things he went into debt. "mere wasS,no difficulty about that, though it was “new for a Dunniston, the trade’s people said. They were very glad to get him on their books. “ “J forgot to ask you how many there would be ?” asked 's. Leslie, one morning. ; How many? Oh, well, let me see.” h truth be had merged all in one person, the only one I won't grudge Her. made diligent preparations for leaving the country, and | Oh, my heart’s ease! did I ever think | | What is it? | on his fingers. ‘Miss Isoline and her friend, the judge, Benton and Eldredge, five in all, Mrs. Leslie.” ‘Dear me, and only two ladies 2” “Tl warrant you theyll be as much as you will want to manage, Mrs. Leslie.” “And they'll bring their maids, I suppose.” «Very likely.” ‘‘And the gentlemen their valets.” “Gentlemen seldom have body servants in America. We'll find them valets, if they want them.” “Dear me, how odd!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leslie. ‘But, then, poor heathens, they’ve no lords and ladies in that country! They can't know so much of comfort and re- finement as we do.” «Perhaps,” he said, smiling. “Well, it’s odd as we got just five bedsready, though we could put up plenty more, for there’s not a room in use in the third story. There’s pink ’angings, and blue ‘angings, just lovely, andas would suit the most fas- tidious. And maybe my lord ‘ll take it into his ’ead to keep one of the ladies at Alderbough. ‘‘Maybe I can persuade one of the ladies to stay. I pledge you my word I shall try,” he said. “Ah! that be the best news yet.” CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT A LIKENESS! The steamer Ocean was lying at the wharf, and her passengers were coming in crowds. A gentleman, who looked like a lawyer, was busy going in and out of a handsome doubie state-room, and he seemed very so- a in providing for the comfort of its future occu- pant. In the state-room adjacent, Isoline Huntley and Laura Veschoff were busy arranging their books, bags, and sun- dry packages, assisted by a good-natured looking girl, who was Isoline’s dressing-maid. “I’m afraid they’re going to have a baby next door,” said Isoline, rather crossly, ‘‘or a whole raft of trouble- Some children. Ah, what a beautiful woman!” ‘“‘Where ?” cried Laura, coming forward. “Gone into that same state-room; and there's a nurse, and—a baby! I knew it! It’s such a nuisance to have a young child near. However, it can’t be helped. They’re an uncommonly handsome party. The lady had a little girl by the hand, as lovely as anangel. I wonder who they are ?” . “Tl find out, miss,” said the maid. ‘“Do—but be careful.” Back came the girl in a few moments, quite posted. “The gentleman that was fixing up things wasn’t her husband at all; he was her lawyer, and the lady was a widow—but oh, oceans rich! She'd had a fortune left her in England, and she was going on there to see her native place once more.” «Some rich old family, I suppose,” said Isoline. «I wonder what made her come to America? Oh, married, Suppose, and came on with her husband. Well, it’s none of our business.” The steamer was staunch: the ocean as calm as it could be; the company on board excellent. isoline and Laura were always together. A great change had come over the latter, though Iso- line, selfish in her new experience, did not observe it, only at times. Laura brooded much over the past. Sometimes she hated Isoline, and the most cruel thoughts, like unbidden ghosts, would take possession of her brain. A wild jealousy, that stung like scor- pions, goaded her night and da\. She was very restless, impetuous, and listless by turns; nursing dark and al- most murderous fancies. In fact, her love became a disease that poisoned her life. She was all the time im- agining the meeting between them. “Shall I brand him then and there, or had I best bide my time?’ she would ask herself, and then smile and gloat over his imagined discomfiture. “What will he say to me first? I shall seem to him like an avenging spirit risen from the depths of the sea.” “I can’t think,” said Isloine, one day, ‘‘why you wanted me to be silent with regard to your movements. Have you any plan ?—do you fancy you shall frighten him or make him swoon with transport, to find you alive, when he has been thinking you forty fathoms deep for months ?” ‘‘Nonsense!” said Laura. ‘You know itit is onlya whim of mine. I have told you a thousand times.” “Now, how do I. know what you and he did on that vogage out? Men are so queer—off with the old, on with the new. Did he make love to you 2” “Don’t be silly, Isoline.” These were the words she said aloud, but, oh, in her heart she was thinking of that wonderful time when they two planned how they should live in a cheerful corner in old Alderboughs, and be all the world to each other. “If 1 believed the red on your cheek, I should answer my own question,” Said Isoline. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be very strange. I could forgive him, couldn’t you ?” Mian ” snapped Laura. Let me alone, Isoline, my head aches.’ “But I do wish you would tell me.” “Suppose I did. If you wish me to say he made love to me, why lll say it. Anything to please you,” and she laughed strangely. m “How far did it go?” asked Isoline. affecting to ex- amine a ring she wore on her fourth finger. “iow far? What do you mean 2?” Did he ask you to marry him ?” ‘Would you like me to say yes ?” es ‘Well, if he really did, you know.” — ‘Then he really did—continuation 6f the fiction. } He ased meé to be Lady Dunniston.” . “Oh, ef course it’s fiction because it isn’t probable that he knew anything about his good fortune till he got to ee Do you suppose he did?” she added, teas- ngly. “TI don’t want to talk aboutit. Why can’t you keep your happiness, and let me alone ®” “Tam keeping my happiness, my dear. I only want a reasonable excuse for your odd way of doing things. It would be natural enough for you to like Lord Dunnis- ton.” cw hy ” “Oh, you knew him before I did.” “When I knew him he was probably—not a widower.” Isoline winced. She had often scouted the idea of mar- rying a widower. First hand or none, she was wont to say. “But, come, say now, do you really think he loved you before he saw me ?” “Why will you talk about it?” cried Laura, sharply. “What isit to you what he thought of me, if you are sure that he loves you ?” a “One likes to learn about these little may-have- beens,” was the reply. ‘Did he ever talk about si “[ won't hear another question,” said Laura, de- 7a and rose from her seat and crossed to the other side. It was a glorious day. The sea gleamed like sheets of emeralds; the sky was blue as summer skies can be. The great steamer rocked gently like a cradle. Laura leaned against the side, and felt desolate and heart-broken. Ali the wealth, all the joy, all the glory ; and beauty of lite were for Isoline, not for her. “Andi can blight each and every separate blessing,” she said to herself. ‘But how willit be done? I can’t shape anything; I must let events and chances shape themselves. If I plan them, I shall surely spoil them. ; And I teel as if I am sent by some unseen power—per- | haps the spirit of his poor murdered wite—for I do be- j lieve he murdered her. If have never recalled the ex- pression of his face at that moment, but what I have absolutely believed his words—yes, absolutely. He could not have invented so terrible a story; at that time it must have been simply impossible. I almost wish, sometimes, that I had let Isoline tell him all about me, and staidat home. Why have I this wild longing to destroy him, when they two might be happy? Why not say to myself, that confession was a fiction, and he, in his excited state, did not know what he was saying? No; on the whole, I’m glad IJ didn’t, when I recall the language of that letter—‘I love her, almost, because she is your friend.’ Oh, the duplicity of the man! Ill teach him to hate me, and to some purpose.” She shut her teeth hard, and still continued to gaze over the wide, dazzling expanse ot waters. Presently the sharp exclamation of some child struck her ear. She turned. A child’s swinging cradle, adroitly arranged so as to serve aS a Carriage, was close beside her, and Dalton, who had tied a large white handkerchief over his bright curls, every now and then propelled it for a short distance. ; “Oh, what a lovely boy! Oh, you sweet baby!” cried Laura, who was a passionate admirer of children. The chiid looked full in her face, with his dark eyes enlarged and shining, and smiled; then took on the look of precocious wisdom children’s faces assume. ““You beautiful baby ! whom do you look like? Surely some tace I have seen before. Will h me kiss him, do you think ?” : “Oh, yes, madam,” said Dalton, pr her delight. Bi i ‘Is he your brother ?” a “No, indeed; I have neither brother nor sister.” «Your little nephew then, or cousin ?” 6 “No relation atall. I’m going out with Mrs. Wane to be educated abroad.” “Wane! Who is that—the mother of this boy ?” asked Laura, still on her knees beside the carriage. “Yes, madam.” “Wane—Wane! What have I heard in connection with that name?” she murmured,.softly. Then aloud, “These look like English children.” ‘Mrs. Wane is English,” said the boy, with a cautious manner and a wary look. “TJ thought so. And the papa ?” “He is dead.” p “Oh, how dreadful! And that pretty woman is a widow then? Does she never come on deck ?” “Oh, yes, Sometimes, but mostly after twilight. She suffers from sea-sickness.” “TI should like to know her.” The boy was silent. Laura played with the white hands of the cherub, who seemed to take a particular fancy to the small featherin her hat, and laughed and showed his pretty pearls of teeth. “How strange that the face reminds me of some other familiar face, and I can’t place it,” she said to herself. “Oh, there is little mother now!” cried Dalton, his face radiant; and at that moment Ed@en made her ap- pearance, moving unsteadily, until Dalton gave her his hand for support. She seemed surprised for a moment to see the dainty, handsome, high-bred woman paying humble homage to the child, but could not do less than smile and scem gratified. «Your beautiful baby has stolen my heart,” Laura said, playfully. ‘How proud you must be of him!” ‘and pleased at he cared to see, Isoline Huntley ; but now he counted | } } ~ (“A Heart’s Bitterne | say: “Tam a little proud of him,” replied Eden, casting a | «Since you will be alone now you will spend a deal of loving glance at the boy. “He doesn’t look a bit like you.” low, faltering voice. Laura turned a little aside. | “She cannot bear yet to speak of him,’ she thought to | herself. “You are nota good sailor, I see,” she added determined to make the most of her interview. ‘“Notvery; Iden’t liké the sea,” and Eden's pale face | eee whitely under the silver spray of a gossamer ! vail. i > ] “And is this your chil¢ also?’ asked Laura, as little | Dotty, who had been ‘indulging in familiar gossip with an old gray-beard, suddenly came into the group. ‘She looks like you.” ‘Yes, this is my little girl,” murmured Eden, drawing the child jealously nearer. ‘My. darling, I think we must send the maid for your hat,” she said. “IT never saw such lovely children,” continued Laura, really honest in her admiration; -‘and such clearly dif- ferent types of beauty! I must ask my friend over here, may Ll? Am I taking too great a liberty ?” “Oh, no, indeed, no,” said Eden, smiling and gratified. ‘Isoline!” called Laura. ‘“‘Isoline! Miss Huntley! The wind is the other way, she doesn’t hear me ;” and Laura _rose to her feet and crossed the deck. She did not see the expression that came into Eden’s face, as she spoke that name, the sudden catching of the breath, the drawing back of the body, the flush - and pained, the quick rising and falling of the chest. -*Tsoline! did she say; ‘Miss Huntley!’ Oh, only too | well I remember that name! It was on the letters I | found, and he said it was the nom de plume of a lady | who wrote for the press. Oh, how that name has stirred | me! I never thought f should feel like this again. 1) hope it is not hate.” She was all burning with curiosity now to see the face of this woman who had innocently or otherwise corre- sponded with Dunniston, though she shrank at the same time from the sight. But Laura had spoken to her; Eden saw the lithe, slender figure rise, with that pecu- liar swaying motion indivative of supreme refinement if not of gentile blood, au¢ ker heart grew sick, though the author of herjedi0tey Weegee She thought, far beyond the chancé or a judgment. “Isn't he beauty itself.’ For one supreme momeat Eden felt inclined to lift the babe and hide his face inher bosom out of the woman's sight, but she forced herslf to see how unreasonable and even childish such concuct would be. She sat there stolidly, instead, holdinginer vail down like a mask. “Tsoline !” she had heard her husband speak the name to himself—she had by ¢Hance seen the letter whose re- | ception he tried to cover with a jest. Yes, she was} very beautiful—she could not but acknowledge it—very queenly, thoroughly bred, elegant in manners, peerless in expression—that is, ¢xpression of a certain kind. Isoline was also thoroughly charmed with the child, and the little aristocrat heid his dainty head back and finally consented to give one of his hands for the lady to kiss. “Are you going to London 2” asked Isoline of Eden. “Oh, no!” was the col reply, ‘lam going to my old es in Streatford. I haye never been in London in my fe.” “Tsoline!” cried Laura, all of a sudden, her cheek growing a shade paler, ‘1 have just thought whom that child resembles. I havebeen trying and trying to think, until goaded to desperation I gave itup. But, oh! I see it now.. What a likeness!” «Well, who is it 2” “Tord Dunniston !’ The effect upon the two women before whom that hame was pronounced, under such strange circum- stances, was widely different in each. Isoline flushed a little and smiled, while 4 supreme content seemed to irradiate the whole fatey’ Eden grew cold, white, reti- cent. She turned away from them all, and drew her chair back with a ape dea seemed to say, ‘‘The in- terview is over, I desire ( say no more to you, to have no more to do with you.” Dalton and Dotty were having long walks together. With a motion of her. hand she brought them to her side. “Dalton, will you. gall the nurse?” she asked, with quiet dignity. ‘My boyis sleepy.” Dalton went away, so did Laura and Isoline, chilled | effectually. ; | “Well, I never was so@jtin my life,”said Laura. ‘Did you see how cold she wag all suddenly ?” “T should think I did?’ Isoline retorted, with some | asperity. ‘I always di@{think it a most unbecoming thing to make advances ¥®o perfect strangers. Blessed { be etiquette! If ever fea its laws again may I be , aloud, made to feel as supremel¥: ridiculous as I do now.” (TO BE KONTINUED.) P (THIS STORY WILL NQ BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. } ILLGEGSS, enced in No.45. Back Agents. } - humbers can be obt “THEN, VIO! The letter from the L hancellor lay uppermost, and as Violet took it trom thegalver she did not notice the superscription of afe otter letter, which she dropped into her lap. She cried, eAgerly : “Now, Edna, we shall par what he says! Oh, I hope he has appointed wise ang good guardians for my boy !” “T am sure he has,” sai’ Edna, dropping her work. “He would not do otherwBe, as he is a wise and good man.’ ¥ Violet began to read afoud. After some general con- dolences, and compliments, and explanations that ‘he | would have come to her at the Towers had he not been a prisoner to the gout, the Lord Chancellor went on to | “You have committed fp me avery important trust, | that of selecting suitablé guardians for the heir of one of the oldest titles and finest estates in England. Your child will have a long min¢rity, over twenty years. Itis/} necessary that I should not appoint old men for his guardians, but those whe may hope to see him attain his majority. I would desire: men of large, liberal, kind- ly natures, who would haye sympathy with their ward, and obtain his love and cé@afidence. I should seek men of lofty ideas, pure lives, wnsullied integrity, examples to him of all the virtues they should inculcate. 1 have thought deeply upo mice of these, my ideal guar- dians, but high as is the gandard I have set, I think I have chosen men who attain toit. I have spoken to them, and they have agreeil to accept the trust. They are the Marquis of Alwold dnd Lord Kenneth Keith.” Violet dropped the letter, and the two young women looked at each other across the fatherless babe, who, unconscious of the questions at Stake, lay on the floor between them, playing with a gold coral and bells. A flood of crimson rose over Hdna’s fair face and throat, at this unexpected encomium and mention of the man she deeply loved. Violet grew paler still, in contrast with her crape, and under the widow’s cap, which hid all the shining rings of her pretty hair. She turned her eyes to Rupert, and said, softly : “T know Loré@ Keith loves the child; he said he would always be his triend—and lie saved him his estate.” ; “No doubt it is a good choice,” said Edna, taking up her work again, and making various sudden resolutions, as she sewed little stitches. «Certainly I cannot dispute the selection, and I never thought of his making such,” said Violet. Then she laid | down the Lord Chancellor’s letter and noticed the other. “Here is one from Lord Keith,” she said, breaking the seal. She read aloud : i “To THE HONORABLE COUNTESS OF LEIGH :—DEAR MapD- AM. The Lord Chancellor has appointed me one of the guardians of your son, the infant Earl of Leigh, and I have found myself unable to resist the urgency with which he pressed the office upon me, I trust J] shall ful- fill my duties for the ehild’s¢ 0d, and to your content- ment. Lord A}we " i dias been called to Scotland, and as it.is févessary to confer with you, on proper plans for the future, I Waco to wait on you at the Towers, next week. [shail trespass but two days on your solitude. My mit 1er sends her tenderest re- gards, and begs that you will receive her, with me, as she is longing to see both you and Miss Haviland. “Your humble servant, KENNETH KEITH.” Violet had not seen Kenneth when he came to the Towers for the funeral. Sie had parted from him at the railroad station in London, after he had won her case for her. But the solemn days which had passed since then, and the terrible tragedy which had fallen upon her life, seemed. to divide her, by years and years, from the girl whom Kenneth Keith had loved and mourned. Her future and her present were all for her child. It was in this mood, that when Kenneth Keith came with his mother, she.moved tormeet*him, a pathetic little gure, in her widow’s cap and weeds. The rector and Mr. Storms were there also, and Violet asked the rector to give her his arm to dinner, while Kenneth es- corted his mother. When they returned from the brief and silent meal, Kenneth said : “Lady Leigh, I wished to confer with you and Mr. Storms, as 1 am about to leave England for some time. My little ward will scarcely need much of myare at present ; and my co-guardian, the marquis, can perform all the duties that might fall to either of us. I think the little earl will suffer no detriment from my absence. I am going to India and China, and probably shall be away two years.” Violet did not know that she had been shrinking from the future and from meeting Lord Keith until the sud- den leap of relief which her heart gave at hearing he was going from England. She Jooked up at him almost gratefully, as she said, ‘‘She did not wish his guardian- ship to be a burden,” and that “she was sure Lord Alwold could give all the advice needed.” “Our little earl will want no more important tutors than a nursery maid during the next two years,” laughed Mr. Storms. Violet slid her hand into that of Lady Burton and whispered : | room, Violet came to her. | your time with me, will you not, and teach me how to | Manage my child and my estates? If you stay much “Oh, no; he fayors his father,” she made reply, ina | with me I can have Edna here more.” Then the talk wandered into discussions of the estates, and the rector gave long histories of various minorities of earls of Leigh, and he spoke hopefully of the future, and advanced the comforting doctrine, that the sons of widows were usually good and useful men. ‘You will find Alwold most attentive and devoted to his ward, I am sure,” said Lord Keith ; and then, at the mention of Alwold, both Kenneth and his mother looked unconsciously at Edna. They could neither of them guess why for more than a year, Alwold, who had seemed such an ardent lover, had abandoned Edna, and why, though a shadow had evidently fallen on her, she being endured her trouble in silence, giving no word or sign. Lord Keith and Lady Burton went away in two days, and then, for October, life flowed on very quietly at the Towers. However brayely Violet had striven to bear the burden of her married lite it had undoubtedly weighed very heavily upon her. ‘‘The lower nature linked with hers” had worn and fretted her. Her tender spirit had shrunk and shivered from harsh, repellent words and looks and sneers, and she had lived in daily dread of evil. Now she lived in calm, as one above whom the storm has wheeled away, and who has nothing more to dread. She gave herself ardently to the care of her child and her tenants. The rector and his wife found her for- ward in every benevolence; the people, old and young, idolized her. Wherever there was one sick or sad, an old person on the verge of the grave, or a babe new-come to life, there the pony phaeton of the little Countess Leigh stood by the gate, and her soft voice brought sym- pathy or consolation, and her white hand help. “Like sleep or peace, in dark affliction’s place, She smoothed the furrows on the front of care ; Clove with the glory of a loving face The dreary dens and caverns of despair. And pure as morn, sent forth her fair white hand, Bearing a blessing on from door to door; Till like a new-born light across the land, Her heart’s large love went brightening more and more.” Thus they were when November came to them, and one day Violet went to Edna’s room with an open letter. ‘Dearest Edna, I must tell you, the Marquis of Alwold is coming here, day after to-morrow, to see his ward.” «Then, Violet,” said Edna, quietly, ‘‘to-morrow I must leave you. I go to my cousin’s.” CHAPTER LXXXVI. *‘CRUEL, CRUEL THE WORDS I SAID.” That night, when Edna had dismissed her maid and was seated in a low chair before the fire in her dressing Her brown hair, freed from the widow’s cap, fell in all its beautiful abundance over her shoulders, and her long black dressing gown made her look more slender and childish than ever. “Tam glad,” she said, ‘that your maid is gone, and that you have no light but the fire. 1]. want to talk to you.” Edna, without reply, took her hand and stroked it. ‘“‘May I speak to you of Alwold, Edna ?” “No,” said Edna, ‘‘not of him.” “But I must. Bear with me, my loved Edna. You know that my life has been sacrificed toa mistake and an unkind interference. Ido not mean ever to refer to it again. I wish forever to forget what tears I have shed, what heart-aches ‘I have suffered. But my own Edna, I cannot endure the thought of such mistakes for you. Edna, do you still love Alwold »” “T am not changeable, Violet,” said Edna, looking at her friend between a smile and a tear. “Darling Edna,” said Violet, in her most caressing tone, ‘“‘surely you will not be so unkind as to leave me alone here to receive Lord Alwold.” “And you, my dearest, will not urge such a plea as that when you know perfectly well that Captain Gore and his wife are to be here before Lord Alwold can pos- sibly reach here to-morrow.” «You know it is not for my own sake I am Speaking. I feel sure if you two were to meet the old good terms would at once be established between you. The bappi- ness of you both is at-stake. Oh, it-is asad thing to part true lovers, my Edna.” “Urge me no more,” said Edna. ‘I cannot see him; all my peace, my dignity, my womanly self-respect are at stake. I know if I met him I could not so command my- self, but some look or tone must show that my heart is | You know, Violet, how many there would be to | his. Say the poor rector’s child was seeking Alwold for his lotty rank, and loved the title rather than the man. I cannot lay myself open to any such suspicion by throw- ing myself in his way. Allis ended between us.” «But there is a mistake between you, Iam sure.” “Itis not for me to right it,” said Edna, and the leap- ing firelight showed her lovely blue eyes full of tears. *«And now listen to me, Violet, promise me that you will not speak of me—to him.” “Tf cannot do that, for I should break the promise,” said Violet; ‘‘everything would recall you, and I could hardly avoid mentioning your name.” “At least promise me that you will not inquire into the trouble between us.” _ «Yes, Ican promise that. I do not know Alwold well enough to intrude on his,private affairs.” But Violet believed that she Knew what the trouble was, and she set her loving heaf#t and earnest mind at work to try and find a way to y@ght the wrong done by er dead husband. ven next day Edna went to 8 Her going from the Tuwers Wiis as a light withdrawn. Fer the hour or two before Caj}tain Gore and his bride came Violet felt utterly desolat¢, and even the jolly cap- tain and Anna, happy and blushing, just come from the fortnight in Paris, which had succeeded their wedding, could not make up to Violet for the loss of Edna. “Gore and I mean to be perfectly devoted to you, Violet,” said Anna. ‘We will stay and go just as you wish. Weare the happiest people in the world, and we owe it all to you, for mamma would never. have con- sented but for your persuasion.” Lord Alwold arrived just in time to dress for dinner. After dinner his little ward was brought to the draw- ing-room, and then Lord Alwold hada long talk with Violet about the estates, and how they should be con- ducted during the little earl’s minority. Violet was ; eager to know what was her duty in regard to improve- ments and benevolence, and would Lord Alwold study the steward closely, and advise her as to his qualifica- tions, both as a man of business and a philanthropist. ‘I feel that I know the tenants, and have some right ideas about their good,” said Violet,” for two years ago | Lady Burton and I spent an autumn here together, and she taught "me much out of her experience. And now this autumn I have been*doing what I can, and our people are all very good and friendly.” “T never saw any one like Miss Haviland for going among people and saying just the right thing. J can’t begin with her there, Violet,” spoke up Anna. “When will she be back ?” asked Gore. “7 don’t know,” said Violet. “Such a pity she could not have staid twenty-four hours later so we could have seen her,” said Gore. And then, of course, the marquis could not but know that Edna had fied to avoid meeting him. ‘Tf you lament her so much,” said Anna to her hus- band, “perhaps Violet will show you the picture she has of her on her dressing-table, painted on ivory, cab- inet size—sweetest thing lever saw. Do, please, Violet ; ring for it.” Violet thought she must let events take their course. She rang for the picture and handed it to Anna, who summoned Gore to admire it with her. Then Anna said: “We must not be selfish. Lord Alwold, you would like to look at it, too, 1am sure,” and shea set up the picture on a table before him. Then she andthe cap- tain wandered to the other end of the room, and began a private chat with each other. Violet was seated on a low chair near the fire that leaped in the grate. Her black robes fell heavily about her, her white cap made the one strong point of light, as with her lovely child-like face turned aside, she watched Alwold while he studied the portraic. She could not doubt that he loved Edna deeply still, when she saw how pale he grew, and how a mist swept over his eyes, and a look of longing and despair settled over his handsome face. He turned and caught her gaze. He strove to speak indifferently. * “Miss Haviland has been keeping you company ?” he said, coming and leaning his elbow on the jade mantel, and looking down at the countess. “Yes. I cannot tell you what she has been to me. think ours is such alove as Tennyson celebrated in ‘In Memoriam,’ more than: the love of kindred. And yet, do you know, once I had the deepest and most unreason- ing aversion toward Edna.” “Ah ?” said the marquis, softly. “Yes. But it was all owing to a mistake. No one could be angry with Edna, nor condemn her, except as under a mistake, because she is the most perfect crea- ture on earth. Well, I mistook her, and disliked her, and refused to meet her, and she returned me good for evil, and love for hate, and saved me for myself, and if | have been strong at all, and have done my duty, it is all owing to Edna.” “She is fortunate in having so warm a friend,” said the marquis. “Would you imagine me ofa jealous nature, Lord Al- wold ?” ‘7 do not know. But if you are, I thinkI could sym- pathize with the infirmity, as I possess it.” “It leads us into many mistakes, and often causes us to destroy our own happiness and the happiness of others, and to condemn the innocent,” said Violet, quietly, and then turned the conversation to business channels. The next morning, before breakfast, Lord Alwold was strolling about in the park, when he came upon a little rustic seat under a beech tree, and there lay an open book, and on it a kerchief and a withered cluste of pansies. The handkerchief had Edna’s name on it. She had inadvertently left the things there some thirty- six hours before. The book was Tennyson’s Poems, and Lord Alweld read: * Cruel, cruel, the words I said, Cruelly came they backto-day. . ‘You are too slight and fickle,’ I said, ‘To trouble the heart of Edwin Gray.’” CHAPTER LXXXVII. ‘‘BEHOLD A PENITENT HERE, FOR PARDON.” All during breakfast Lord Alwold seemed lost in ek meditation. After breakfast he and Violet went to the library to look over papers. The library was a great room, well lighted, into which the November sun- shine was pouring a pale light, while fires glowed in two s ¢ coussn near Hackney. | I}. opposite fire-places. The table, with japanned boxes of papers, stood in the centerofthe floor. In a distant bow window Anna sat knitting, as she slowly swayed back and forth in a low rocker, her rosy cheeks and blue gown forming a brilliant contrast to iVolet, pale and slender in her black bombazine. When the papers had been examined Lord Alwold spoke, abruptly : “You say you mistook Ed——, Miss Haviland, and dis- liked her; would you mind telling me about it ?” “There is no reason why I should not tellyou. I heard that she had been engaged to Lord Leigh, and I be- lieved he continued tocare for her, and I wasangry and jealous.” Lote was she not engaged to him ?” ‘No.” “Can younot tell me about it, Lady Leigh? I, too, have heard of this, and perhaps not a true account.” ‘But, if you were interested, why did you not ask Edna?” “T did.” “What did you ask her? If there had been an engage- ment ?” ‘ “Why, I asked if he had been her lover.” “You see, there is a vast difference,” said Violet, quietly. ‘Did you ask her to explain 2” “No. Iwas jealous and hasty, and I asked fora ‘yes or no,’ and when it was ‘yes,’ 1 went into a rage.” “Then you were very foolish,” said Violet, calmly. Lord Alwold leaned his head on his hand, and sighed deeply. Violet remembered how her own life had been blighted by misunderstandings, and she pitied him. He was, in spite of his admitted hastiness. a good and noble man, and he had had his lesson. She bent torward. ‘Lord Alwold, let: me tell you that story. Edna’s aunt lives by our park gates, and Lord Leigh saw Edna there, when she was scarcely sixteen, and fell in love with her.” Then she told how he had followed her into Cornwall, and succeeded in meeting her, and had seemed much in love, had really been enamored, and how Edna had at once told all to her father ; and the wise old man, feeling Sure that his child’s fleeting fancy, and not her heart, was enlisted, had insisted on a year of probation and parting. ee oe She told the little story Simply, ¢arnésciy;trankly,” — with delicate tact, which tried to hide the truth—that Lord Leigh had not loved herself, had pursued Edna, and Edna had used all her power to try and comfort and help her, and make peace between her and Leigh ; she also told how Edna had comforted and encouraged her. Thus Violet told her friend’s story. «You think, then, she did not love this first lover ?” *‘| know she did not. Hers was a girl’s heart, faintly stirred by first words oflove, which did not waken any real or strong emotion. And then the acquaintance was of the slightest—a few meetings, with the governess or her father for a third.” “I never loved but one,” said Lord Alwold, ‘‘and that one—Edna. I have always said I could marry only a woman who loved me, first, last, only. i could have the ghost of no dead loves rising in my married life. A coquette is a being whomtabhor. i believe marriage should be made on the simple basis of honest love. I felt sure that Lord Leigh could not have been truly con- genial to Edna, and if there had been a two years’ en- gagement, it was on the ground of social advantage. I admit I was rash, hasty, jealous, unjust. She ought to | hate me, and, no doubt, she does.” Violet was silent. She took up a paper covered with calculations of certain interest, and knit her pretty brows, as she studied it with zeal. “Do you think I might have another chance?” he asked. “I think you owe her ample and sincere apology,” said Violet, with admirable frankness. «She shail have it. Where shall I find her?” Violet still continued to study figures. Finally she lifted her sweet face. “Lord Alwold, I have such a plan!” “Ot a school-house ?” asked the marquis, gloomily. “No. Harka minute. This is my plan.” She bent torward, and talked earnestly. Asshe spoke Lord Alwold’s face brightened like the morning.” «You are my best friend,” he said. ‘I owe you every- thing, all my devotion, how shall I ever repay you ?” «Pay the debt to my boy,” said Violet, quietly. “And it Shall really be this way ?”’ “Yes. JT think it will work to a charm,” said Violet. His lordship looked another man from that minute. eo wore a most radiant face when he drove off to the station. ‘How handsome he is!” cried Anna. ‘Wonder he is not married ?” “He will be, I hope, to my own dear Edna. But, Anna, be sure you do not mention it.” ‘Not to a living soul,” said Anna, ardently, and in an hour had told Gore, but in strictest confidence. Now, about the middle of December, Violet wrote to Lady Burton, begging that she and Edna would come to the Towers, to pass the holidays there quietly. «Anna and Gore would like to go to Uncle Ainslie’s for a week,” she wrote, ‘‘but they do not wish to leave me alone. You twodo not care for gayety; you will not mind my dull house. Come and see how my boy thrives at the mature age of thirteen months. A pretty pair of guardians he ‘has—one in Egypt, and one in France! but as yet he needs no one but his mamma,” In answer to this earnest entreaty, Lady Burton and Edna arrived on the twentieth, and fell readily into their places in Violet’s quiet household life. — : On the @vening of the twenty-fourth, Violet, in a | furred cloak and hood, was, just before twilight, pacing. | the terrac¢g, looking dowir the avenue, as’ it watching for some ome. She did nofseem at all surprised when cg Alwoid rode up, followed by a groom on horse- ack, The groom led off the horses, and Alwold, with his- cloak over his arm, went up the broad steps by Lady Leigh’s side. ‘*{ peeped into the library just now, through the shut- ters,” said Violet, ‘and Edna is sitting there alone by the fire. You shall go in at once, if you like.” She knocked at the library, then pushed open the door. Lord Alwold entered, and the door swung shut softly. The library was in a ruddy twilight of the hearth- fires and the dying day. Edna was leaning back in a. low bamboo chair, her lovely head against the tutted blue satin cushion, her white dress falling in a soft cloud about her, the leaping flame touching robe and hair with points ot gleaming gold. Lord Alwold moved sottly forward. “Miss Haviland! Edna!” he said, in a low tone. She made no answer. He drew nearer; he could see her face now. Her hands lay loosely in her lap; the long, dark lashes swept her delicate cheeks. Edna was asleep, and her dimples went and came, and her lips curved, as in a happy dream. Alwold knelt beside her chair, and said, gently: “Edna, Edna, wake!” She opened her eyes; he seemed to so mingle with her dream that she did not wonder at seeing him there. The soft. light of her beautiful smile shone into his heart. “Edna,” he said, ‘‘behold a penitent here for pardon. I make a full confession. I was hasty, hard, unkind; I deserve only your indignation. ButI loye you with all my heart. Ilay my life at your feet. Only your love can make me happy. Edna, will you forgive me? Will you be my wife ?” A rosy flush dawned over her fair face and neck. “Alwold! Are youreally here? Isit not a dream?” “Make it the most blessed reality that ever was, by saying that you love me.” “Vm afraid you'll think better of it,” said Ed a most enchanting smile. “So I shall, every day I live!” cried Alwold, folding her in his arms. ” na, with [TO BE CONTINUED.] See ar ere THE SENSES AS AFFECTED BY SEX. Tf the senses are taken Seriatim, it will be evident that they are not parallel in men and women. ‘The lat- ter possess; in a much greater degree, the perfection of the sense of touch ; those occupations that require ex- treme delicacy of manipulation, such as lace making, embroidery, bead stringing, etc., are therefore usually followed by women, As regards the sense of hearing, we are not aware of any experiments or observations on the relative perfection of the sense in the two sexes; and the same may be stated as regards the sense of sight, which appears to be equally acute in Women and in men. In the extreme delicacy of taste it is probable that the men excel. . Whether they do so naturally or in consequence of the cultivation of men’s palates, As a moot question ; but that they excel not only as judges of food, but also as judges of wine, may be accepted as an established fact, and the accurate perception of the delicate shades of difference distinguishing different brands and vintages of wine is much more frequently found in men thanin women. As regards the sense of smell, some exceedingly conclusive experiments have been made by some American savants which appear to subvert out preconceived opinions. The experiments were performed with prussic ‘acid and other. strongly odorous substances on forty-four males and ‘thirty-eight females, and it was found that in nearly all cases the sense of smell was about double as acute in men as in women. The-cause of the difference in this matter between men apd womenis quite unknown, as is the object of the distinction ; but it has one practical bear- ing that may be borne in mind. The employment of strong and potent’ perfumes by women may depend on their less acute sense of smell, and they would do well to bear in mind the fact that odors and perfumes which may be quite peasant to them may be almost overpow- ering and decidedly unpleasant to individuals of the other sex. : ‘ ——_—_—__ > @-~ Ir you speak what you will, you shall hear what you dislike. ——————>-o +_____—__ CONSEMPTION CURED. _ An old physician, retired from practice, haying had placed in his hands by an East India missionary the formula of a simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permament cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat and Lung Affections, also _a positiye and radical cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after having tested its wonderful curative powers in_ thousands of cases, has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows. Actuated by this motive and a desire to relieve human suffer- ing, I will send free of charge this recipe, in German, French or English, with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this paper, W. A. Noyes, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, ¥ ¥ ox THE N KW YORK WEEKLY. ee v0, 42-No. a aad 4 ~y ea a Wet agg aga enna tna Gs VOL, 42—No., 21. A WELCOME TO A FRIEND. I give thee welcome, good old friend ; S years since last we met; And in thy absence oft I’ve felt A deep, sincere regret. . With other friends I’ve met; but none Hath been so kind or true. _ Their songs were like the nightingale’s, But soon away they flew. I give thee welcome, dear old friend ; ‘or though I am but poor, By night or day, come when you may, You'll open find my door. In friendship from a heart like thine Much good there must accrue ; I give thee welcome, dear old friend, *ve tried and found thee true. e<——_ LOVE'S YOUNG DRE OR, THE Mystery of Gower Hall. By MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” “A Wonderful Woman,” etc. [“Love’s YounG DREAM” was commenced in No. 6. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXI1X.—(CONTINUED.) i, entreated, I cried. It was all useless. pta o Delaplaine would not listen to me, but he grew quieter. “Don’t tell Kate,” he said. “I won’t see her. Say I’ve gone up on business. If I find Stanford in Montreal, I willcome back. Rose may go to perdition her own way. Iti don’t——” He paused, his face turning livid. “IfI - don’t, Pil send you a dispatch to say I have left for - Quebec.” He ran down stairs without saying good-by, jumped into the gig, and drove off like a madman. ‘I was so agi- tated that I dared not go down stairs when luncheon hour came, Evvy came up immediately after, and asked me if I wasill. I pleaded a headache as an excuse for remaining in my room all day, for I dreaded meeting Kate. Those deep, clear eyes of hers seem to havea way of reading one’s very thoughts, and seeing through all falsehoods. Evvy’s next question was for her father. I said he had gone to Montreal on sudden business, and I did not know when he would return, probably soon, She went down stairs to tell Kate, and [ kept my chamber until the afternoon. I went down to dinner, calm once more. It was unspeakably dull and dreary ; we three alone, where a few days ago we were So merry. No one came all evening, and the hours wore away, long, and lonely, and silent. We were all oppressed and dis- mal. I hardly dared to look at Kate, who sat playing mournfully in the dim piano recess. Next morning brought me the dreaded dispatch. Cap- tain Delaplaine had gone to Quebec; Mr. Stanford was not in Montreal, I cannot deseribe to you how I passed yesterday. I never was so miserable in all my life. It went to my heart to see Kate so busy and happy with the dress- makers, giving orders about those wedding garments she is never to wear. It was a day of unutterable wretchedness, and the evening was as long and dreary as its predecessor. Father Francis came up for an hour, and his sharp eyes detected the trouble in my face. I would have told him if Kate had not been there; but it was impossible, and I had to prevaricate. This morning has brought no news, and the suspense is horrible. Heaven help Kate! I can write no more. Your affectionate sister, GRACE DELAPLAINE, [Lieutenant R. R. Stanford to Major Lauderdale.) QUEBEC, May 18. DEAR LAUDERDALE :—The deed is done; the game is up; the play is played out! Reginald Reinecourt Stan- furd is a married man! You have read, when a guileless young shaver in roundabouts, the “Children of the Abbey”, and other tales of like kidney. They were romantic and senti- “je mental, weren’t they? Well, old fellow, not one of them was half so romantic or sentimental as this marriage of mine. There were villains in them, too—Colonel Bel- ' grave, and so forth—black-hearted monsters, without one redeeming trait. I tell you, Lauderdale, not one of these unmitigated rascals was halt so bad ag 1 am. Think of me at my worst—a scoundrel of the \ieepest dye. and you will about hit the mark. My der little, pretty little Rose’ is not much bétter; but she i§ such a sweet little sinner, that—in short, I don’t want /her to reform. I am in astate of indescribable beatitude, of course—only two days wedded, and immersed, so to speak, in the lusciousness of the honeymoon. Forsythe—you know Forsythe, of ‘‘Ours’—was my aider and ttor, accompanied by Mrs. F. He madea runaway match himself, and is always on hand to help fellow-sufferers ; on the ground, I suppose, that misery loves company. To-morrow we sail in the Amphitrite for Southampton. It won’t do to linger, for my papa-in-law is a dead shot. When I see you, I'll tell you all about it. Until then, au revoir. REGINALD STANFORD. (Mrs. Reginald Stanford to Grace Delaplaine.] QUECEC, May 19. DEAR MAMMA GRACE:—I suppose, befcre this, you have heard the awful news that my darling Reginald and I are married. Wouldn’t I like tosee you as you read this? Don’t I knew that virtuous scowl of yours so well, my precious mamma-in-law? Oh, you dear old prim, it’s sonice to be married, and Reginald is an angel! I love him so much, and I am so happy. I never was half so happy in all my lite. I suppose Madame Lablanc sent you the full, true, and particular account of my goings on. Poor old soul! what a rarefright she must have got when she found out I was missing! And Virginie, too. Virginie was so jealous to think I was going to be married before her, as if I would ever have married that insipid Jules. How I wish my darling Reginald had his fortune; but, fortune or no fortune, | love him with all my heart, and am going to be just as happy as the day is long. I suppose Kate is making a time, and saying all kinds of hard things about me. It is not fair if she is. I could not help Reginald’s liking me better than her, and I should have died if I had not got him. There! feel very sorry for her; though I know how I should feel if I lost him, and {.dare say she feels almost as badly. Let her take Jules. Poor Jules, I expect he will break his heart, and I shall be shocked and disappointed if he doesn’t. Let hertake him. He isrich and good- looking; and all those lovely wedding clothes will not ‘o to waste. Ah! how sorry I am to leave them behind; ut it can’t be helped. We are off to-morrow for Eng- land. I sha’n’t feel safe until the ocean is between us and papa. I suppose papa is very angry; but what is the use? As long as Reginald marries one of his daugh- ters, I should think the particular one would be im- material _Lam sorry I cannot be present at your wedding, Grace. I give you carte blanche to wear all the pretty things made for Mrs. Jules Le Touche, if they will fit ou. Tell poor Jules, when he comes, that I am sorry ; ut I loved Reginald so much that I could not help it. Isn’t he divinely handsome, Grace? If he knew I was ee, to you, he would send his love, so take it for T should write more, but [am going on board in an hour. Please tell Kate not to make a fuss, and not to over spilled milk. It’s of no use. Give my regards to that obliging brother of yours. I like very much. Perhaps I may write to you from Eng- yer will not be disagreeable; and willanswer. I eto hear the news from Canada and Gower Rapturously thine, ROSE STANFORD. [Grace Delaplaine to Doctor Delaplaine.] ; GOWER HALL, May 30. DEAR FRANK :—‘‘Man proposes—” ‘You know the prov- erb, which holds good in the case of women, too. I know my prolonged silence must have surprised you; but I have been so worried and anxious of late,. that writing has became an impossibility. Gower Hall has become a house of mourning indeed. I look back to the days that are gone, as people look back on some dim, de- lightful dream, and wonder if indeed we were so merry and gay. The silence of the grave reigns here now. The laughter, the music—all the merry sounds of a happy household—have fied forever. A convent of nuns could not be stiller, nor the holy sisterhood more grave and somber. Let me begin at the beginning, and relate events as they occurred, if I can. The day after I wrote you last brought the first event, in the shape of a letter from Rose to myself. A more thoroughly selfish and heartless epistle could not have been penned. I always knew her to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone—yea, backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal. That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that weakness. It spoke of her marriage with Regi- nald Stanford in the most shamelessly insolent and ex- ultant tone. It alluded to her sister and to poor Jules Le Touche in a way that brought the blood of the old Delaplaines fiery to my face. Oh, if I could have but laid hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingied before. I said nothing of the letter. My greatest anxiety now . was Jest Captain Delaplaine. and Mr. Stanford should meet. I was in a state of feverish anxiety all day, which J _ even Kate noticed. You know she never liked me. and latterly her aversion has deepened, though Heaven knows without any cause on my part, and she avoided me aS much as she possibly could without discourtesy. She inquired, however, if anything had happened—it I puzzled manner when I answered ‘‘No.” I could not look at her; I could hardly speak to her; somehow I in the vile plot that had destroyed her happiness. told him the truth. He agreed with me that it was best to say nothing until Captain Delaplaine’s return. He came that night. It was late—nearly eleven o'clock, and I and footman Thomas were the only ones up. Thomas admitted him; and I shall never forget how worn, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came in. . “TI was too late, Grace,” were his first words. ‘They have gone.” “Thank Heaven !” I exclaimed. have not met them, and that there is no bloodshed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it ist” «Does Kate know ?” he asked. “Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He returned.” voice, ‘‘who will tell you this ?” and tried to soothe and comfort him. ‘Father Francis will,” I said. tell her to-morrow.” Captain Delaplaine agreed that that was the best thing that could be done, and soon after retired. I went to my room, too, but not to sleep, I was too miserably anxious about the morrow. lovely—bright as day and warm as midsummer. up and down the tamarac avenue with Mr. They lingered there for over an hour, and then I heard spective rooms. Next morning after breakfast Captain Delaplaine rode together, but looking pale and ill at ease. Kate and I were in the dining-room—she practicing. a new song; I, sewing. We both rose at their entrance—she gayly ; I, with my heart beating thick and fast. ; “Jam glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, Fatlier Francis,” she said. ‘I wish our wanderers would come back. Gower Hall has been as gloomy as a dun- geon lately.” I don’t know what Father Francis said. I know he looked as the man must have looked who came to tell Mary Stuart that her fierce cousin, Elizabeth, had sen- tenced her to death. ‘‘Reginald ought to be home to-day,” Kate said, walk- ing to the window, ‘‘and Rose next week. It seems like a little century since they went away.” I could wait for no more—I hurried out of the room— crying, Iam afraid. Before 1 could go up Stairs, Captain Delaplaine joined me in the hall. “Don’t go,” he said, hoarsely, ‘wait here. be wanted.” You may of—I hardly know what. 1 looked at that closed door twenty minutes—half an hour—an hour, before that closed door opened. We shrank away, but it was only question our tongues would not utter. has taken it very quietly—too quietly. She has alarmed me—that unnatural calm is more distressing than the wildest outburst of womanly weeping.” “Shall we go to her ?” asked her father. “T think not—I think she is better alone. Don’t dis- turb her to-day. I witl come up again this evening.” «‘What did she say ?” I asked. “Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are stunned by a sudden blow. probably be going up to her room, and may not like to think you are watehing her.” Father Francis went away. Captain Delaplaine re- tired to his study. I remained in the drawing-room, which you know is opposite the dining-room, with the door ajar. 1 wished to prevent Evvy or any of the servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering. About an hour after the door opened, and she came out and went slowly up stairs. I caught a glimpse of her face asshe passed, and it had turned to the pallor of death. I heard herenter the room and lock the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the morning. She did not come down all day. I called in Evvy, and told her what had happened, and shocked the poor child as she was never shocked before. At dinner-time I sent her up Stairs to see if Kate would not take some re- freshments, Her knocking and calling remained un- pore pg She left in despair, and Kate never came own. Another sleepless night—another anxious morning. About eight o’clock. I heard Kate’s bell ring, and Eu- nice go up stairs. Presently the girl ran down and en- tered the room where I was. “If you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you,” said Eunice, with a scared face; ‘‘and, oh, miss, 1 think she’s ill, she do look so bad!” * Wanted me! I dropped ing in sheer affright. Wha mé? | went up stairs, me with its rapid throbbing, door. She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think her ill. One night had wrougat such change as I never thought a night could work before. She had evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room undisturbed. He face was so awfully corpse-like, her eyes so haggard and sunken, her beauty so mysteriously gone, that. f shrank before her asif it had been the specter of the bright, beautiful, radiant Kate Delaplaine. She leaned against the ornamental mantel-piece, and motioned me forward with a cold, fixed look. «You are aware,” she said, in a hard, icy voice—oh, So unlike the sweet tones of only yesterday—‘‘what Father Francis came here yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; buf I blame no- body. WhatI want to sayis this: From this hour I never wish to hear from any one the slightest allusions to the past; I never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I warn you, it will not be safe; and I desire you to tell this to my father and sister. Your in- fluence over them is greater than mine.” 1 bowed assent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes. “Father Francis mentioned a letter that R—” she hesitated for a moment, and finally said—‘‘that she sent you. Will you let me see it ?” : That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! imploringly, with clasped hands. “Pray don’t’ [ said. ‘Oh, pray don’t ask me! unworthy of notice; it will only pain you deeply.” She held out her hand steadily. «‘Will you let me see it ?” ; .What could I do? I took the letter trom my pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her. «Thank you.” She walked to the window, and with her back to me, read it through—read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of time it tookher. When she faced me again, she was as cold and changeless as stone. “Is this letter of any use to you? Do you want it ?” “No! Jonly wish I had destroyed it long ago!” “Then, with your permission, 1 will keep it.” “You!” I cried, in consternation. ‘“‘What can you want with that ?” A strange look passed across her face, darkening it fiercely ; and she clutched it tightly in her grasp. “T want to keep it for avery good reason,” she said, between her clenched teeth; “if Il ever forget the good turn Rose Delaplaine has done me, this letter will serve to remind me of it.” I was so frightened by her looks, and tone, and words, that I could not speak. She sawit, and grew composed again instantly. “T need not detain you any longer,” she said, looking at her watch. “I have no more tosay. You can tell my father and sister what [ have told you. I will go down to breakfast ; and I am much obliged to you.” She turned from me and went back to the window. I left the boudoir, deeply distressed, and sought the dining-room, where I found the captain and Evyy. | re- lated the whole interview, and impréssed upon them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-bell rang while we were talking, and she came in. Both Evvy and her father were as much shocked as I had been by the change in her; but neither spoke of it to her. We tried tobe at our ease during breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the effort was a miserable failure. She never spoke, save when directly addressed, and ate nothing, She sat down to the piano, as usual, after breakfast, and practiced steadily fpr two hours. Then she took her hat and a book, and went out to the garden to read. At luncheon-time she returned, with no better appe- tite, and after that went up to Mr. Richards’ room. She staid with him two or three hours, and then sat down to her embroidery-frame, still cold, and impassive, and silent. Father Francis came up in the evening, but she was as cold and unsocial with him as with the rest of us. So that firstday ended, andso has gone on every day since. What she suffers, she suffers in solitude and silence ; only her worn face, haggard cheeks, and hollow eyes tell. She goes through the usual routine of life with treadmill regularity, and is growing as thin asa shadow. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor complains, and she is killing herself by inches. We are worried to death about her, and yet we are afraid to say one word in her hearing. Come to us, Frank; you are a physician; and though you Cannot ‘‘minister to a mind diseased,” you can at east tell us what will help her failing body. Your pres- ence will do Captain Delaplaine good, ‘too, for I never saw him so miserable. Weare all most unhappy, and any additions to our family circle will be for the better. We do not go out; we have few visitors, and the place is as lonely asa tomb. The gossip and scandal have e silver pitcher I was hold- ould she possibly want of art almost choking me hd rapped at the boudoir I looked up It is even in the newspapers. Heaven forbid it should come to Kate’s ears! This stony calm of hers is not to be trusted. It frightens me far morethan any hysterical had bad news from her father, and looked at me in a | felt about as guilty concealing the truth as if I had been | Father Francis came up in the course of the day; and | when he was leaving, I called him into the library and | I cannot tell you how shocked he | was at Rose’s perfidy, or how distressed for Kate’s sake. | “Thank Heayen you | thought asI did, thatit was better to wait until you “My poor child! my poor Kate!” he said, in a broken | He was so distressed thatI knelt down beside him, | “She venerates and | esteems him more highly than any other living being, | and his influence over her is greater. Let Father Francis | The night was | I sat | by the window looking out, and beheld Kate walking | ticharas. | them coming softly up stairs and going to their re- | down tothe village and had aninterview with Father | Francis. Two hours after, they returned to Gower. Hall | My heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehension | with a mute terror of what was passing within—every | nerve strained to hear that poor tortured girl’s cry of | anguish. Nosuchecry evercame. We waited ten, fifteen, | Father Francis, very pale and sad. Our eyes asked the | “She knows all,” he said, in a tremulous voice; ‘‘she | Don’t linger here ; she will | spread like wildfire; the story isin everybody’s mouth ;- | | burst of sorrow. She has evidently some deep purpose in her mind. I am afraid to think it may be of revenge. The Delaplaine blood has been wild and bad, and has flown in the veins of vindictive ancestors; and I fear there is something hotter than ice-water in the veins of Kate Delaplaine. Come to us, brother, and try if | you can help us in our trouble. i Your affectionate sister, GRACE. CHAPTER XL. ‘SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN.” The second train from Montreal passing through St. | Croix on its way to—somewhere.else, was late in the af- | ternoon of the fifth of June. fistead of shrieking into | the village depot at 4, P.M., it was 6 when it arrived, | and halted about a minute and @ half.te let passengers | Out and take passengers in. Fev got in, and fewer got | out—a sunburnt old Frenchman, a weazen little French | woman, and their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed |; daughter; and a young man, who was tall, and fair, |} and good-looking, and gentlemanly, and nota bit like a Frenchman. But, although he did not look like one, | he could talk like one, and had: kept up an animated | conversation with pretty dark eyes in capital Canadian | French for the last hour. He lifted his hat politely now, with ‘Bon soir, mademoiselle,? and walked away through the main street of the village. It was a glorious Summer evening. The western sky was all atiame with the gorgeous hues of the crimson | Sunset; the air was like amber mist, and the shrill- voiced Canadian birds, with their gaudy plumage, sang | their vesper hymns high in the green gloom of the feath- | ery tamaracs. A lovely evening, with the soft hum of village life, the | distant tinkling cow bells, the songs of boys and girls | | driving the cattle home, far and faint, and now and | | then the rumbling cart wheels on the dusty road. The | fields on either hand stretching as far as the eye could | | reach, green as velvet ; the gianttrees rustling softly in | the faint sweet breeze ; the flowers bright all along the | hedges, and over all the golden glory of the summer sunset. The young man walked very leisurely along, swinging | his light cane round and round.) Wild roses and sweet | brier sent up their evening incense to the radiant | | heaven. The young man lighted a cigar, and sent up | its incense too. He left the village behind hin} presently, and turned | off by the pleasant road leadiby te Gow Ten ; Minutes brought himtes ‘ Por | When he had seen it last. nes, the “cedars, the | | tamaracs were all out in their mer dress of living | | green; the flower gardens were all aflame with fiow- | | ers, the orchard was white with) blossoms, and the red | ; light of the sunset was reflected in mimic glory in | | the still broad fish pond. Climbing roses and honey- | | Suckles trained their fragrant branches round the grim | | stone pillars of the portico. Windows and doors stood | | wide open to admit the cool, rising breeze, and a big | dog, that had gamboled up ali the way, set up a bark ot | recognition. No other living thing was to be seen in or | | around the house. } : | Without ringing, the young man entered the house. | | The hall was deserted, the drawing-room was empty, | j} and he ran up stairs to the dining-room. Grace was | | there, with her back to the door, Superintending the | | arrangement of the table; and ¢oming up noiselessly, | ; he put his arm around her waist and kissed her, before | she was aware. | She faced about, with a little cry, that changed to an | exclamation of delight upon seeirig’ who it was. “Oh, Frank! [amsoglad! When did youcome? I} expected you a week age ” “I. know it,” said * 2 brother; ‘and I could have | ye too; but it struck me I should like to arrive to- | | day. ‘To-day! why? Oh, I forgot, the fifth of June. It is/ | hard, Frank, isn’t it, just to think what might have been and what is.” “How does she take it ?” “She has been out nearly all day,” replied Grace, | knowing whom he meant. “Sie feels it, of course, more than words can tell; but never betrays herself ; by word or action. I have neva ence shed a tear, | or utter one desponding word, ifm the day the news | reached her until this. Her face shows what she suffers, | and that is beyond her power to control.” Doctor Delaplaine walked thowghtfully to the window, | | and looked out at the fading brilliance of the sunset. A | moment later, and Evvy rode upjon horseback, sprang | out of her saddle on the lawn, and tripped up the steps. | Another moment, and she was in the dining-room. “TJ saw you at the window,” shesaid. “I am glad you | have come back again. Gower Hall is too dismal to be described of late. Ab! dear old Tiger, and how are you? | Doctor Delaplaine,” lowering her_voice, «do you know | what day this is 2?” - Doctor Delaplaine looked at her with a faint shadow - ‘3 = on his face, humming a line or two of the | aad— «