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A BROTHER’S PORTRAIT.

Br... B.. D.
Down from the wall of our lonely room,

Half in shadow and half in light.

Silent and motionless through the gloom

A watcher still gazes all day and night.
Little we thought, but a year ago,

That our hearts would sigh and our eyes be dim;
That the Unseen River would moaning flow,
Dividing the loved from our sight below,

And this, the shadow, be all of him!

Little we knew when we saw him place
It there with his living hand,

That this would be left, with its spirit-face,
Linking our souls to the Spirit Land;

Calling us back from the paths that stray,
Winning the heart from its treasures vain,

Beckoning on to a brighter day,

Whose dawning shall banish earth’s dreams away,
On the other side of this stormy main.

Cold are his hands that hung thee there,
One day on our cottage wall;

Vanished the smile that he used to wear—
Silent his steps in the lonely hall.

Up on the hill-side, among the dead,
Sadly we buried him in his pride—

There, softly he sleeps in his narrow bed,

Crushed like a reed ’neath the pale king’s tread—
Dead with the leaves in the autumn time.

Shadow ofearth! Image of one
Who, living, was like to thee!

Gone, like the dew in the morning sun—
Drifted away o’er the silent sea;

Back to that cheek and that dreaming eye,
Back to that brow with a glow of bliss,

Like the crimson flush on the dawning sky,

A light steals down from the world on high—
And we scarce can think he is gone from this.

TWO PROUD WOMEN:

The Victory of Unselfishness.

By CLARA LIGHTFOOT.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE RIVER STEAMER—“IS SHE MARRIED?”
“They are a selfish lot.”
“Women? You wouldn’t say that of all women?”
“Well, the young women whom we see in our set.”’

 

}

The two speakers sat, last August, on the deck of |

a Hudson River steamboat, the Mary Powell, well
known to frequenters of thatcharming summer route
of travel.

of New York’s most exclusive society.
father had left him

Gillman’s

search of a good time generally. Gillman was
strongly built, rather awkward, rather slow in all his
motions, kind-hearted, and a graduate of Harvard
College. He had traveled in Europe, India, and
Japan. Just now he was going up to his summer

place at New Hamburg, where his sister had con- |

sented to be the lady of the house for this one sum-
mer more.

“But mind you, Robbie Gillman,” the charming
blue-eyed girl, Edith, had said. ‘I’ll not play mis-
tress of ceremonies for you another year. Not one!
Now remember!’ shaking her finger prettily at him,
that day that she had left the Grand Central Depot
to go up to New Hamburg.
year, young man, you must have a wife.”

The big fellow had looked at her with a face of ac-
tual distress, so serious a thing it seemed to him to
select a woman to share his gigantic riches and really
warm heart.

The other gentleman was Charley Haight, Miss
Edith’s accepted suitor. Edith Gillman’s father had

arranged the whole matter before his death, five |

years before. ‘Charley,’ they ail called him, in ‘“‘the
set.”” But Mr. Charles Haight was State Senator
now a year, and a man of great ambitions, if you |
please. With Miss Edith’s money—he had none—he
hoped to be Governor of New York within a few
years. Charley was odd. He could manage a State
Convention, or play lawn tennis at Stoneham, or ride |
with the hounds, as occasion required. A sly, deep

fellow was handsome Charley. Charley appeared to
all men to be the very soul of unselfishness. He |
spoke to his future brother-in-law like a school-mas-

ter reproving the big rosy-face giant.

“Now, Rob, you do wrong to feel as you do about
women. You say they are all a selfishlot. Not so,
my boy,’ and he took his cigar out of his mouth,
edged round on the settee by the side of the boat, and,
looking down just at the rear of the paddle-box a mo-
ment, said, “Bob, look there! There’s unselfishness
for you.”

Robert Gillman changed his seat and looked down.
There, in the scanty shade sat an aged lady in rusty
mourning, with an unmistakable Irish face, whose
intelligence was yet evident from the certain fine
lines that a careful study revealed about the eyes.
At her knee two little children, to whom she was
evidently grandmother, whose very poor clothing
was scrupulously clean; and, marvelous to look
upon, a young girl of perhaps eighteen years, of sur
passing beauty. The young woman was plainly
daughter to the old lady whose weary head she was
constantly bathixg with cool water or supporting
between her beautiful hands. The young gentlemen
especially noticed those shapely hands and have
never ceased from that day to this, on occasion, to
refer to the first sight of them engaged in their kind
offices. The girl also was general care-taker over the
children, whom she gave every moment of the rest
of her time to prevent them from mischief or danger.

“Heavens! did you ever see such a face of glorious

millions, and nothing to do, |
which he was doing by traveling overland and sea in |

“For before another |

One of them, the first speaker, was Robert |
Gillman, the young, the dreaming, the poetic idler |

 

“Fine features, my boy, are not given alone to the
| rich,” answered Haight, at the same time smiling at

| the kindling interest of his friend; such a look of in- |

| terest, too, as Charles Haight never remembered to
|have seen in Bob Gillman’s eyes. before; no not
| amid all the showy splendors of women at their best
| in Delmonico’s or Fifth avenue parlors many a sea-
son through.

“Those little young ones can’t be hers, Charley ?’
remarked Gillman, after along, hungry look at the
party, as he held his expiring cigar over his shoulder,
gazing down.

“Oh, yes, I think so,” was the tantalizing reply.

“Zounds, you don’t! So young, so fresh in her
beauty.”

“Ha, ha!” was the low laugh.
the poor as I do, old fellow. I was born among’em,
you remember. But you have seen little of the poor.
Why, yes, those are her chits, of course. The poor
marry very young.”

Gillman’s face shadowed perceptibly, and he struck
| fire to light his cigar afresh, as he still studied the
unselfish and lovely devotion of that fair young

“You don’t know

 

| creature; on her pretty feet, now here now there,
| like some

graceful bird, to reclaim the straying,
climbing children; on her knees before her mother

| to chafe the aching aged feet, and not afraid of her
| dress on the white deck to do it, either, for she wore
no fancy summer silk; on a comfortless stool hold

ing mother’s head in those wonderful hands; all de
votion, all self-forgetfulness.

“Tsay,” at length remarked Gillman, “that’s un
selfishness for you. Do you know, Charley, that de-
votion to one’s kindred taxes a human soul more
than devotion to outsiders? For one sees his kin.
dred every day and gets used to their aches and
pains. That’s her mother, evidently.
pose she cares for the old soul like
while ?”’

‘‘Looks like an old stager at illness,” was Haight’s
only reply, as he let the fire go on kindling in his
friend’s bosom, and pretended to be studying the pic-
turesque shore.

“Wife, eh?’ at length ejaculated Gillman.

“The young beauty? Undoubtedly some mechanic’s
young wife and babies. I’ve been watching them for
some time.”

Do you sup-
that all the

A long silence again.

“Then where, inthe name of decency, is the fel-
low ?” growled Gillman, at length.

“Oh, you’ll see him come down to the dock from
Wappinger’s Falls factories, no doubt. He'll take
out his clay pipe, kiss her, and swear arough wel-
come.”

“Confound you, Bob, I don’t believe it!” exclaimed
Robert Gillman.

At the same time he lighted afresh cigar, his rosy
cheeks aglow with a warmer color than usual, even,
as he straightened up his magnificent form and
strolled off down through the cabin, leaving the
young Senator to himself.

“T vow, the boy is shot through the heart at last !’’

 

beauty ?” exclaimed Gillman.

exclaimed Haight. ‘But wouldn’t it make a row up

{at Stoneham when Miss Edith should know it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And
down on Fifth avenue, too, next winter. Say about
two winters from now, after he’s sent her over to Eu-
rope and given her all the advantages. But, oh!”
turning to study the group again, “‘she is a beauty!
Yet that would only make matters worse. Beauty like
that must always make itself enemies. It isa dan-
gerous gift. The whole town would adore her, at the
opera beside Bob, all decked out as he could dress
her; and the whole town weuld pick her to pieces.
Still I’d favor it. I think I would—if she was not
married already. I wonderif she is. Just think of
it. Two of us, out of poverty’s vale, marrying into
old Thomas Gillman’s family.” And he smiled com
placently to think that his political honors had won
him the otherwise hopeless chance. ‘‘No!” witha
slap on his knee. ‘Edith Gillman would never have
looked at me twice except that I was State Senator—
for all ’'m poor as a church mouse.”

Then the young Senator got up, yawned, stretched,
and went to find his friend. He found Gillman on the
lower deck, ostensibly buzzing the newspaper man,
of whom he had bought several books that he would
never read; but, in fact, Bob was standing near
enough to study the group in the shadow of the
paddle box. His manly sense would not suffer him
to play the eavesdropper. But the nearer sight of
her sylph-like movements, the alabaster complexion,
and the music of her voice through the undertones
of the rushing waters had been the young fellow’s
ample compensation.

“T say, old boy,” cried the Senator, with a sudden
slap on Bob’s big shoulder, which turned him round.
‘“She’s the mother of the babies.”

“You don’t think so !’’

“Of course. You don’t believe such a pretty girl as
that has lived without admirers. Besides, courting
is no very formal thing among the poor. There are
no estates to be arranged. Father’s easily pleased—

though this girl, I guess, hasn’t even a poor father, |

nobody but the mother. And poor young men like
handsome wives as much as you rich fellows do.

Some one’s got ahead of you, and married her, four |

years ago.”

Bob Gillman gave his friend one utterly disgusted |
and yet angry glance; then took his arm, and, with |

a bitter sort of laugh, walked away. It was nearly
time to get off at New Hamburg landing.
CHAPTER II.
TO SHAME HIM—‘‘MARRYING A SERVANT!
IDEA!”

HOW THE

“You are not well, I fear’”’

“Oh, yes. Thatis, 1 think Iam. But the old house
is always more or less damp when we first come up
here, you know. I always geta bit of ache in my
bones.”

Edith Gillman had proposed to Charley Haight
that they should shorten their ride. It was unusual
for her to draw bridle rein till the gray mare she rode

yas fairly blown. And Haight was an equally am-
bitious rider.

**T OFFER TO MAKE YOU MY BELOVED AND HONORED WIFE, AND MISTRESS OF THIS BEAUTIFUL HOME.”

It was the next day, by the way, after their arrival
at Stoneham, the events of the previous evening on
the steamer being in the reader’s mind, if he please.

“Such a magnificent place!” cried Haight, as they
came again in sight of the lordly towers of the
country-seat. “I can’t think there’s anything un
healthy here, dear Edith. It is the reaction from
your season in society.”

“Well, I don’t know,” sighed the elegant woman.
“It’s Robbie’s place, anyway, according to the will.
I like the fine society we get up here, when all the
other country places are full along here on the bank.
Not a single common person on all our road here for
five miles. And we do have such gay times! You
will like it.”

Then she went on to foretell all the bouts of pleas-
ure that she and other young society women “along
the bank” had already arranged for.

“If Bob would only marry !” she exclaimed, as they
alighted at the horse-block and sat down in the dan-
gerous wind, seductive and cool, on the veranda to
chat.

“Ha, ha!’ laughed the Senator.
last night on the boat.”

She was instantly all attention. But her proud,
beautiful face was a study asthe story was being
told from her lover’s lips. It grew so haughty and
cold toward the end. She was indescribably reso-
lute and icy at the close. She sat long in perfect
silence. She bit her curling, delicate lips. Then she
| said :
| “I have always feared just that.”

“What have you got to do with it, my dear child,” he
| cried, in genuine alarm over her evident though sup-
| pressed emotion.

| “12? with tears, yes, actual tears, in her fine blue
eyes. ‘“‘Why, who can help loving dear great Robbie ?’
He is so great-hearted, as simple as a child, and he is
so easy a prey, too. There, I thought I had got him
on his guard against selfish women’s pretty eyes this
last season. I thought I had made him properly sus-
picious of designing women as very selfish crea-
tures.”

“Well, well. Butthis poor beauty laid no snare for
your brother. She didn’t even notice him.”

“T know—I know,” she cried. “Butitis just that
kind of demure innocent poor whom I never thought
to say a word about. And now, lo, he’s gone and——”

“Where has he gone, by the way?’ asked the Sen-
ator.

“To hunt her up, ’ll warrant you.
she got off at our landing ?’

“T forgot to notice, for you were there with your
phaeton, and your colts seemed rather restive as the
train whizzed by, and the coachman seemed neryous-
ly handling them.”

“But you may make sure that Bob noticed where
she got off.”

With that she touched a call-bell, and a groom came
running up from the stable.

“Where is Mr. Robert ?”’ she demanded.

“He’s rode off over to Mike Rathbone’s farm-house,
ma’am.””

 

“He met his fate

Did you say

 

set.

| Then more silence and deep thinking.
old head would only stop aching.”’

 

 

 

“That’s the herder who lives by the north gate,”
she sighed, somewhat relieved.

But itis astonishing how sharp a loving woman’s
penetration is.

After a moment’s silence Miss Edith suddenly
stuck her riding-whip into her gloved palm and ex-
claimed :

“T was over there and called at Rathbone’s yester-
day. He has recently lost his wife. He has two lit-
tle children. Hesaid they werein New York with
his sick mother. She was to come up and live with
him, and his sister was to be his housekeeper for the
summer.”

“Clear as daylight!” shouted the Senator. “There
was an R.—H. R.,in fact—wrought prettily on the
linen case of her tasty shawl-strapped bundle, last
night on the boat.”

“Poor lady Alice,” at length sighed the haughty

| beauty.

Then she lapsed into a brown study.

“May I ask who is lady Alice ?”’

“Alice Kennard. A beautiful, proud girl of our
She is up here visiting the Bothners, by the way.
I had just set my heart on her for Bob.”

“Oh, you match-maker! But I fear you have failed
this time.”

Like a flash of lightning it came: “J will not fail!
Let me see. The lawn party on next Saturday,
when all the gentlemen are up. That's a week away.”
“Tf my poor

“My precious girl, you shall not trouble that noble
head so!’”? This the Senator, very devotedly.

“No! Let me manage our family. You do not
know the Gillmans yet. You do not know me!”
This so imperiously that the fine young man submit-

| ted at once.

“Thave it! Lhaveit! We need another
3rown reported to me so this morning. Miss H.
Rathbone, I wonder what H. is for. Hillie, no doubt.
I'llhave her. T’lishow Robbie Gillman his sweet-
heart in calicoes beside my queen, Miss Alice Ken-
nard, all ablaze in fine attire. Alice is the best
dressed woman in our set.

“But, my dear,’ the Senator ventured, ‘‘she, this
H. Rathbone, is engaged in a sacred service, looking
after her brother’s broken heart, and his orphans,
and an invalid mother.”

“Never you mind, sir. Money will hire her,” said
the lady, compressing her proud lips. ‘‘If she’s pretty.
Is she?”

“Surprisingly beautiful !”

Staring hard and half provoked to pouting for a
moment:

‘Well, then, all the better.
waitress at the lawn party.
house, are homely enough.”

“But, wy dear, your brother is, I fear, too far gone

waitress.

My pretty dairy-maid
The others, about the

| for any such stratagem as yours to shame him out

of it.”

“Not so, let us hope,” she responded, as they arose
to enter the noble old mansion. ‘‘Not, in one week.
[must rest now a bit, dear Charley. After that we'll

| ride over in a carriage, and hire H. Rathbone—give

her twenty, thirty, forty dollars a month.”

Meanwhile, reader, let us see how ‘“‘far gone” hon-
est Robert Gillman was. Perhaps the reader will
forgive me if I do not invent a scene for Robert and
his charmer, namely, how he contrived to introduce
himself the next morning after the trip upon the
Mary Powell; for really I never could find out that
part of the narrative. But, if you will, let me but in-
troduce matters about the middle of the next week,
and just before the great party was to come off.

“Are you still of the same mind as yesterday, Miss
Helen ?”’

H. stood for Helen then, it seems. A goodly name,
and as proud as Alice or Edith for that matter.
Helen Rathbone. And great Robert Gillman stood,
very deferentially, holding his cob’s bridle at the
ivy covered porch of his own farm-house, wherein
his good and true farmer, Mike Rathbone, dwelt
tenant.

“Why, sir,” Helen was saying, as she stood on the
steps just above him, with her great brown, wonder-
ful eyes every now and then cast up the road toward
the orphans who were trudging off to school; ‘‘why,
sir, I cannot properly credit you with anything but
the sincere attentions of a gentleman. it in
your honest face, sir——”

“Please do soften that formal title, Miss Rathbone.
If I am not to hear from your lips this morning that
you will call me Robert, at least give my sore heart
the comfort of Gillman instead of the cold ‘sir.’ ”

“Well, Mr. Gillman——”

“There, [ know enough,” he put in, ina pained and
troubled manner, and he cast a vacant lookout over
all his magnificent acres, his flower-gardens, his
herds dotting the lawns. ‘You have known me now
all this while, and you only say Gillman, as your
brother would.”

“But you must see that it is not strange. I have
not been waiting for you—for any man, solong. I
have never thought—I have been so busy with moth-
er—— Oh, how shall I say it?’

And she put her hands—those same hands, as beau-
tiful as Queen Elizabeth’s, and as much an heir-loom
in the Rathbone lineage, by the way—up to her glow-
ing cheeks. Her dark hair fell carelessly over her
smooth forehead, the sport of the summer breeze.
Her simple dress gave all her graceful person its full
charm.

“That is,” said the young man, quickly, “your heart
is as virgin as the sky of this new morning, you noble
being. It is not like mine—in the long and hungry
quest of fine society, years weary with the search for
amate. Hence, all this eager passion of mine seems
like a summer’s storm—a tempest of assault upon
you. You cannot realize that I can be deeply, des-
perately in love with you in so short a time. Oh,
child, I have never said such words as these to mor-
tal ears before; but Heaven witness that I speak the
truth to you now !”

“Not that exactly,” she said, yielding for a moment
her hand to his. ‘But there is such a difference in
our stations. I used to read about such romances in
the convent school; but I felt sure, even as a child,
that the sisters were right in telling us that such

I—I see

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

things rarely ever occurred in actual life. Why, sir,
it is but three weeks since I decided not to become a
nun. Only three weeks in this great world! Only
three weeks from the cloister school!’

“My virgin beauty !” he sighed.

“And while I might-confess that you have for mea
strange interest—that you have cast over my flutter-
ing heart a spell that it never felt before; yet I think
of you asrich and great, while I am naught but a
poor little girl who must work for her bread.”

She began to withdraw her hand from his great
clasp; but her pure eyes yet bent softly, dreamily
down on him as he stood below her on the step.

“Oh, child, child,” he began again, “look not on me
with the doubt of this great world, but rather with
the natural affection, the unsuspecting, trustful gaze
that you have always given those around you in your
secluded school life. Art thou so soon’ grown suspi-

cious in the great world? TI offer to become publicly
affianced to you before all men. I offer to make you
my beloved and honored wife, and mistress of this
beautiful home, whenever you will.”

He grew handsome, the strong, rough features, as
he grew eloquent, pleading for himself,

“But, Mr. Gillman,” she began again, all blushes,
“vour sister ?’ =

“Tt is none of my sister’s affairs. Have you ever
seen Edith? Has she ever been here?’ This with a
surprised and yet severe tone,

“She has.”

“Hag she offered you any of her imperiousness, the
Saticy good girl?”

“I knew that you loved her. I knew how she loved
you. I can read faces. But she never mentioned
OR Mr. Gillman. No. What think you she came

or?

“Oh, the cruelty of the fates! I suppose on one of
her gallops, yesterday,” he moaned. ‘And of course
she wounded you—and so deeply wounded me—the
dear girl, if she did but knowit. What did Edith
want, please?’

“She offered me as high as thirty dollars a month
to act as waitress over at Stoneham House! That
shows you, sir, what trouble I should make among
the Gilmans. You must—you must release my
hand, sir.”

Robert Gillman turned upon his heel, descended
the steps, and, like a man benumbed, steod for a mo-
ment holding his stirrup. Then he turned and said:

“What could change your present deathly declina-
tion of my wooing ?”’

It was awfully stiff, but not from anger or pique;
his effort was to express the profound deference that
his loyal heart felt for this poor, beautiful woman, in
contrast with his sister’s air.

“Nothing, I fear,’ she half sobbed, though she man-
aged herself well. “Butif it should ever occur that
a Gillman needed a friend, and for a service that
money could not hire, then remember Helen Rath-
bone, and call on her.”

With that she dashed into the cottage.

The gentleman stood a moment, like stone. Then
he slowly mounted and walked his horse out of sight
down the lane of beautiful elms.

CHAPTER III.
THE BATTLE-FIELD.—THE VICTOR¢ SO STRANGE.

Robert Gillman knew enough to cherish his sister's
loyal love—not all brothers do. He knew that out of
devotion tohim, however fatal in errer as to methods,
that she had done this thing. He was too true-
hearted a gentleman to go rave at her. Heeven kept
himself out of her sight, test he should—well, he dare
not trust himself to say what, might, perhaps, expel
her from his house forever, if he had mether. It was
the Saturday morning of the great August muster of
oe and beauty for miles around before they
met.

“Well, my brother,” said Edith, coming in, languid-
ly, upon him, as he satin hislibrary. ‘Have I found
you at last?”

“You have, Edith,” he remarked, grave with sup-
engin indignation, but using a kind tone to this

ady, hissister. ‘But I can hardly say that Iam glad
to meet you.” ‘

“You cannot be in love with that mere peasant
girl?” she said.

“T was—I am.” His great frame quivered, and he
got upon his feet to say it.

She was afraid of him. She had never seen this
leasant face so spiritual, so manly, so mightily in-
gnant before. She was at first impelled to rush to
him, and throw her arms about his neck, in a woman’s
repentant passion. But she began to hate the other
woman, who had been the first to come between her
and her brother—between her pretty ladyship and
her own sweet will. The anger straightened her up.

“Well, then, why don’t you marry her?’

“You dare taunt me?”

“No. Isay you can marry whom you please, my
brother, and of course will.”

‘*You know why I shall never marry her.”

“T don’t.”

“Pardon me.
house, by——”

“She is a servant!’

“She is a thoroughly well-educated lady; has had
all the advantages that you have.”

Edith bit her lip. She put her hand to her side, to
her head. She simply said:

“T am not well, Rob. Now all this big gathering is
upon us, and you, I see, are preparing to go away.”

“Tt is not my party,” he responded, somewhat soft-
ened by her words and her appearance of pallor.

“You are not in the habit of rudely leaving the
guests that I assemble in your own home, sir, and I
am half sick, too, Robert Gillman. I should think
your high breeding would prompt you to stay at
home to-day and help me, You are not bound topay
any attention in particular to Miss Alice. Tobe sure
she is, in asense, the chief lady of the day; but you
can play the host just the same. You are master of
your own features, if ever any one was. No onewill
know of your heart-aches, sir.”

Robert Gillman thought a moment. The chivalry
in the noble fellow came to the surface. To make a
leng story of terrific struggle short, he turned to his
sister, and said:

“J will stay.”

But he did not ask after her health. It was long,
long months before the dear fellow forgave himself
that omission, evenif he has to thisday. Foron
that ill health hung all his future.

Miss Edith returned to her room, to make such prep-
arations of supervision as wealth even cannot take
from off the burdened shoulders of hostess in a great
day, though there be an army of servants.

Phe glorious afternoon at length had mounted to
the cerulean heavens. The brilliant sun; the soft
landscape basking in its splendor; the majestic Hud-
son winding at the foot of the grounds, a long, silver
ribbon of grace and beauty on which the luffing,
turning sails and gay-decked barges came and went
in endless panorama. You who*have seen the mid-
summer river, will agree with me that there is none
like it in any part of the world.

Over the lawns, the white figures and bits of ani-
mated colors flitted to and fro. There was such a
sound of laughter and joyous shouts as made one

‘think that earth was turned to paradise and all its
people eager with the exciting gladness of rich youth
anditsrare spirits. :

The picturesque pavilions of the gamesters, bright
with flag and streamer, wonderfully set off the lawns.
I was there. I shall never forgetit. It did seem that
the desperate girl, Miss Edith, had outdone herself in
princely, munificent preparation. Had she some pre-

You offered to debase her in this

monition of what was awaiting her—of the dark cloud |

of suffering into which she. was soon to go, and so
had resolved to make this last day the most brilliant
that Stoneham House ever saw ?

By the door of a tent on the south lawn, we were
standing. I happened to be one of that group. Miss
Alice Kennard, high and mighty, both in her rare
beauty and her splendor of dress. The hostess her-
self, Miss Edith, bravely bearing up, though it ought
to have seemed patent to us all that she was unable
to hold the battledore. Ah,she was so spirit-like. The
flashing sun shone through her that hour. But we
were all blind with the excitement of the gala day.
The Senator, proud and buoyant. The host, Robert
Gillman. Indeed, he was everywhere; but at that
moment he was with us.

Suddenly Miss Edith gave a low moan, and sank to
the earth. ;

“Heavens! She has fainted !””

“Water! Air! She is like one dead!’

“God help us! She ts dead 1”

Who said all this I know not. We all said it.

There she lay, so lifeless! Oh, it was a_heart-
rending shock, as always, in the midst of laughter, is
the sudden, eruel reminder of our mortality.

It was astonishing how quickly, like the sudden
coming of a black cloud, all this spread over the joy-
ous company. We bore her to the house—to her
chamber.

A hundred high-bred young people clustered about
the doors and verandas, and walked softly in and
out of the zephyr-fanned rooms, and waited for the
physician’s verdict. yi BF ots

“She has been complaining for a long while,’
one. :

“Her throat was so sore this morning that she
could hardly speak. She dosed herself with cocaine
to get her sweet voice again,” explained another.

By and by—it seemed an age of waiting—the word
got down stairs—I know not who brought it—and
went like a flash over all the company :

“Malignant diphtheria 1” :

Oh, ye sylvan gods and goddesses! what a turning
of pale faces was there! As high gusts of summer
winds scatter leaves, so these tidings scattered that
company.

Every one seemed

eighbor:

“Have I taken her breath?’

All the high chivalry melted like wax before fire.
The proud patricians were the fools of cowardice.
Among all the company there sat Lady Alice Ken-
nard, whom I remember in particular, almost _faint-
ing. on the sofa in the library. Braye Charley Haight
found her there as he descended from the stricken
chamber to ask her: ; ‘

“Will you not go up and sit with your friend t Not
a servant in the house will go near her.”

Pt On} ;

And she was quite offin a faint.

I know uot how le had done it so soon;

said

asking himself, or herself, or his

but it did

| ting out his hand as if he were a pump-handle.

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #8822" ween

not seem ten minutes before Robert Gillman passed
through the hall with that glorious dark-eyed beauty,
Helen Rathbone, allin simple attire for her heroic
vigil, on his arm. ;

I may shorten up my story now. You can see,
reader, the end. For seven long weeks that noble
girl, with her grand health, breathed the poison of
that room. And when she emerged she was lovelier
than ever—pale, chastened, and yet strong. And
she presented Senator Charles Haight with his re-
stored Edith.

And there was a double wedding last Thanksgiving
week at Stoneham, for Robert Gillman then made
Helen Rathbone mistress of that home.

[THE END.]

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

OLIVER THE OUTGAST

By HORATIO ALGER, /Jr.,

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

(“OLIVER THE OUTCAST” was commenced in No. 29.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.[

CHAPTER XIV.
A STORE IN THE BOWERY.

HE store was crowded
with a miscellaneous col-
lection of cheap articles.
That such a business
should yield such large
profits struck Oliver with
surprise, but he refiected
that it was possible, and
that he was not qualified
to judge of the extent of
< = trade in a city store.

A tall man, pock-marked, and with reddish hair,
stood behind the counter, and with the exception of
a young clerk of nineteen appeared to be the only
salesman. This was Ezekiel Bond.

“How are you, Ezekiel?’ said Mr. Kenyon, affably,
advancing to the counter.

“Pretty well, thank you, uncle,” said the other,
twisting his features into the semblance of a smile.
“When did you come into town?’ "

“This morning only.”

“Thatisn’t Roland, is it?’

“Oh, no; it is my step-son, Oliver Conrad.
this is mv nephew, Ezekiel Bond.”

“Glad to see you, Mr. Conrad,” said Ezekiel, put-

“Do

you like New York?”

“T haven’t seen much of it yet. I think I shall.”

“Ezekiel,” said Mr. Kenyon, “can I see you a few
minutes in private?”

“Oh, certainly. We'll go into the back room. Will
Mr. Conrad come, too ?”’

“No, he can remain with your clerk while we con-
verse.”

“John, take care of Mr. Conrad,” said Ezekiel.

“Allright, sir.” ‘

John Meadows was a Bowery boy, and better
adapted for the store he was in than for one in a
more fashionable thoroughfare.

“The boss wants me to entertain you,” he re-
marked, when they were alone. How shall I do it?”

“Don't trouble yourself,” said Oliver, smiling.

“T’'d offer you a cigarette, only the boss don’t allow
smoking in the store.”

“T don’t smoke,” said Oliver.

“You don’t! Where was you brung up?’ asked
John.

“Tn the country.”

“Oh, that accounts for it. Mean ter say you’ve
never puffed a weed ?”

“T never have.”

“Then you don’t know what ’tis to enjoy yourself.
Who’s that man you come in with?”

“My step-father.”

“Tye seen him here before. He’s related to my
poss. I don’t think any more of him for that.”

“Why not?’ asked Oliver, rather amused. ‘Don’t
you like Mr. Bond ?”

“Come here,” said John,

Oliver approached the counter, and leaning over
Joh= whispered, mysteriously :

‘“He’s a file!”

“A what?”

“A file, and an awful rasping one at that. He’s as
niean as dirt.”

“T am sorry to hear that, for Mr. Kenyon wants me
to begin business in this store.”

John whistled.

“That's a go,” he said.

“T suppose [I shall try It.

Oliver,

“Are you going to do it?’
If I don’t like it I can
give it up at any time.”

“Then E wish I was you. I don’t like it, but I can’t
give it up, or I might have to live on nothing a week.
I don’t see what the boss wants an extra hand for.
There ain’t enough trade to keep us busy.”

“Mr. Kenyon tells me Mr. Bond has made money.”

“Well, lam glad to hearit. The boss is always a
complainin’ that trade is dull, and he must cut me
down. If he does I'll sink intoahungry grave, that’s
all.”

“How much do you get?” asked Oliver, amused by
his campanion’s tone.

“Eicht dollars a week; and what’s that to support
agentlemanon. [ tell you what, I haven’t hada
new necktie for three months.”

“That is bard.”

“Hard! Tshould say it was hard. Look at them
shoes!” And John, bounding over the counter, dis-
played a foot which had successfully struggled out
of its incasement on one side. Isn’t it disgraceful
that a gentleman should have to wear such foot-
sases as them?”

“Won't Mr. Bond pay you more 2?” asked Oliver.

“JT guess not. [asked him last week, and he lec-
tured me on the dullness of trade. Then he went on
for to show that eight dollars was a fortune, and I’d
orter keep my carriage on it. He’s a reg’lar old file,
he is.”

“From what you say, I don’t think I shall get very.
high pay,” said Oliver.

“It’s different with you. You’rearelation, You'll
be took care off.”

“Tm not related to Mr. Bond,” said Oliver, sensible
of a feeling of repugnance. “If it depends on that, I
shall expect no favors.”

“Youll get ’em all the same.
step-father.”

“Where do you live ?”’

“Oh,T’ve got a room round on Bleecker street. It’s
about big enough for a good-sized cat tolivein. I
have to double myself up nights so as not to overflow
into the entry.”

“Why don’t you get a better room ?”’

“Why don’t [ live on Fifth avenue, and set up my
carriage? ’Cause it can’t be done on eight dollars a
week. I have to live accordin’ to my income.”

“That's where you are right. How much do you
have to pay for your room ?”

“A dollar and a half a week.”

“T don’t ask from curiosity.
to get a place somewhere.”

“When you get ready, come to me.
place.”

Here an old lady entered—an old lady from the
country, evidently, in a bombazine dress, and a bon-
net which might have been in fashion twenty years
before. She was short-sighted, and peered inquisi-
tively at Oliver and John.

“Which of you youngsters keeps this store?’ she
inquired. ‘

“Tam the gentleman, ma’am,” said John, with a
flourish.

“Oh, you be! Well, I’m from the country.”

“Never should have thought it, ma’am. You look
like an up-town lady I know—Mrs. General Buster.”

“You don’t say !” returned the old lady, evidently
feeling complimented. ‘1’m Mrs. Deacon Grimes, of
Pottsville.” f

“Ts the deacon well 2?” asked John, with a ludicrous
assumption of interest. :

“He’s pooty smart,” auswered Mrs, Grimes, ‘though
he’s troubled sometimes with a pain in the back.”

“So am I,” said John; “but I know what to do
for it.”

“What do you do?”

“Have somebody rub me down with a brickbat.”

“The deacon wouldn’t allow no one to do that,”
said the old lady, accepting the remedy in good
faith.

“ Yan I sell you a silk necktie this morning,
ma’am ?”’ asked John.

“No: I want some handkerchers for the deacon—
red silk ones he wants.” .

“We haven’t any of that kind.
cotton ones, a good deal cheaper.”
“Will they wash2” asked Mrs. Grimes, cautiously.
“Of course they will. We import’em ourselves.”

‘Well, I don’t know. If you'll sell ’em real cheap,
I'll take two.” : ; )

Then ensued a discussion of the price, which Oliver
found very amusing. Finally the old lady took two
handkerchiefs, and retired. ;

“Tg that the way you do business ?” asked Oliver.

“Yes. We have all sorts of customers, and have to
please ’’em all. The old woman wanted to know if
they would wash. The color’ll all wash out in one
washing.” :

“T am afraid you cheated her, then.”

“What's the odds? She wasn’t willing to pay fora

His uncle’s your

I suppose I shall have

Tl find you a

Here’s some nice

 

good article.”

“T don’t believe I can do business that way,”
thought Oliver.

Just then Mr. Kenyon returned with Ezekiel Bond
ne the back room in whieh they had been con-

erring.

“Tt’s all settled, Oliver,” he said. ‘‘Mr..Bond has
agreed to take you, and you are to begin work next
Monday morning.”

Oliver bowed. The place did not seem quite so
desirable to him now.

“T will be on hand,” he answered.

When Mr. Kenyon and he had left the store, the
former said:

“Every Saturday evening Mr. Bond will hand you
twelve dollars, out of which you will be expected to
defray all your expenses.”

“The other clerk told me he only got eight.”

“Part of this sum comes from me. I don’t want
you to be pinched. You have been brought up dif-
ferently from him. I hope you’ll like my nephew.”
saree I shall,” said Oliver, but his tone implied
doubt.

CHAPTER XV.
JOHN’S COURTSHIP.

Oliver didn’t go back to his native village. Mr.
Kenyon sent on his trunk, and thus obviated the
necessity. Our hero took up his quarters at a cheap
hotel until, with the help of John Meadows, he ob-
tained a room in St. Mark’s place, The room was a
large square one, tolerably well furnished. The price
asked was four dollars a week.

“That is rather more than I ought to pay just fora
room,” said Oliver.

“I'll tell you how you .can get it cheaper,” said
John Meadows.

“How ?”

“Take me for your roommate.
a half toward the rent.”

Oliver hesitated, but finally decided to accept
John’s offer. Though his fellow-clerk was not alto-
gether to his taste, it would prevent his feeling
lonely, and he had no other acquaintances to select
from.

“All right,’ he said.

“Ts it a bargain?’ said John, delighted. ‘Tl give
my Bleecker street landlady notice right off Why, I
shall feel like a prince here!”

“Then this is better than your room ?’

“You bet! That’s only big enough for a middling
sized cat, while this a

“Ts big enough for two large ones,”
smiling. ‘

“Yes, and a whole litter of kittens into the bargain.
We'll have a jolly time together.”

“T hope so.”

“Of course,” said John, seriously ‘“‘when I get mar-
ried, that'll terminate the contract.”

“Do you think ef getting married soon?’ asked
Oliver, surprised and amused.

“Pll tell you about it,” said John, with the utmost
ees ‘Last month I had my fortune told.”

“Well?

‘It was told by Madame Catalina, the seventh
daughter of a seventh daughter; so, of course, she
wasn’t a humbug.”

“Does that make any difference—being the seventh
daughter?’

“Of course it does. Well, she told me that I should
marry a rich widow, and ever after live in luxury,”
said John, evidently elated by his prospects.

“Did you believe her?”

“Of course I did. She told things that I knew to be
true about the past, and that convinced me she could
foretell the future.”

“Such as what ?’’

“She told me I had lately had a letter from a per-
son-who was interested in me. So I had. I gota
letter from Charlie Cameron only a week before. Me
and Charlie went to school together, so, of course, he
feels interested in me.”

“What else?” ; :
“She said a girl with black eyes was in love with
me.”

“Ts that true?”

John nodded complacently.

“Who is it ?”

“JT don’t know her name, but I’ve met her two or
three times on the street, and she always looked at
me and smiled.”

“Struck with your looks, I suppose?’ suggested
Oliver.

John stroked an incipient mustache, and stolea
look into the glass.

“Looks like it,” he said. ;

“Tf she were only a rich widow, you wouldn’t mind
cultivating her acquaintance ?”’

“T wish she were,” said John, thoughtfully.

“You haven’t any widow in view, have you?’

“Yes, L have,’ said John, rather to Oliver’s sur-

T'll pay a dollar and

said Oliver,

prise.

“Who iggit!” ;

“Her husband used te keep a lager-bier saloon on
Bleecker street, and now the widow carries it on.
I’ve inquired about, and I hear she’s worth ten
thousand @ollars. Wuld you like to. see her?’

“Very much,” answered Oliver, whose curiosity
was excited. t

“Come along, then. We'll drop in and get a couple
of glasses of something.” ; : ;

Following his guide, or rather side by side, Oliver
walked round to the saloon.

“Does she know you admire her?’ inquired Oliver.

“T don’t,” said John. ‘I admire her money.”

“Would you be willing to sell yourself ?”

“For ten thousand dollars? I guess I would. That’s
the easiest way of getting rich. It would take me two
hundred years, at eight dollars a week, to make such
a fortune.” :

They entered the saloon. Behind the counter stood
a woman of thirty-five, weighing upward of two
hundred pounds. She looked good-natured but the
idea of a marriage between her and John Meadows,
a youth of eighteen, seemed too ridiculous. Ff

“What will you have?” she asked, in a Teutonic
accent. ‘

“Sarsaparilla and lager!” answered John.

Frau Winterhammer filled two mugs in the most
business-like manner. She evidently had no idea that
John was an admirer.

In the same business-like manner she received the
money which he laid down on the counter.

John smacked his lips in affected delight.

“Tt is very good,” he said. ‘Your lager is always
good, Mrs. Winterhammer.”

“So! replied the good woman.

“That's so!” repeated John.

“Then perhaps you comes again,” said the frau,
with an eye to business. : :

“Oh, yes, I'll be sure to come again,” said John,
with a tender significance which was quite lost upon
the matter-of-fact lady.

“And you brings your friends, too,” she suggested.

“Yes, [ will bring my friends.”

“Dat is good,” said Mrs. Winterhammer, in a satis-
fied tone. :

Having no excuse for stopping longer, the two
friends went out.

“What do you think of her, Oliver?’ asked John.

“There’s a good deal of her,” answered Oliver, using
a non-commital phrase.

“Yes, she’s rather plump,” said John. ‘I don’t like
a skeleton, for my part.”

“She doesn’t look much like one.”

“She’s good-looking, don’t you think so?” inquired
John, looking anxiously in his companion’s face.

“She looks pleasant, but, John, she’s a good deal
older than you.”

“She’s about thirty.”

“Nearer forty.”

“Oh, no, she isn’t. And she’s worth ten thousand
dollars! Think, Oliver, how nice it would be to be
worth ten thousand dollars! I wouldn’t clerk it for
old Bond any more, I can tell you that.”

“Would you keep the saloon ?”

“No, I'd let her keep that, and I'd set up in some-
thing else. We'd double the money in a short time,
and'then I’d retire and go to Europe.”

“That’s all very well, John; but suppose she won’t
have you?”

John smiled—a self-satisfied smile.

“She wouldn’t reject a stylish young fellow like
me—do you think she would? She’d feel flattered to
get such a young husband.” — ;

“Perhaps she would,” said Oliver, who thought
John under a strange hallucination. ‘You must in-
vite me to the wedding whenever it comes off, John.”

“You shall be my groomsman,” answered John,
confidently.

“A week later John said to Oliver after supper:

“Oliver, I’m a goin’ to do it.”

“To do what ?” :

“I’m goin’ to propose to the widder to-night.”

“So soon !”’

“Yes; I’m tired of workin’ for old Bond; I want to
go in for myself.”

“Well, John, I wish you good luck, but I shall be
sorry to lose you for a roommate.”

“Lend me a necktie, won’t you, Oliver? I want to
take her eye, you know.” :

“So Oliver lent his most showy necktie to his room-
mate, and John departed on his important mission.

About half an hour later John rushed into the
room in a violent state of excitement, his collar and
bosom looking asif they had been soaked in dirty
water, and sank into a chair.

“What's the matter?” asked Oliver.

“Tve cast her off!” answered John, in a hollow
voice. ‘She is a faithless deceiver.”

“Tell me all about it, Jack.”

John told his story. He went to the saloon, or-
dered a glass of lager, and, after drinking it, asked
the momentous question. Frau Winterhammer
seemed surprised, said “So!” and then called “Fritz.”
A stout fellow in shirt-sleeves came out of a rear
room, and the widow said something to him in Ger-
man. Then he seized John by the arms, and the
widow deliberately threw the contents of a pitcher of
lager in his face and bosom. Then both laughed
rudely, and John was released.

“What shall you do about it, John?’ asked Oliver,
with difficulty refraining from laughing.

“TJ have cast her off!” he said, gloomily. ‘I will
never enter the saloon again.”

“T wouldn’t,” said Oliver.

Oliver would have felt less like laughing, had he
known that at that very moment Ezekiel Bond,

 

prompted by Mr. Kenyon,

} yas conspiring to get him
into trouble.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE CONSPIRACY.

Oliver did not find his work in thestore very labori-
ous. During some parts of the day there was little
custom, and therefore little to do. At such times he
found John Meadows, though not a refined, at any
rate an amusing companion. With his friendly help
he soon got a general idea of the stock and the prices.
He found that the former was generally of*an in-
ferior quality, and the customers belonged to the
poorer classes. Obtaining a general idea of the re-
ceipts, he began to doubt Mr. Kenyon’s assurance of
the profits of the business. He intimated as much to
his tellow-clerk.

“The old man sold you,’ he said. “Bond doesn’t
take in more than twenty thousand dollars a year,
and there isn’t more than a tenth profit.”

“You are sure of that, John?”

nen.”

“Then Mr. Kenyon has deceived me.
what for.”

“Does he love you very much ?”’

“Who 2?”

“Old Kenyon.”

“Not enough to hurt him,” said Oliver, with a
sinile,

“Then he wanted to get rid of you, and made you
think this was a splendid opening.’’

“YT don’t know but you are right,” returned Oliver,
thoughtfully. ‘‘He seemed very kind, though.”
iat an old fox. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on

im.

“*T didn’t enjoy myself much athome. I would just
as soon be here. I don’t like this store particularly,
but I like New York.”

“Lots goin’ on here all the time. ‘Don’t you want
to go out in a torchlight procession to-night? I can
get you the chance.”

“No, I think not.”

_“T like it. I’ve been out ever so many times.
Sometimes ’m a Democrat and sometimes I’m a Re-
publican. It makes no difference to me as long as I
have fun.”

Three weeks passed without developing anything
to affect our hero’s fortunes. 3
_ About this time Ezekiel Bond received the follow-
ing note from his uncle:

“T think you may as well-carry out, without any
further delay, the plan on which you agreed when
Oliver entered your employment. I consider it de-
sirable that he should be got rid of at once. As
soon as anything happens, apprise me by letter.

? “R. KENYON.”

Ezekiel Bond shrugged his shoulders when he re-
ceived this letter.

“T can’t quite understand what Uncle Richard is
driving at,” he said to himself. ‘He’s got the prop-
erty, and I can’t see how the boy stands in his way.
However, Iam under obligations to him, and must
carry out his wishes.”

Ten minutes later he entered the store from the
back room, and said to Oliver:

“Have you any objection to going out for me?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver, with alacrity.

He was glad to escape for a time from the confine-
ment of the store and breathe the outside air. John
Meadows would have rebelled against being em-
ao as an errand boy, but Oliver had no such
pride.

“Here is a sealed letter which I wish carried to
the address marked on it. Be careful of it, for it
contains a twenty-dollar bill. Look out for pick-
pockets.”

“Foes arr”

Oliver put the letter in his coat-pocket, put on his
hat, and went out into the street. The distance was
about a mile, but as trade was dull at that hour, he
decided to walk, knowing that he could easily be
spared from the store.

The note was addressed to a tailor who had been
making a business coat for Mr. Bond.

Oliver entered the tailor’s shop and inquired for
James Norcross, the head of the establishment.

An elderly man said, “That is my name,” and
opened the letter.

He read it, and then turned to Oliver.

‘“‘Where is the money ?” he demanded.

“What money ?” asked Oliver, surprised.

“Your employer writes me that he incloses twenty
dollars—the amount due me—and wishes me to send
back a receipt by you.”

“Well, sir?”

“There is no money in the letter,” said the tailor,
looking sharply at Oliver.

“JT don’t understand it at all, sir,” said Oliver, dis-
turbed.

‘“‘Has the letter gone out of your possession?”

‘No, sir. I put it in my pocket, and it has re-
mained there.” *

“How, then, could the money be lost?”

“T think Mr. Bond may have neglected to put it in.
Shall I go back and ask him about it ?” {

Again Mr. Norcross looked in Oliver’s face. Cer-
tainly there was no guilt expressed there, only con-
cern and surprise.

“Perhaps you had better,’ he said,
open the letter ?”’

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you can bear witness that there was nothing
init. Report this to Mr. Bond, and ask him to send
me up the money to-morrow at latest, as I need it to
help meet a note.”

“T will, sir. I am sorry there has been any mistake
about it.”

“Mr. Bond must certainly have forgotten to put in
the bill. I presume he has found his mistake by this
time,” thought Oliver. i

He had no suspicion that there was no mistake at
all—that it was a conspiracy against his 6wn reputa-
tion, instigated by Mr. Kenyon, and artfully carried
out by Ezekiel Bond.

I wonder

“You saw me

CHAPTER XVII.
OLIVER LOSES HIS PLACE.

Oliver re-entered the store and went up to Mr.
Bond, who was standing behind the counter, await-
ing his return.

“Have you brought back the receipt?’ asked his
employer, before he had a chance to speak.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?’ demanded Bond, frowning.

“There was some mistake, Mr. Bond.
you gave me contained no money.”

“Contained no money! What do you mean?” ex-
elaimed the storekeeper.

Oliver briefly related the circumstances, repeating
that the letter contained no money.

“Do you mean to tell me such an unblushing false-
hood, demanded Ezekiel Bond, “expecting me to be-
lieve it?

“Mr. Bond,” said Oliver, with dignity, “itis just as
Lsay. There was no money in the letter.”

“Silence!” roared Bond, working himself up into a
premeditated excitement. “I tell you I put the money
in myself. I think I ought to know whether there
was any money in it.”

“Tt is very strange, sir. Isaw Mr. Norcross open
the letter. If he had taken any bill out, I should have
seen it.”

“T presume you would,” sneered Bond. “I dare say
he did find the letter empty.”

Oliver looked puzzled. He was not yet prepared
for an accusation. He attributed Mr. Bond’s anger
to his annoyance at the loss of twenty dollars. He
kept silent, but waited to hear what else his employ-
er had to say.

“T can understand this strange matter,’ continued
Ezekiel, with another sneer. ‘I am not altogether a
fool, and I can tell you why no bill was found.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because you opened the letter and took it out, be-
fore you reached the tailor’s.”

He was about to say more, but Oliver interrupted
him by an indignant denial.

“That’s a lie, sir!’ he said, hotly.
who says it.” ‘ ; :

“Do you mean to telime I lie?’ exclaimed Ezekiel
Bond, purple with rage.

“If you charge me with stealing the money, I do!”
said Oliver, his face flaming with just indignation.

“You hear that, John Meadows?” said Ezekiel,
turning to his other clerk. ‘Did you eyer hear such
impudence ?”

John Meadows was not a coward nor a sneak, and
he had not the slightest belief in Oliver’s guilt. To
his credit, he dared manfully to avow it.

“Mr. Bond,” he answered, ‘I don’t believe Oliver
would do such a thing. I know him well, and I’ve
always found him right side up with care.”

“Thank you, John,” said Oliver, gratefully, “I am
glad there is one who believes I am not a thief.”
~ “¥ou don’t believe he is guilty, because you are
honest yourself, John.” said Mr. Bond, willing to gain
over his older clerk by a little flattery. ‘““But how
can it be otherwise? I put the money very carefully
in the envelope. Oliver put it in his pocket, and
when he hands the letter to Mr. Norcross, it is
empty.” ;

‘Are you sure you put the money in, sir?’ asked
Jobn.

“Am T sure the sun rose this morning?’ retorted
Mr. Bond. “Of course lam certain; and Tam mor-
ally certain that Oliver took the money. Hark you!
I will give you one chance to redeem yourself,” he
continued, addressing our hero. ‘Give me back the
money. and I will forgive you this time.”

“Mr. Bond.” said Oliver, indignantly, ‘‘you insult
me by speaking in that way! Once for all, I tell you
that I don’t know anything about the money, and no
one who knows me will believe your charge. You
may search me if you want to.” ;

“Tt would do no great good,” said Bond, sarcasti-
cally. ‘‘You have had plenty of chances to dispose
of the money. You could easily pass it over to some
confederate.”

“Mr. Bond,” said Oliver, “I see that you are deter-
mined to have people believe me guilty. I think I
understand what it all means. Itis a conspiracy to
destroy my reputation. You know there was no
money in the letter you sent by me.”

‘ Say that again, you young rascal, and I will give
you a flogging!” shouted Ezekiel Bond, now really

The letter

“T don’t care

 

angry, for he was conscious that Oliver spoke the
truth, and the truth is very distasteful sometimes.

“T don’t think you will,” retorted our hero, un-
dauntedly ; “there are policemen inthe city, and I
should give you in charge.”

“You would, would you? Ihave a great mind to
have you arrested for theft.”

“Do, if you like. Lam willing to have the matter
investigated.”’

It-was evident that in attempting to frighten Oliver
Mr. Bond had undertaken a difficult job. He would
really have liked to give Oliver in charge, but he
knew very well that Ae could prove nothing against
him. Besides, he would be exceeding the instructions
which Mr. Kenyon had given him, and this he did
not venture to do. There was, however, one way of
revenge open to him, and this wasin strict accord-
ance with his orders.

“T will spare you the disgrace of arrest,” he said,
‘not for your own sake, but for the sake of my es-
teemed uncle, who will be deeply grieved when he
hears ox this occurrence. But I cannot consent any
longer to retain youin my employment. I will not
ask my faithful clerk, John Meadows, to associate
with a thief.”

“T don’t care to remainin your employment, Mr.
Bond. I would not consent to, until you retracted
your false charge. As to you, John,” he continued,
turning to John Meadows, with a smile, “I hope you
are not afraid to associate with me.”

“T guess ’ twon’t hurt me much,” said John, cour-
ageously. ‘I think Mr. Bond has made a great mis-
take in suspecting you.”

“You judge him by yourself,’ said Mr. Bond, who
chose not to fall out with John. “You may do as you
please, but I can no longer employ a suspicious
character.’

“Good-morning, Mr. Bond,’ said Oliver, proudly.
“T will lose no time in relieving you of my presence.
John, I will see you to-night.”

“One word more,” said his employer. ‘I shall deem
it my duty to acquaint my uncle with my reasons for
dismissing you. I know it will grieve him deeply.”

“JT think he will manage to live through it,” said
Oliver, sarcastically. “I shall also send him an ae-
count of the occurrence, and he may believe which-
ever of us he pleases.”

Oliver took his hat and left the store.

“T fear he is a hardened young raseal, John,” Bond
remarked, to his remaining clerk, with a hypocriti-
ral sigh. ‘*‘My uncle warned me that I might have -
trouble with him, when he first placed him here.”

“T never saw anything bad in him, Mr. Bond,” said
John. ‘I am sorry he is gone.”

“He has deceived you,” and Iam not surprised.
He is very artful—exceed-ing-ly artful!’ repeated
Ezekiel, emphasizing the adverb by prolonging its
pronunciation. ‘I don’t mind the loss of the money
so much as I do losing my confidence in him. So
young, and such a reprobate. It is sad—sad!”

“He does it well,” thought John. ‘What a precious
old file he is, to be sure. don’t believe old Kenyon
is any better, either. They come of the same stock,
and it’s a bad one.”

Before the store closed for the day, Ezekiel said:

“Shall you see Oliver to-night ?”’

“T expect to, sir.”

“Then I will trouble you to give him this money—
six dollars. I owe him for half a week, and it was at
that rate my uncle requested me to pay him. Twelve
dollars a week! Why, he might have grown rich on
that, if he had remained honest.”

“T wish you would give me the same chance, Mr.
as said John. ‘I can’t rub along very well on
eight.

“Don’t ask me, now, just after I have been robbed
of twenty dollars. I can’t afford it.”

“T wish I could get another place,” thought John.
“T should like to work for a man I could respect, even
if he didn’t pay me any more.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

Marrying for a Home

By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of “ A Father’s Sin,” “ Back to Life,” ‘‘ The
Forger’s Sister,” etc.

(“MARRYING FOR A HOME” was commenced in No. 26.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XV.
“MISCHIEF FOR IDLE HANDS TO DO.”

The yourg wife went into the handsome house
where she reigned as mistress. As the door closed
behind her she pouted and frowned :

“Mary, tell cook to have lunch as quickly as possi-
ble. I’m half-starved with my long ride. Yes, Mr.
Brooks is much better. He will be able to return
home in two or three days, the doctor says. “Oh,
dear! how silent and solemn everything is. One
might as well live on a desert island. Here, takemy
things. I sha’n’t go up stairs till ofter lunch.”

Drawing a chair near the fire in the cozy sitting-
room, Lillie sank into it, toasted her toes, and went
on to herself with her complaining.

“It’s a perfect tomb! Not a soul in it but me and
the two girls. I’m dreadfully lonesome. How nice
it would be if John Halliday were going to come in
and stay to dinner and spend the evening. He must

take lots of comfort in making me feei that he des-
pises me. Heigho! ¢f I could have foreseen about
that bonanza.

“Mr. Brooks’ acquaintances seem to be too high-
toned forme. If I had known they intended to des-
pise me I shouldn’t have made such a fool of myself
as to marry him, even with all his money. What’s
the use of a fine house and fine clothes if you are
slighted by the people you care about most? They all
turn up their noses at me. Heigho! Ifeel as stupid as
an Owl in the day-time. Iam dying for a frolic of
some kind, yet here I sit without a soul to speak to.
Even Mackay would be bettér than nobody, though
he can’t hold acandle to John. Mack isso dreadfully
afraid of old Bluebeard he keeps away from this
house—won’t even come when [ask him. Goodness
me! What shall I do to pass the time?”

Full as she was of healthy life and vigor, the young
woman might have found work for mind and hands
had she so desired; many things in that neglected
household needed looking after, but Lillie did not in-
tend practicing economy. God’s poor would haye
been glad of a little aid—there were shivering chil-
dren to warm, sick mothers to care for—but Lillie
never thought of these helpless ones. It is too true
that

“Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do,”

and idle minds as well. Lillie dawdled over the fire
and dreamed and complained, until called to her
solitary luncheon; then back to the fire again yawn-
ing and sighing:

“Tt’s a burning shame the way John treated me!
never even to answer my note! As if I were too
mean to notice! It makes my cheeks burn every
time I think of it. I won’t put up with such treat-
meut. If I didn’t care a penny tor him I wouldn’t
let him treat me that way. I’ve got too much spunk.
If I could only have a good long talk with him I
know I could bring him around. If I knew where
his mother lives I would call on her and try to see
him. I can’t exist without some kind of excitement,
and it’s dull as a dungeon here.”

Lillie would have resented the imputation of being
immodest or immoral. She longed for young com-
panionship of her own kind; her vanity crayed the
incense of polite attentions from young men; yet
she had no idea of being bad. To her this world was
apiace in which to ‘have plenty of fun.” She be-
longed to a rollicking family, whose highest idea of
earthly happiness was “lots to eat and drink, and a
good time.” She had disliked Grace, and thought
her ‘‘prim” and ‘‘airish,”* because her ideals were of a
finer order of pleasure. She would have filled her
parlors every evening with boisterous young menand
noisy, laughing, coarse-witted girls; only these
friends of hers feared the observation of the master
of the house, and shunned it, or, if they came, were
under repression, and did not ‘‘act like themselves.”

It certainly was dull for the young wife. She had
‘married for a home,” and not quite all the punish-
ment for sucha mistake fell on the old husband.
Lillie was horribly tired of her fine, fashionable home
a good deal of the time. The old impromptu ‘“break-
down” dances at ‘‘mother’s,” to the musie of a single
violin, and followed by a supper of toasted cheese
and beer, had been a thousand times more delightful
than the aristocratic receptions she twice or thrice
attended.

She fretted and pined as she sat by herself that
wintry afternoon. Happily, Sam and Mackay, with
Effie, stopped at the door about four o’clock, and
learning that Mr. Brooks was ill, and where he would
not be apt to surprise them in his own house, they
came in, staid to dinner, and remained all the evyen-
ing.

Fain was in high feather. He had drawn consider-
able of Grace’s money out of the bank, and was
spending it as rapidly as he had gained it wickedly.
He had that day purchased a fast horse and a sulky
to drive in, and had spent hours spinning along the
Boulevard, with an occasional rest taken at some re-
sort of ‘‘shorsey’ felows where he would call for a
whisky hot, and listen admiringly for a few minutes
to the conversation going on about him. Mackay was
also in good spirits. Sam had paid him the promised
money, and had likewise treated him liberally.

Lillie became very gay in such congenial company,
forgetting that he whom she had promised to love

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 32.

 

 

 

 

and cherish lay ill and suffering under another roof.
Bluebeard was out of the way. She could be as jolly as
ever she pleased without that old spoil-sport to look
his disapproval of the fun. Effie remained over night
with her sister; but having an engagement with
Sain to look at jewelry for herself, she left at nine
the next morning, and the young wife was again
alone, and again her thoughts reverted to John Hal-
liday.

“T am going to see him if he is to be found in
Brooklyn,” she resolved, before an hour had gone by.
“Tm going to put on my best duds, and try if I can
find where his mother lives.”

So, about eleven, of a mild November day, Mrs.
Brooks swept down the stepsof her husband’s hand-
some brown-stone front, in all the glory of her dia-
mond ear-rings, seal-skin sacque, a love of a bonnet,
and a new black velvet dress; giving a toss of the
head and a scornful glance at the windows of her
next door neighbor as she came down to the pave-
ment, said neighbor haying called on the bride once,
and once only.

By going to the place where John was formerly
employed, she was lucky enough to obtain the ad-
dress of the new residence. To this she then wended
her way. A timid or delicate-minded woman would
have died sooner than have taken such a course; but
our model wife was neither timid nor delicate; she
wanted ,to get up a flirtation with her former lover,
to get him again in her power, because he had hurt
her vanity, and because she was idle and weary of
home monotony and craved more excitement. She
was only slightly abashed at her own forwardness in
calling on his mother—just enough embarrassed to
call a becoming shade of rose to her cheeks, as she
pulled the bell of the neat two-story and basement

ouse in which-Mrs. Halliday took the honest pride
of an owner.

Flossie, who epened the door, was put in a little
flutter at sight ofso splendid a visitor. She managed
to ask her into the parlor and to request her name.

“Tell her, an old friend,” answered Lillie, who was
afraid the mother might refuse to see her, if she gave
her name.

Mrs. Halliday was indeed surprised when she found
who it was; rather displeased, too, for this false wo-
man had made her son very unhappy, yet, as she sat
there listening to Lillie’s idle chatter, making slight
responses, she criticised the girl, read her shallow
nature, and secretly rejoiced that her John had es-
caped such a mesalliance.

Lillie seemed more showy, shallow, and vulgar by
contrast with that other girl, quietly engaged in the
adjoining sitting-room, in hearing Flossie’s French.
That girl had started and turned pale, when she
heard the loud voice of Mrs. Brooks behind those
folding-doors, had excused herself to the child, and
fied up stairs to her own room, where she remained,
panting and trembling.

Meantime, the caller remained a very long time.
She knew that it was approaching the hour of
luncheon, and she staid with the hope that the one
she had really come to see, would make his appear-
ance. She had to give up that hope, and as Mrs. Hal-
liday did not invite her to stay to luncheon, had
finally to rise and make her adieus.

-Fate arranged it that, as the door of the house
closed behind her, and she went out the gate of the
little flower-plot in front, John came hurriedly up to
it, and their hands met on the latch.
when he saw who it was, bowed coldly, and held the
gate open for her to pass out, without speaking. She
ine pleadingly up into the handsome, haughty

ace.

“John,” she said, hurriediy, ‘‘will you come to my
house this evening—just this once.
—your letters—and the locket you gave me.
like to trust them to the express.”

“They will be quite safe returned in that way, Mrs.
Brooks.” Then seeing the tears spring to her eyes,

He colored |

There is a packet |
I don’t |

and feeling that he might have been something of a |}
brute, he added, gently, ‘‘I will come for them if you |

think it necessary. You should have burned them
long ago.”

“Tknew it; but I could not, John. I took them out

to burn them, more than once, but I could not do it.” |

Perhaps even one week sooner these tremulous
words might have moved John to some foolish con-
cession; but in the last week his ideal of women had
changed; he read this foolish creature
clearly than she read herself, and he answered her,
sternly:

“T hope you are not now false to your husband, as

for you now—the only honor and safety for you now

far more |

you were once false to your lover. The only happiness |
| face

—is to be true to him you have married—a gentleman, |
T hear, fully worthy your respect and affection. Mrs. |
Brooks, on second’ thoughts, I am sure it will be bet- |
ter for me not to call for the packet; burn it or send |

_ it to me, as you please.”
“Oh, John, how hateful, how cruel you are tome!
You never cared astraw for me, or you could not

|
|

| one.
; “She must hate me, or she never would have gone

treat me so now!” bringing her lace handkerchief |

out of her muff to wipe away two tears of vexation.
“Oh, yes, I thought you all that a woman should
be once. Now I thank you most earnestly for having
opened my eyes.”
“Then you love somebody else, John Halliday
She spit out this accusation spitefully, and her eyes
flashed.
He smiled—a faint, half-mocking,

per

Yes! he loved again, and he was proud, joyous, elate
over the certainty of it.

The consciousness of it brightened his face as he
let himself into the hall. He had already forgotten
the piqued and angry woman who was returning to

| wanted to tell her what was in my heart; she knows |

happy smile— |
bowed again, and went carelessly on into the house. |

her home, disappointed at the failure of her plans. |
He went quickly on into the sitting-room, where |

lunch was ready on the table, his mother and sister
waiting for him.

“Where is Miss Nugent?’

His eager eyes searched the room.

“She has gone to her room, brother.
seem well. She got quite pale while I was saying my

French, and asked to be excused. I'll run up and call |
her down ;” but Flossie soon came back without their |
guest, saying that she had a headache, and did not |

wish anything, not even a cup of tea.

Miss Nugent had retreated to her bedroom when |

she heard Mrs. Brooks’ voice in the parlor. She was

standing at the window, looking through the halt- |
Her win- |
By this chance she saw the familiar

closed blinds, when that lady went away.
dow was open. .
manner with which Mrs. Brooks greeted the young

man, saw her tears, her pouting, and heard a part of |
The girl tore her- |
self away, for she was too honorable to wish to lis- |

what was said between the two.

ten; her hand was pressed to her heart, her lips
were quivering. Did she love John Halliday, and
was she jealous?

CHAPTER XVI.
A LOVER’S DISCOVERY.
F G. B., WHO LEFT HER HOME SUDDENLY ON
the morning of the 2ist of September will make her
whereabouts known to her father, she shall be protected.
ANXIOUS.

This advertisement had appeared for two or three
days in the Personals of several of the daily papers.
Jobn Halliday read it aloud, carelessly, along with a
dozen others, for the amusement of the family at the
breakfast table, one morning. Miss Nugent let her
spoon fall jangling into her saucer, then when he
looked at her, over the top of the paper, blushed
deeply and grew so embarrassed that out of pure

kindness, he was obliged to turn his eyes away.
Mrs. Halliday’s shrewd eyes also took notice of the

girl’s situation.

“That advertisement concerns her, I am certain of
it,” thought she to herself. ‘Yet the notice refers to
G. B., while her initials are C.N.

another name for that same reason. It is curious
that she does not confide her history to me! Sus-
picious, too! If I cowld suspect a person who seems
as honest and pure as she, I should suspect her. I
wish she would tell me her story. I like herso much,
yet I should be more at ease about herif she would
explain herself. I have hinted plainly that I would
like her to confide in me. I have put John on his
guard against her. Supposing she should prove to
be an adventuress, trying to marry my boy for his
money !”

She put salt in her son’s coffee in the nervousness
brought on by this dreadful apprehension; while
John was so absorbed in thoughts of his own, that he
swallowed half of it before he discovered the mis-
take; then a laugh went around the table; but only
Flossie really enjoyed the blunder—the three grown
people were unaccountable disirai(—and as soon as
Miss Nugent left the table, she summoned Flossie
to come in the parlor and have her music lesson.

“John,” began his mother, in a low voice, as soon
as the sound of the piano assured her Miss Nugent’s
attention was fixed on the lesson. ‘John, there cer-
tainly is something singular about that girl.”

“There is, indeed, mother; she is singularly lovely
and pleasing.”

“Tam afraid you are getting interested in her, my
son.”

John laughed and blushed.

“T am willing to admit it, mother, Iam deeply in-
terested in her.”’

Mrs. Halliday groaned.

“You would not be so foolish, so mad, as to allow
her to see it, before you know more about her?”

“T don’t know whether she sees it or not, mother.”

“Oh, John, I:am afraid she sees it too plainly. I
aim afraid she is sly.”

“Sly, mother! Miss Nugent sly! I thought you
could read character better than that, my own dear
mother.”

“There, there! do not get angry! Only promise
me that you will not compromise yourself until you
know who and what she is. I admire her as much as
you do. I believe her to be a good girl; but common
prudence would dictate at least this much on your
part, that you shall say nothing to her of your feel-
ings until you know to whom you are speaking.”

“She is talking of going away. She told me, last
evening, she could not trespass longer on your gen-
erous hospitality. Must I let her go, mother, perhaps
into trouble and danger, without assuring her of my
sympathy, my friendship ?”’ z

“Oh, assure her of your friendship, by all means,
Jehn. Only 'I‘beg of you not to make a mistake and
assure her of your love.”

She didn’t |

If she has fled |
from home, for any reason, probably she has taken

 

1

“Mother, you are making game of me! I will try
to be very cautious, very worldly-wise, very prudent;
but, oh, mother, my heart aches for her! It is hard
work to keep from telling her that I love her—to keep
from begging the privilege of protecting her from
enemies, if she have enemies, as Ifear. Whatis the
value of love, if one must be so cold, so calculating ?
Ah, mother, I just long to tell her plumply that I love
her, and am all impatient to fight her battles.”

“You were always rather hot-headed, John. I pray
you be calm. There is too much at stake—your life’s
happiness, my dear boy—for you to be in such haste.
Remember, you have made one mistake.”

“Do not remind me of that, mother. [ am ashamed
of my folly in that matter. It is because Miss Nugent
is so different from that other girl that she is so
charming to me. Truly, mother, don’t you think her
perfect®”

Mrs. Halliday smiled, and sighed.

“T think you are just as rash as ever, John; and I
think you hang about the house too much. It would

time and thoughts. I shall be sorry I ever allowed
that girl a shelter under my roof, if she is to make
trouble for my son. Take your hat and go off down
town. Itis ridiculous for you to hang about her the
per you do. Perhaps she will open her heart to me
to-day.”’

“T hope she will, mother. Well, if you drive me off,
IT suppose I must go. Can I do anything for you over
in New York ?”

He went off, unwillingly enough; nor did he return
to lunch. At that meal Mrs. Halliday made some
reference to “G. B.,” but Miss Nugent, though she
changed color, vouchsafed no explanations. What
she did say, though, was this:

“Dear Mrs. Halliday, I am going to-morrow. I see

why I do not like to betray my identity.

have me. I love you, and Flossie, so dearly.
never, never forget one kindly word or deed of yours.

story. You will be sorry for me.
had a darling mother, and I was so happy; and now
I am so wretched that I am almost desperate, almost
too tired of my young life to endure it. But I shall |
go in the morning.” |

Mrs. Halliday was much moved at the girl’
tress.

“My dear Miss Nugent,’ she said, ‘‘I do trust you.
T am very sorry for you, whatever your trouble may |
be; and I beg of you not to gofrom here until itis |
safe and pleasant for you todo so. Flossie will miss |
you. The child is wonderfully attached to you, and
is making great progress under your teaching. [am |
fond of you, too. In fact, we all like you only too |
well. It grieves me that you cannot open your heart |
to me, my dear.”

A few quiet tears rolled down Clara’s cheeks.

“T wish I had told you everything the first day I |
came here,” she said. “It is too late now.”

She was wringing her hands unconsciously.

Flossie began to cry because Miss Nugent was |

going away, and hung around her all the afternoon.
Mrs. Halliday was thoughtful, and ordered an extra |
dish or two for dinner, the hospitable way of show-
ing she was sorry their visitor was going. John |
‘ame home to this meal. Clara turned very white as |
she met his anxious glance while they were placing |
themselves at table. No one seemed to enjoy the |
nice dinner.

By some charm, all her own, the young stranger
had so entwined herself around the hearts of the
little family that they could not endure the thought
of letting her go, now that they were face to face with
it. John scarcely spoke, although his eyes did a
deal of eloquent talking—quite wasted, because Miss
Nugent kept hers resolutely turned from them.

During the evening she kept by Mrs. Halliday’s
side, refusing the hint contained in John’s request
that they should go inthe parlor and have some
music. Whatever the mother’s fears may have been
that her son was becoming entangled in the wiles of
an adventuress, she could not but admit to herself
{that Miss Nugent avoided his attentions, and had
from the first.

Quite early, before the family thought of retiring,
Clara excused herself, said good-night, and went to
| her room.
| There was quite asavage frown on her brother’s
when Flossie went up to him, where he bent
over a book, to kiss him good-night.

“How awfully cross you look, brother.”

“T am eross. Don’t come too near me, Floss, or I
shall bite.”

He laughed, but the laugh was a bitter and moody
In his heart he was thinking:

s dis- |

 

 

off without giving me a chance to speak to her. She
did it deliberately—deliberately. She saw that I}

| how I feel toward her, and she avoids me.”
She certainly did avoid him. It was not her fault
that, when she came down inthe morning, he lay in

be betterif you had some business to take up your |}

 

| happy, contented matron, who had never had cause
| to study its intricacies, “but I do believe you have
that you do not really trust me, yet there are reasons |
Every day |
and hour I realize more fully how wrong it was for |
me to remain here at all, under the circumstances. |
It breaks my heart to go, but I cannot remain !’’— |
rather wildly—‘‘and, oh, I fear you do not Care to |
T shall |
| heinsisted on dressing and sitting up in an easy- |
Some time, perhaps soon, you shall know my pitiful |
Only ayearago [|

| Selfishness.

| ten

| and accustomed to respect, should have been hound-

| ignoring to herself the existence of such a dastard as

 

wait for herin the hall, and asked her, in a deter-
mined manner to step into the parlor a moment, as |
he had something he must say to her. The soft, |
violet eyes appealed to him to spare her, but he
would not. All of a man’s resolution sparkled in his |
looks, as he seized her hand and drew her into the |
room, closing the door, so that they two stood alone |
together.

“Clara—Miss Nugent, if I may not call you Clara—
why do you shrink away from me asif I were hurt- |
ing you? Am Iso detestable that you can’t bear to |
be alone with me? Why did you hurry to your room |
last evening? You saw that I had something to say |
to you.”

“Do not say it, Mr. Halliday! I beg of you to let
me go, without a word. I wish to remain your friend.
| Oh, I shall be so grieved if I cannot be your friend;
and I cannot, if you persist in speaking.”

She trembled; the long lashes swept her delicate
cheeks in an effort to conceal from him a secret which
her eyes could otherwise hardly keep.

‘“‘T shall persist; I cannot let you go, no one knows |
where or into what trouble, without first asking you |
to stay here, to accept the shelter I offer, to be my
wife—yes, my wife, for I love you.”

“T am so sorry—so sorry !’’ she sighed, trying to}
draw her hand out of his almost fierce grasp—a slim |
little snow-flake of a hand, that seemed as if it would
melt in his warm clasp.

“Sorry because I love you?
me and my love! I knew it.
yet we have sheltered you.”

“No, oh, no. I love your dear mother, your darling
sister, and—and—”’ how joyfully would she have
added ‘‘you,” had she felt at liberty to utter the feel-
ing that pressed to be known. “Oh, Mr. Halliday,
why will you wring the terrible truth from me? Ido
love you; but I am—oh, Heaven, what a bitter fate!
I am a married woman!”

The last words dropped slowly from her pale lips,
as if pressed out from her heart in drops of blood.
When he heard them he let fall the cold little hand
he had clasped so eagerly, the high color fied from
his face, the first look of astonishment changed
gradually into one of distrust and anger.

“You knew that I was learning to love you; giving |
my heart and my hopes more utterly into your keep- |
ing every day that you tarried under my mother’s
roof, yet you never even hinted at this! My mother |
was right; you are an adyenturess—of the worst
stamp.”

Her head drooped lower and lower on her breast;
she made not a word of reply.

“Why did you drag me back from under those
wheels that would have crushed out of me the power
to suffer?’ he asked, after a moment’s silence.

“T warned you not to speak,” she said, presently,
in a low voiee. “I did whatI could to avoid it.
am married, yet I love you, and still Iam no adven-
turess, nor have I willingly sinned. Oh, how hard it
is to live!’

“Why did you call yourself Miss Nugent? It would
haye been s0 easy to have given us a hint——”

“T know it. I was a miserable coward. I have no
defense to make.” ‘

She looked so pitifully helpless and lovely, so hum-
ble, so heart-broken, all his rage vanished; but his |
sorrow was all the more passionate. He fairly
groaned as he regarded her, standing there like a
lily which the storm has bent.

“Forgive my harsh words, Clara. I cannot look in
your face and believe you to be anything bad; yet,
you have dealt me a hard blow all the same.”

“T know it. Ido not ask youto forgive me. AllT
do ask is for you to forget me. You will soon do
that after I am out of your sight. Before I leave this
house I will tell you and your mother who I am, and
how I came to be situated as I am.”

The breakfast-bell had twice rung. Now Flossie
pceped into the parlor, having been to Clara’s room
without tinding her there

“Ah, here you both are.
chops are getting cold.”

Clara took the child’s hand, and went out into the
sitting-room.

There was nothing for John todo but to follow.
The paper lay ready beside his plate. He picked it
up mechanically, again glancing at the Personals,
but he said nothing until Clara had finished the pre-
tense of breakfasting; he then handed her the paper,
drawing her attention to another personal.

F THIS MEETS THE EYE OF G. B., SHE IS EAR-

A nestly requested to come at once to her aunt, Mrs, C,
43d street, where G. B.’s father lies seriously ill.

Then you do despise
Yes, you despise us,

 

"Why don’t you come? The

When Clara read this, she threw up her hand with
a sharp cry.

‘Poor papa! poor papa! I must go to him at once.
Mrs. Halliday, you will excuse me, if I hurry away ?
Il cannot stop now to say what I wished to you. [
will tell you all—soon—here, I will write my aunt’s
address, so that you may know where I have gone.
No, a thousand thanks, Mr. Halliday, I do not need
your escort. And yet—what if I should be stopped—
be hindered from reaching poor papa. Perhaps it
will be best to have your protection—you are too
kind. My darling papa is ill—seriously ill. Yes,
come with me, please.”

Tn five minutes they were out of the house and in a
car on their way to the Bridge. Very little was said
between the two on the journey, and as they were

 

 

} money to accomplish it.”

| girl, I will charge nothing for my services: but if I

| pression with re

 

whirled up town on the Third Avenue Elevated
Road, both stared out of the window. John looked
unhappy, Clara was absorbed in fears for her father.

It was a handsome house, with elegant window-
draperies, betore which Clara stopped, after leaving
the car, and giving her hand to her escort, said:

“Good-by. You shall hear from me soon,”’

The whole bright, frosty morning wore a laok of
gloom, the gay world about him seemed an unmean-
ing blank, to the lover, as he then turned away, not
caring whither he went, persuading himself that he
had no interest in anything. Clara Nugent married !
That one little word had changed the aspect of earth
and heaven for him.

Meantime, she from whom he had parted, had been
admitted into the warm, cheerful hall of the Cour-
tenay home, on Forty-third street, and the next in-
stant found herself in the clasp of loving arms,
drawn to a loving breast.

“Grace! Oh, you naughty, naughty girl!’

“My dear aunt. How is my father ?”’

“Not very ill, my dear. He is suffering more from
anxiety about you than anything else. As soon as
he sees you I am certain he will find himself almost
well. Grace. foolish child, why did you not at once
come to me in your trouble ?”

‘Because I knew they would set a watch upon this
house—or even enter it, and claim me,” replied the
girl, with ashudder. ‘I had been told by them that
a@ man may lay forcible claim to the woman he calls
his wife—that he might come with an officer and
compel me to go with him. My only safety was in
hiding from all who knew ine, as wellas from him.
Oh, how horrible it all is!’

“Tdo not know much about the law,” said the

been needlessly apprehensive. Drop all thoughts of
it now, Grace. I see yon are frightfully nervous, and
come to your father. ._ The sight of you will be a glad

their hotel, and

 

surprise.”

And soit was. The presence of Grace—safe, fond, |
tender—by his bedside, reanimated the troubled and |
heart-sick old gentleman. On that same afternoon |

chair. Exciting subjects of conversation were for- |
bidden by the physician, so the troubles of neither
were referred to. There was peace in the light of his |
daughter’s eye, comfort in the soft touch of her loy-
ing hand.

“Oh, why was I not satisfied with her affection?” |
he asked himself, thinking of Lillie’s coarseness and |
“Truly Lillie was right when she called |
me ‘an old fool.” I did not know enough to ‘let well |
enough alone,’” and his gaze rested fondly on bis |
dear child.

For her part, Grace found her father much changed;
years instead of a few weeks seemed to have
passed over his head; his hair was whiter, his cheeks
sunken, he had a nervous, almost a furtive air, as of
one expecting an attack at any moment from some
enemy.

It made the girl’s heart throb with pain and resent-
ment to think that her father, always so dignified
ed into this position by a set of leeches and low-bred
money-hunters.

As to her own misery, she tried hard not to think
of itthat day. She devoted herself to her father,
Sam Dennison, reproaching herself asif guilty of a
sin every time she thrilled at the memory of John
Halliday.

(TO BE CONTIN®ED.)

MAGGIE,
THE CHARITY CHILD.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,” |
“Little Sunshine,” ‘“‘Daisy Burns,” etc., etc.

(“MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD” was commenced in No.
22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXII.—(CONTINUED.)

Hollister and Farmer started toward the door, but
during the few moments the interview had lasted, the
subtle mind of the scheming McNab had been ac-
tively employed in concocting a plot, and it did not
suit him that they should leave tijl he had exg¢hanged
a few more words with them. )

“Stay, gentlemen,” he urged, in a tone of entreaty,
“don’t go away angry and I wilb¢ry- to satisfy you. |
You must make some allowanée tpr age and" failing:
intellect. I cannotin a moment recall past events
to my mind, but a slight glimmerihg of light begins |
to break upon my memory; and in a little while I
shall be able to give you all the information which
you desire, Oh, now I remember. The lady youspeak
of, Mrs. Dockett, is dead. She was killed by a ter-
rible railroad accident some months since, while on
her way to Boston. She was so dreadfully mangled
that identification was impossible, but that she was
among the victims is certain, for I in person placed
her on board the cars. The daughter is still living,
and I think that in time I can tind her, but it will
take a considerable amount of both trouble and

 

“Put us in the way of finding her,’ said Farmer,
“and name your price in case we are successful.”

“That I cannot do at present,” replied McNab.
“You know, gentlemen, we all wish to make the
most of any tittle piece of luck which fortune may
send us, and I don’t wish to jeopardize my chances
in this case. Circumstances have placed the girl in
such a position, that to secure her the greatest care
and caution will be necessary. The most inviolate
secrecy must be observed in the matter. Any public
advertisement of her name would be sure to ruin
everything, and in prosecuting this matter I must be
allowed to have my own way entirely. This is the
only condition upon which I will consent to assist
you and I am thus strenuous because I do not wish |
to run the risk of working for nothing. Allow me to
work alone, andif Ido not in the end produce the

do, I hope to be liberally rewarded.”

“What is your judgment, Mr. Hollister?’ asked
Farmer, turning toward his companion. “Can we |
trust him ?”’

‘‘T do not ask you to trust me,” responded McNab,
before Hollister could reply ; ‘if either party to the |
agreement is trusted, you are the party. I agree to |
give you my labor for nothing if I fail of success, and |
if I am successful, I trust entirely to your honesty |
for my reward, so that you have nothing to lose and
everything to gain.”

“T am inclined to think,” said Hollister, ‘‘that for
once in his life the miscreant is sincere, although, of |
course, he is actuated by no worthy motive. Heis
an excellent judge of character, and he knows well
enough that if he earns his reward he will get it.”

“You are too hard upon me, Charley,’ replied

 

| McNab, in a cringing tone—‘‘altogether too hard.

Some way or another you have imbibed a wrong im-
gard to my character, which is very
painful to nie, for the reason that it is entirely un-
deserved. Tamsure you have every reason to be
thankful to me. Didn’t I attend your mother pro-
fessionally without money and without price.”

“Avaricious wolf!” exclaimed Hollister, with flash-
ing eyes and crimsoned cheeks, ‘‘dare to profane
that sacred name with your impious lips again, and
I will strike you to the floor like a dog!”

“Don’t be rash, Charley, don’t be rash, my son;
keep perfectly cool,” said McNab with some trepi-
dation, at the same time putting a greater distance
between himself and the angered youth.

“Come, Mr. Farmer,” said Hollister, turning toward
his companion, “let us leave this place; my passion
is fast getting the better of my judgement, and I fear
if I remain here much longer I shall do that which I
may hereafter regret.”

“T accept your services,” said Gilbert Farmer,
turning toward McNab, ‘‘and trust you will set about
your task immediately, for the sooner the business
is brought to a satisfactory conclusion the better I
shall be satisfied. I am stopping at the Astor House,
and the moment that you have anything of import-
ance to communicate I hope you will let me know
it.”

“T will do so,” replied McNab, as he followed his
visitors toward the door, still keeping at a respect-
ful distance from Charles Hollister; “but I fear it
will be some weeks before I am able to accomplish
anything of importance. In the meantime don’t for-
get my injunction of secrecy. Be silent and success
s certain, Good-morning, gentlemen.”

He closed the street-door upon their . retreating
forms as he spoke, and then when he was once more
alone, the contortions of his hideous countenance
were frightful to witness.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, with a diabolical grin
overspreading his features, and a greedy look
sparkling in his snake-like eyes, “I will assist the
heiress, and I will assist Mrs Dockett—for she is not
so very dead but what I can resuscitate her if I try
—but I must look out for No. 1 first. Oh, if I.can only
get my plans to operate, what a future there is be-
fore me! what full, complete, and satisfactory re-
venge, and what an ample fortune! This will be
news for you, Sairy Rockart! Glorious news for
you, for you shall share the proceeds of the enter-
prise Lie still, old heart! Do not burst with ec-
stasy! Cease throbbing so violently, brain! Do not
go distraught with intense plotting! Oh, I must
not, will not die till I have really tasted the bliss
which in imagination I enjoy already !”

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN ATTACK AND A RESCUE.
It was about eight o’clock in the evening when

}eh?

| evil was the work of an incendiary.

 

Charles Hollister and Gilbert Farmer got back to

after having supped, the latter, tired
out with travel, expressed his determination to retire.

“Well, sweet sleep and pleasant dreams to you,”
said Hollister. ‘ Before L retire I shall visit my old
friend, Mr. Seymour, for whom I have a letter.”

“Good-night, then,’ exclaimed Farmer, with a
yawn. “I am confoundedly tired and sleepy. I sup-
pose I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in the
morning, of course ?”” :

“Assuredly,”’ was the answer, “unless some unfore-
seen circumstance should happen to prevent it.
Good-night.” And in a few moments the English-
man was dreaming of home, while Hollister was on
the way to the residence of his old patron.

“T don’t believe they will any of them recognize
me,” he soliloquized as he walked along, “for of
course I have altered greatly since they saw me last.
IThope Mr. Seymour is well. And Dick—dear old
Dick Blinker !—how I long to grasp his honest hand
and to tell him how deeply I thank him for his kind-
ness! I don’t know what Ishould have done without
the gold which he dropped so stealthily in my pocket.
Perhaps I might have met the fate of my poor
mother.”

Thus communing with himself he reached Mr. Sey-
mour’s mansion and rang the bell, when much to his
joy the door was opened by Dick Blinker in person.

Time had dealt very gently with the old negro,
His face showed very few marks of age, and it was
characterized by the same kindly expression—the
same jolly look—which it had ever worn. The sight
of the honest old creature brought vividly to the
mind of Charles Hollister his act of disinterested
friendship. Again for the moment he was a friend-
less orphan boy, about to start forth, in the darkness
of night, penniless and alone, into the cold, heartless,
uncharitable world; again he felt the warm pressure
ot the negro’s hand and listened to his earnest advice
backed up by his generous offer, so delicately proffered;
again his eyes filled with tears of gratitude, and

| while Dick Blinker stood holding the street door,
wondering why the gentleman who had summoned
him did not speak at once, instead of trying to stare }

him out of countenance, Hollister rushed at him sud-

denly, and throwing his arms around his swarthy

form, he exclaimed, as he wept outright:
“Oh, Dick, Dick! Dear old Dick Blinker!

with you?”

“Hi, golly, white man! what de matter wid you, |
What you want to fool wid poor old nigger dis |

yere way fo’, hey?” and Dick rolled up his eyes and

opened his mouth in utter wonderment at the strange |

proceeding.

“You have been my guardian afc. Dick,” ex- |
grabbing the huge paw of the

claimed Hollister, g
negro and shaking it heartily ;
forget you.”

“and I shall never

“Sho’!” ejaculated the sadly perplexed negro, ‘‘wot |

de use talkin’ sich nonsense? (’s berry much ‘fraid
you bin drinkin’ too much. ‘Spec’ you mus’ take me
fo’ you gal, else you wouldn’t callmeangel! G’lang!
Wot’ll de folks tink if dey see you huggin’ me dis
yer way 2?” eg

“Don’t you know me, Dick ?”’ asked Hollister, after
his first ebullition of grateful feeling had passed over
—‘‘don’t you remember Charley Hollister?”

“Eh! wot dat?” exclaimed the negro, starting
suddenly back, and looking fixedly at the young man;
“will you hab de kin’ness to spoke dat agin, sar ?”

“And don’t you remember the six gold eagles you

slipped into my pocket when I turned weeping from |

the door of this house ?”’ continued Hollister.

The negro did not answer the question, but he stood |

foramomentperfectly dumfounded; then he brought

Hollister farther into the hall, and got him in such a}
position that the light from the halllamp shone full |

in his face; then he peered closely into his eyes;

then he viewed him at arm’s length: then rubbed his |

eyes and took in the youth’s whole figure from head
to foot three or four times; and at length apparently
satisfied with his scrutiny, he commenced a low and

almost inaudible chuckle, which seemed to commence |

at his very boots, and gathering strength as it pro-

ceeded upward, broke atlengthinto a genuine “Yah! |

yah!’ and then ejaculated :

“Well, dar, de lord-a-massy, [want to jes’ lay down |

and die now, right off! De idee dat any one could go
away yisterday a little boy widout hardly no close on
him ’tall, an’ cum back agin to-day wid a pair 0’
whiskers, an’ dressed like a gemb’lam, rader knocks
dis chile’s foolosofy ! Ch-ch-ch-chee! K-k-k-ki! Yah!
yah!”

“Whatis all this noise about, Dick!’ exclaimed | th: : :
F | miscreants proceeded to rifle his pockets.

Mr. Seymour, showing his head at the door of the
drawing-room.

“Eh-eh, Mar’s Seymour!’ responded the negro;

‘Jes you wait a minute, till you see wot it’s al about!” |
Then, taking Hollister by the shoulder, he continued: |
I tink I kin interduce you wid- |

“Come dis way, sar.
out no card. Dis am mas’r Charles Hollister, mas’r
Seymour! I tink you’be heard ob de gem’blam befo’ !
Yah, yah, yah! you musn’t be fended wid me, mas’r
Seymour—de lord knows I wouldn’t do nuffin to ’fend |
yer if I could help it; but I can’t help laffin dis yere
time, sar, if it was to save my neck! Yah! yah!
yah!” and away rushed Jolly Dick to the kitchen,
where he might indulge his mirthfulness without

The greeting of Mr. Seymour, though less boister-
ous than that of his excitable servant, was no less
cordial. He had often grieved over the injustice
which he had, though unwittingly, done the boy, and
the regret which he felt had increased with every
succeeding letter which he received from his brother
after Charles had made Kentucky his home. Every
word of rang which Henry Seymour lavished upon
the youth in his correspondence was like arebuke to
the man who had allowed himself to beso egregiously

deceived with regard to the character of one in whom |

he had at first taken so deep an interest, and he would
often have written requesting the return home of his
protege, had not a feeling of mingled pride and shame
restrained him.

“T am almost ashamed to look you in the face,
Charles,” he said, when their greetings were over,
“after having so shamefully treated you!”

“Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Seymour!” exclaimed the
young man, with real fervor, ‘‘you were led astray
by one of the most subtle villains that ever drew
breath, and upon him rests alltheblame. And, after
all, it happened all for the best, for I sincerely believe
that running away when I did was my salvation.
Perhaps I should not have striven
position in life, had I not been stimulated by a deter-
mination to prove to you how greatly I had been

|
maligned.”
“Jeffries was a villain!’ exclaimed Mr. Seymour, |

with bitter emphasis, ‘‘a depraved and unscrupulous
villain! But he has severely suffered for his many
rascalities.”

“So I should judge,” replied Charles, ‘if there is
anything in appearances. Singularly enough, I met
him this morning, and’ a more hopeless, wretcled-
looking creature my eyes neverrested upon. Debased
and worthless as I know him to be, I could not help
pitying him. He told me he had suffered the loss of
everything which he possessed by fire, and been
thrown out of business in consequence.”

“So far he spoke truly,” replied Mr. Seymour ; “but,
alas, that I should have to say it, the conflagration
from which he suffered was one of his own raising.
After the destruction of his establishment by fire,
certain circumstances led to the suspicion that the
An investigation
took place, in the course of which it was clearly
proven that Jeffries, after having secured a policy of
insurance to a large amount upon his property, had
removed his stock to a place of safety, and then fired
the building, in the hope of defrauding the insurance
company. Long previous to his comuitting the

desperate act, his best friends, myself among the |
number, had detected him in many disreputable acts, |

and, as a consequence, his business fell off, till he
was doing almost nothing; and the supposition is,
that had he earried his villanous scheme successfully
through, he would have fled the country. But an
offended Deity had witnessed his outrageous conduct,
and retribution was nearer than he anticipated. He
was arrested, indicted, tried, and convicted, in spite
of the strenuous exertions of able counsel, and sen-
tenced to serve a term of five years in the State
prison. When histerm of imprisonment expired he
again made his way to this city, but of course his
former friends turned their backs upon him, and he
became a confirmed vagrant and petty thief. He is

now well known to the authorities, and spends about |

half his time in the Penitentiary.”

“His punishment has been terrible!’ ejaculated
Hollister.

“Yes,’rejoined Mr. Seymour, “but it is none the
less just. Oh, Charles, he was guilty of the most
frightful crimes. I am satisfied that he will have. to
answer at the bar of Heaven for the crime of murder.
Although there was no legal proot against him, I am
morally certain that his cruelty caused the death of
the unfortunate boy in whose behalf you interfered.”

‘Poor little Dick Manners died then, did he!’ asked
Hollister, in a tone of commiseration.

“He did,’ answered Mr. Seymour, ‘anda physician’s
certificate attributed his death to consumption, but
as I have said before, it is my firm belief that murder
would have been a more appropriate word.”

‘Poor Dick!’ sighed Hollister, “he was a very
gentle, harmless, and affectionate little fellow, and [
could not have loved him better had he been my own
brother. But what of his mother, sir? His death
must have been a severe blow to her.”’

“Tt was,” replied Mr. Seymour, ‘‘so severe a blow
that she did not stay long behind him. She followed
him in the course of about six months, and IL buried
them side by side, in the country church-yard of his
mother’s native village, in accordance with her last
request. Both Mrs. Seymour and myself made a sad
mistake in our selections of guardians for yourself
and your little playmate, Maggie. Mrs. Dockett
pha to be as destitute of humanity as Jeffries him-
self.”

“So I have understood,” remarked Hollister.

“Mrs.'Seymour took thematter very much to heart
continued Mr. Seymour. ‘So deeply affected was
she, when the expose was made, that it was some
weeks before I could draw a smile from her. She
was anxious to secure possession of the child herself
afterward, so that she might endeavor, by kindness
and attention, to atone for the cruelties which had
been inflicted upon her. But as she found, upon
strict inquiry, that Mrs. Wrexham—the lady into
whose hands Maggie fell—was a person of unexcep-

Have I}
reached New York again in time to square accounts |

|
stint. |

so hard for a}

tionable character and abundant means, and as that
lady positively refused to part with the child willing-
ly, Mrs. Seymour gave up the idea of rearing her,
and is now satisfied with an occasional visit. from
her. She has grown to be a beautiful young woman,
attractive in mind and person, and, if report speaks
truly, there is a brilliant future before her. It is
said—though with how much truth I am unaware—
that she is engaged to Edward Wrexham, the son of
the lady who adopted her. He it was, who, by a
lucky accident, rescued her from the hands of Mrs.
Dockett, and afterward battled for her in the suit at
law. As I have said before, his family is a wealthy
and highly respectable one, and although he was a
wild and rather wayward young man at that time, he
has since seen the folly of his course, and is now a
remarkably upright and. steady man, and will
no doubt make an excellent husband. But, merey
on me, Charles! what is the matter with you? You
are as pale aS marble, and tremble as though sud-
denly stricken by ague! You areill. I willring for
assistance !” ‘

“Do not, sir,’ replied the youth, putting forth his
hand and gently detaining the old gentleman, “it is
nothing—a sudden weakness—I shall be better pres-
ently.”

“T have not seen Maggie in nearly a year, now, re-
sumed Mr. Seymour, who, had he been aware of what
was passing in the mind of his listener, would have
changed the subject, ‘‘and I suppose she must have
greatly improved in that time, although she was
sufficiently charming the last time she favored us
with a visit, I look for a visit from her shortly, and
you will, of course, not leave the city till you have
seen her. I know she will be delighted to see you,
for she never comes here that she does not speak of
you, and wonder where you are and what you are
doing, and how you look, for she is as yet in perfect
ignorance of your history during the interval which
has elapsed since you saw each other. I never en-
lightened her, because I had reasons for remaining
silent, which will, at an early day, be explained to
you.

Hollister found it very hard to keep down his
emotion. He succeeded in doing so, however, after
| an effort, and replied:

“Tt will give me great pleasure to see her, sir, and
T am glad to hear that she has suited herself so well
| in the choice of a husband.”

After some further conversation, Charles arose to
take his leave, when Mr. Seymour said:

“Charles, I wish you would oblige me so much as
to have your luggage brought up here to-morrow,
| and make this your home while you stay in the city.
I ain exceedingly lonesome, and feel the want of some
| one to talk to sadly.”’

“Thank you sir,’ replied Hollister; ‘I shall be
happy to do so. Good-night.”

“Good-nizht,” responded Mr. Seymour, and then he
added, as he followed the youth to the door, ‘‘keep
your eyes around you, Charles, as you walk along.
The city swarms with ruffians, and one cannot be too
careful when abroad at night.”

“T shall be cautious, sir,’answered the young man;
“once more, good-night.” ;

Hollister started on his way downtownward, with
his heart lying like lead in his bosom. A feeling of
utter desolation oppressed him. The prize to gain
which he had studied, and toiled, and struggled, had
been suddenly snatched from his grasp, and it seemed
to him that there was nothing in the future worth
living for. He did not know till then how closely
misfortune had linked his heart to that of his child-
ish playmate. During the long years which had
| passed while he was separated from her by distance,
the thought that he would lose her never entered his
mind, for he could only remember her as “the child
of charity’—the little human waif whose society
would be shunned instead of courted—and this was
‘another reason why his young heart thrilled withjoy
at the thought that by his exertions she would be
raised to a position of affluence and honor, of which
the proudest lady might not be ashamed. No, he
|never dreamed of losing her, and feeling sure of
possessing her, he had even allowed himself to feel
| pleasure in the society of another, the recollection of
which fact, now that his heart told him how much he
loved Maggie, stung him like a serpent.

‘Would to heaven I were dead!” he ejaculated, as
| he walked moodily along Broadway, and hardly had

the exclamation passed his lips when he was seized
| by the throat with a vise-like grasp by one of two
villains, who sprang upon him suddenly from under
the porch of a store door, while the second of the

 

Human nature is a queerthing. However little we
|may care for life, the law of self-perservation is
always active within us. The desperate suicide,
while about to rudely sever the thread of his existence,
will, in the very act, fly from any danger which
threatens death by a different process from that
which he has chosen.

Charles Hollister had just uttered a wish that he
might die, but no sooner did he find himself grappled
by ruffians than he commenced a desperate struggle
for his life.

“Squeeze his wizand tight, Tom!” exclaimed the
ruffian, who was going through the rifling process;
“don’t leave him breath enough to squeal or we shall
be ‘copped’ (caught) sure.”

With the strength of desperation Hollister tore him-
self from the grasp of the ruffian who held him, and
by a powerful blow, suddenly dealt, leveled him to
the earth. He had no sooner accomplished this,
however, than the second wretch was upon him with

| a knife, and aterrible struggle took place between

| the two, in the course of which Hollister kept up a

succession of piercing shrieks for assistance.

“Get to your trotters quick, Javtk, and bludgeon
him, or the ‘coppers’ (officers) will be upon us!” ex-
claimed the highwayman who was engaged with
| Hollister. ‘He fights like ten men, ana will get the
| best of it yetif you don’t hurry. I have no use of my

knife hand. He hugs it with the strength of an
elephant.”
Jack struggled to his feet, and pulling a slung shot
from the capacious pocket of his coat, he took a _tirm
| hold upon it, swung it once around his head, and was
just about to bring it down with a force which must
| have crushed his victim’s skull, when it was sudden-
ly jerked from his grasp, and again he was made to
measure his length upon the flagging. At the same
| time the other ruftian threw Hollister from him and
| started off down the street with the speed of light-
| ning.

“You can go!” cried the man who had come to the
rescue, as he cast one glance after the flying robber;
“but we will take the best of care of your companion
here. He has got a dose of his own medicine which
will be likely to make his head ache for a day or
two. Are you hurt, sir?’ he continued, turning to
Hollister.

“A few slight scratches,” replied the youth—‘‘noth-
ing more; but had it not been for your timely assist-
ance, I fear my chances for life would have been but
smal.’

“Hello! You, sir!” exclaimed the stranger, ad-
dressing the prostrate robber, who began to show
signs of returning animation—“lie perfectly still
there, or I shall be obliged to give you another dose.”

By this time the sound of quick footsteps in_ the
distance was heard, and presently a number of police-
men made their appearance.

Having listened to a narration of the facts from
the lips of Hollister, the officers picked up the wound-
| ed highwayman, who was injured so badly that he
| could walk only with great difficulty, and proceeded

 

with him to the nearest station-house, where Hollis-
iter and his preserver entered a complaint against
| him, and then left the court-room in company.
| “Which way are you going, friend?’ asked the
stranger, as they stepped forth into the street. ;
“T am stopping at the Astor House,” replied Hollis-

| ter, “and I was on my way there when the villains

beset me.”

| “Good!” ejaculated the stranger, “then we need

| not part company, for I also am stopping at the Astor.

| You can’t have been there long, or I should have met

| you at one time or another.” :

| “I put up there only this morning,” replied Hollis-

| ter, ‘‘and I shall leave to-morrow for a residence up

town.”

| ‘“That’s unfortunate!’ exclaimed the stranger—‘‘I

| had hoped that we might both remain at the same

| place, for an acquaintance so singularly begun should

last longer than a few hours.”

| ‘So it should,” assented Hollister, ‘‘and it shall not

| end to-night with my consent. I owe you a debt of

| gratitude and the only way I can ever hope to be
able to pay itis by keeping you in sight, and wait-
ing for the opportunity to arrive.”

“You owe me nothing, sir,’ said the stranger, in a
tone of great candor: ‘if anything, I am your debtor
for your danger furnished me with a little pastime
which I should not otherwise have had. I do delight
to trip up these blood-thirsty rutfians! But here we
are at the hotel. I must bid you good-night, sir, for
I am confoundedly tired and sleepy, and we will re-
new our conversation in the morning.”

“Good-night, sir,” responded Hollister, and they
separated without having thought of exchanging

cards.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ines isanlll ty Aitesii ine
A PRINTING-PRESS FOR THE BLIND.

There has recently been invented in Paris a small
press which will enable blind people not only to print
the raised characters which they are able to read
| with their fingers, but also the ordinary characters on
| the same sheet of paper. A system of writing for
| blind people has, of course, already been invented
by Braille, but it only permitted them to commu-
nicate with each other, whereas the new mechanism
enables them to form letters which can be read by
everybody. Henceforward, therefore, blind persons
will be able to communicate by letter with their
friends, without being obliged to have recourse to
the assistance of others.

 

‘ bee a a ga eas
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
In Nervous Debility.
_ Dr. W. J. Burt, Austin, Texas, says: “I used
it in a case of nervous debility, and very great
improvement followed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

I

NEW YORK, JUNE 11, 1887.
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FREE.)

3 months. - -.-.- - 7% $5.00
4months - - -- - $1. 4 copies - - - - - 10.00
ReQOaI™ 8 ee ee ee BY 8 copies - - - - - 20.00

Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or
registered letter. ’

We employ no traveling agents.

All letters shonld be addressed to

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

A RATTLING DETECTIVE STORY

By the Author of ““OLD SLEUTH.”

c.|2copies - - -
00
00

 

 

An eventful and exciting story, teeming with
graphic pictures of thrilling incidents and strange
adventures, collated from the

Note-Book of a United States Detective,

will be begun next week, under the title of

VAN,
The Government Detective:

THE BASE-METAL COINERS.

By the Author of ‘‘Old Sleuth,”

Author of “The American Monte Cristo,” ‘Old
Sleuth, the Detective,” ‘“‘Night Scenes in
New York,” “Old Sleuth’s Triumph,”
“Tron Burgess,” ‘“‘The Shadow
Detective,” etc., etc.

The hero of this lively story is a dashing and daring
fellow, and his adventures are so spiritedly narrated,
in simple and expressive diction, that the reader
imagines himself a companion of the courageous
officer, and an eye-witness of his brave deeds.

“VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE,” Will be be-
gun next week. Boys, be on the lookout for this
thrilling story.

satel dehsillinaiad

HEALING SORROW.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

Most men and women dread the wounds of sorrow.
But some are wiser, and have found great healing
power, to cure the shames and mistakes of life, in
sorrows well borne. Sorrow, if it be tender, will
cure pride and vanity. Who has not noticed how the
smarts of wounded vanity are soothed into forgetful-
ness when a great sorrow supervenes. We contemn
our piques and prides. We are indifferent to our
cherished insult. Our sober tears wash out our hot
eyes. We have something far nobler to think about
than the flings of the proud man’s contumely. The
bowed heart brings low the tossed head. The weary
step, dragging its chain of grief, will not pause to
kick a dog. We pity the injurers. We wonder if
they, too, never felt a sorrow, and probably recall
that they have had their share; so we half forgive
them, without half trying; at least, as I said, we
forget them.

Sorrow is often highly respectable. It carries a
subtle and yet real’ sense of personal dignity. I do
not mean the sorrows of guilt. But to mourn for our
dead, for instance, is to be conscious of deserving
compassion and considerate dealing at the hands of

our fellow-men. We are not like the common crowd;
wearemourners. The funeral train is not to be inter-
rupted; people given to pleasure are to stand aside
and let it pass. The serge of grief is a badge not to
be disregarded. The jester must hold his tongue.
The tax collector—yes, and the creditor—must not
be so officious at our door-bell. The crape, tied there,
gives us a dignity of seclusion. We are notto be
troubled just now. We are privileged. The trades-
man, the dressmaker, and all of that ilk must give
us the first service and make others wait, for our
grief takes precedence of all things. :

There is none so poor that, when he grieves over
his dead, we will not all do him reverence. The sor-
row of sickness at home lifts every neighbor’s hat
and halts his step as he asks, in deferential tones,
after your sufferer. The invalid’s chair in the street
is safe, however thick the throng. The lame man,
the blind man, the pitiable are all respected ; yes, that
is the word—respected. Many a man who has oth-
erwise lost the franchise of his neighbor’s respect,
has regained it by some sorrow. Kings have won
back the failing loyalty of their subjects by sorrows
that have come upon them. Elected officers have
often, in this democratic land, owed more to their
sudden bereavyements than to their genuine merits.
Voters said, ‘It is too sad, poor fellow!” and gave
him their ballots.

There is a healing of the world’s fret and worry in
a tender sorrow. One folds the hands and sinks back
in his chair, weary at heart. The disappointments
of ambitions defeated, or money lost, seem too trivial
to notice. One would rather weep. One goes apart
frem the maddening crowd. There are whispers in
the soul. There are reminiscences that soothe. There
is a sense of the world’s paltriness. There is a look-
ing above and after. Time seems contemptible. One
luxuriates in being sad. Perhaps not every reader
can understand me, but some will. There is a poetry
in the perception of things which only comes to us
in times of sorrow. To the.laughing boy or girl the
gorgeous sunset is one thing. To the sad heart it is
a far richer thing. There is a moving beauty in the
aspect of flowering spring only to be caught by eyes
that see in it Great Nature’s Easter promise. There
is a low, soft music in summer zephyrs only to be
heard by saddened hearts. Indeed, all music takes
on new tones to the sad; and they are more heart-
searching tones than ever the gay and gladsome
hear.

Surely it ought to beso; there ought to be some
compensation for the pang, to make our lots equal
and just. The sobbing sea, breaking its great waves
in a strange unison with our sobbing hearts; the
wide expanse of the sea, when the mourner sits pen-
sive uponits shore and gazes out afar; the trem-
bling light of down-looking stars, when, on summer
evenings, one can find in their depths a companion-
ship for musing sorrow; the very twilight lingering
over one and seeming to speak of the far-off grave of
one beloved or absent; these are experiences of
the soul which heal man’s passionate nature with a
sacred cure. His is ashallow disposition who re-
jects it.

Sorrow teaches us to forgive. Sorrow may teach
us kindness, if we will let it. Sorrow may make the
rich man’s hand open and the poor man’s hand gentle.
Sorrow has often been known to break the power of
old enslavements and snap the bondage of foul
habits. The son of a good mother resolves on reform
as he parts from her forever. The counsel of a noble

_father has twice the power over the grieving heart of
the child. Sorrow is potent against rashness and
heady follies. Sorrow can sheathe the knife of re-
venge, and turn it into 7? hi ree Ka a of tenderest
pity. Sorrow ought to lead men unto God, the Com-
mon Father, who alone can make it light enough for
our poor shoulders. ‘

There is a great deal of fraternity in sorrow. As I
write these lines I may think of the many thousands
who will read them, whom I never saw or shall see,
yet whose hearts respond to mine in suffering. Did

ou never notice that, if one be sick, he finds out all

he others who are pained with his very. illness?
Did you never notice that the sadness of grief brings
to you others who “know all about it.” And there is
no touch of the hand like their hands. To my mind
it is beautiful to think that, under all our external
trappings and adornments of distinction, president
and workingman, millionaire and honest pauper, we

 

are touched by the same griefs. I shall never forget

an

 

THE NEW

the remark of an old man unto me, when my first
great sorrow of bereavement fell with crushing force.
ee juy son, you are now come into the brother-
100d.

After all, the greatest office of friendship is to at-
tempt to alleviate a friend’s sorrow. If the sorrow
be not from disgrace, it is always possible to allevi-
ate it. The kind word, the tear of sympathy, the
ready step to oblige one when the heart is sore, the
small favor of some errand done “‘because you don’t
feel like doing anything just now, you know, in your
sorrow ;”’ who will ever forget these things? Surely
there are ten thousand worse things in this world
than a manly sorrow borne manfully.

PEOPLE IN LOVE.

BY KATE THORN.

We all laugh at people in love.

But why we do so it would be difficult to say, since
most of the human family have, at some period of
their lives, been in that interesting predicament, or
wanted to be.

When a young man experiences the change all
creation is cognizant of it. It is as evident as the
small-pox. He cannot heip showing it, although he
fiatters himself that nobody suspects it.

He loses his appetite for fish-balls. Tough steak
does not induce him to profanity; he has soared
above that sort of thing. His mind ison blue eyes,
yellow curls, bangle bracelets, extract of heliotrope,
and the charming name of Mary Ann.

He is as jealous as it is possible for a young man to
be. Jealous of the butcher, and the baker, and
everybody else who looks at her. He would sit out
in the boggy meadows, beside the pond where the
frogs sing, and look at the moon, with her by his side,
and never dream of bronchitis or neuralgia. He
reads poetry—sometimes he writes it, and drives the
editor of the local paper crazy by sending him poems
on ‘“‘Spring,” and “Odes to a Lady.”

Generally a young man goes through with this
craze seventgen or eighteen times in the course of a

few years, 2 finally marries some one whom nobody
ever supposed he would marry.

“Whom first we love, you know we seldom wea.”

The young girlin love is affected differently. She
thinks that in all the universe there never can be, or
could be, such another man as her Augustus.

Such eloquent eyes. Such lovely whiskers. Such
beautifully fitting gloves and boots.

She feels sure that she could be happy on a desert
island, five thousand miles from any other human
being, with him.

She is indignant when her worldly minded old aunt
alludes to bread and butter, and seems to speak as if
she considered it essential that a youth like Augustus
should have anything in the shape of ‘‘collaterals.”’

But she usually gets bravely over all this sort of
nonsense by the time she is twenty-five, and is quite
ready to marry a man of sixty, who has a brown-
stone front, five or six children in the way of sou-
venirs from the first wife, the gout, and a corpulent
bank account.

But there is really no phase of being in love so en-
tertaining to the spectator as that of the middle-aged
couple who fall into the tender passion. How hard
they try to appear young! How sedulously they
avoid any allusion to birthdays! How earnestly they
assure you that all their family were gray early.
Grayness seemed to run in the blood on both sides.

They will step as frisky as colts. All the rheuma-
tism and nervousness which tried the soul of the first
husband, and of the first wife, will be forgotten.
They have dipped in the fountain of youth.

And almost always they are awfully, dreadfully,
distressingly silly. Of course they are not aware of
it, and probably cannot help it, but it is really, on the
whole, more entertaining to see the courtship of the
average elderly couple than it is to go to a play.
There are so many unexpected phases to it.

Well, let everybody get in love if they wantto. It
is natural. Itis nice. Itis amusing to the outsider,
and the insider seems to take comfort in it. It whiles
away the winter evenings. It gives the old folks
something to fret about. It helps the livery men let
their teams. It encourages the ice-cream industry.
It sells a good many rosebuds and orange blossoms.
It makes young hearts happy.

And long may it flourish !

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Thare never haz. been more than adozen original
thinkers in the world, and there never will be any add-
ed to the number; and the wit and wisdom ov these
people haz been used so much, and in so many differ-
ent ways, that it iz difficult to find nowadays anything
better than literary hash.

To be a suckcesful fool, a man haz to be more than
an ordinary wise man.

Man izasuperstitious creature; he would rather
guess at most things than kno them for certain.

Nature don’t kno anything about evolution; she
don’t raize pine trees from chestnuts, nor figs from
thistles.

When I waz a boy ov twenty, I knew everything;
at forty I knew less; and now, at seventy, I find I
don’t kno mutch oy ennything.

Nothing haz been made in vain. If even the little
insects knew their power, it would be impossible for
man to live upon the face of this earth.

Cunning never made a man great yet.

Wisdom and truth are one and the same thing.

Men are allways vain ov their opinions, although
they are generally the weakest things they possess.

I never have known a man to die atavery ad
vanced age possessed oy property he had got wrong-
fully.

Women manage to endure each other ; but love
or friendship toward each other iz out of the ques-
tion.

Which iz the most common in this world, vanity or
selfishness? I would thank some bright man, who iz
good at figures, to tell me.

Evolution iz a cowardly type of infidelity.

Don’t mistake gravity for wisdom. There iz no
fool so rank az a grave one.

When the great charity box of Heaven is counted
out, the pennies will excite more curiosity than any
of the rest of the coin.

Learning makes a very good pupil, but when it un-
dertakes to be preceptor to wisdom, it has mistaken
its size.

A third-rate fiddler iz only one remove from a
loafer.

This world and all there iz in it don’t amount to
muteh. The ambition of one single man could swal-
low the whole of it, and ery for more.

 

ating dite,
—_- 2

THE HORSE’S FRIEND.

A sea-faring gentleman of Boston narrates the
appended remarkable story :

“My father owned a horse and a dog, between
whom there was a warm affection. The dog slept in
the stable. The horse had a troublesome habit,
when in harness, of getting the reins under his tail
and then holding them tightly. To cure this habit
the sinews under the tail were cut, and when the
horse was in the stable the tail was strained up by
means of a cord passing over a pulley in the ceiling
overhead. In this manner the horse was secured the
night after the cutting, and the stable was properly
closed. In the morning the cord was found cut, the
tail free, and the horse at his ease.

“Who had meddled? Who had cut the cord?
Diligentinquiry was made, butno one knew anything
about it. The tail was roped up again, and at even-
ing everything was right in the stable; but in the
morning again the cord was found cut, and the horse
at his ease in the stall. No one could explain the
matter. The third night, before closing the stable,
my father hid himself where he could see the horse,
determined to solve the mystery. Whenthe stable had
been closed and all was quiet, the dog rose, looked
around, jumped on to the back of the horse and with
his teeth cut the cord that kept his friend in pain.

—> +
WHAT SIX YOUNG LADIES DID.

A memorable journey was recently performed on
foot by six young ladies. They started from the
Tyrol, tramped over the mountains of Switzerland,
and passed through Geneva and Lyons, and have
just arrived in Paris, bright and cheerful. They had
no escort whatever, refusing haughtily even the prof-
fered services of a worthy old lady, who wanted to
act as chaperon for the party. Each one was armed
with a staff, and over her shoulder she slung a bag
filled with light traveling outfit. The outfit included
in every case a hammock, and when they paused for
the night the hammocks were swung in the trees, and
the young tramps rolled themselves up in blankets
and went to sleep, under the, guard of the moon and
the stars. There were days, or nights, rather, when
the weather was not propitious for this sort of enter-
tainment. In such cases they condescended to put
up at an inn. Everywhere on their journey they
created a sensation, and the universal interest
aroused in them was undoubtedly their chief protec-
tion against uncomfortable adventures.

 

CITY CHARACTERS,

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

No. 18.—THE CONFIDENCE MAN.

Lys é

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City people profess to be a great deal shrewder
than their country cousins. Far be it from me to say
they are mistaken. I merely wish to remark that if
you want to find a confidence man—a fellow who
worms himself into your confidence for the sole pur-
pose of getting your money without giving you any
equivalent—you must go to a city for him.

Maybe it is because he thinks he can easier avoid
detection in a large city; perhaps it is that he
thinks that there is alarger proportion of cash per
individual in the city—which there isn’t. But what-
ever the reason, the confidence man seldom leaves
the city except when he wants to “lay off.”

His favorite game is the simple-minded, unsuspect-
ing person who has a great deal of money—for such

people have sometimes more cash than brains. He
is not afraid, however, to operate on wiser men;
they require more and finer work, but the confidence
man is equal to it.

The very simplest and most frequent of his methods
of raising money is the forged or raised check, yet
the men who cash his worthless paper are generally
sharp-eyed business men; indeed, they are not unfre-
quently bank officials.

There are other and more complicated ways of get-
ting money out of banks into which little or none has
been put, but the confidence man is equal to them,
even if he chances to be only a beginner.

Banks are not open, however, at all hours of the
day ; besides, some of them have detectives who can
see through any disguises attempted by daylight.
There are many men, well supplied with currency,
who are intent upon making “‘big stakes” and “quick
returns ;” these are almost sure to become game for
whatever confidence man first discovers them.

How does he get at them? Easily enough. There
are some places in large cities where men can be-
come acquainted without formal introductions;
among them are boarding-houses, gambling dens,
hotel reading-rooms, and bars, brokers’ offices and
the speculative “exchanges.”

For astake large enough to be worth playing for,
the confidence man will go into business, establish a
character, open a bank account, and liberally head
subscription papers. Such are always going around.
He can be more patient than Job while waiting, for
he knows he will come out ahead in the end.

Generally, however, he prefers operations that do
not require much time and detail. If he has money
enough to cut a dash, he will spring a mining or rail-
road scheme on the public; if down to his last dol-
lar, hé will sell for gold afew heavy rings of base
metal that looks dike gold, each reputed to be secur-
ity left him for a small loan never paid, or something
of the kind. }

Sometimes it ismis little game to marry money in-
stead of steal it.’ One of his kind, now in jail, mar-
ried eleven different and estimable women in a year
and a half, getting possession of all the property of
each. In almost every case he was self-introduced,
making acquaintance at boarding-houses and
churches, and an enraging fact in the case is that he
was really so companionable that most of his vic-
tims bemoan his punishment, and some believe his
disgrace is a result of mistaken identity.

One of the confidence man’s most startling tricks
is his striking a victim again and again. He is never
abashed at meeting any one whom he has injured;
he will either explain away his first offense or pro-
fess penitence and a desire to make restitution; if
his offer is accepted, the last state of the injured per-
son is sure to be worse than the first.

It ought to be easy to detect the confidence man;
good judges of human nature say that a man's char-
acter must stamp itself upon his face. Yet in nine
cases out of ten the good judge of human nature
could not pick a confidence man, by his looks, from a
crowd of business men. The trouble seems to be
that there are some little business tricks, within the
law, that aresolike swindling that some business
men show about the same stamp as confidence men.
Hence the uncertainty.

“The children of this world are wiser in their gen-
eration than the children of light.” This must be
the reason that confidence men are frequently at-
tracted, as they are, to churches, Sunday-schools,
Christian associations, and ‘‘business men’s prayer-
meetings.” I know a good sound pillar of one of the
last-named means of grace who about once a month
comes to me to tell of a swindling trick that has been
attempted upon him, perhaps successfully, by some
fellow who has been a devout helper or a promising
convert.

But there is no walk of life in which the confidence
man can’t be found, or where he won’t find you. In
lands, mines, railroads, houses, jewelry, horses,
cigars—yes, all the way down to the junkshop—he
finds money in operating. He can make more money
out of one unsound horse, skillfully advertised and
handled, than the best horse on the turf could earn
by a busy season on the race-track, and he would
have the animal besides to begin anew with.

There have been some ill-natured attempts made
to identify all confidence men with two or three
races or tribes, particularly the gipsies, but this is a
mistake. The most notorious member of the pro-
fession, so far as New York’s police know, descended
through honest, God-fearing New Englanders whose
historic ancestors came over in the Mayflower. The
trouble was not with the race or family; it was with
the man himself.

How did he become such a confidence man? Why,

just as some innocent boys turn out to be thieves,

gamblers, and forgers—by being too impatient to get
money rapidly, and too lazy to earn money by honest
work and wits, He has deliberately twisted faculties
intended for honorable use, so he is the most incor.
rigible of human offenders. Murder and other great
crimes are often committed in the heat of passion,
and the offenders afterward reform; but you never
hear of the police ceasing to watch a confidence man
without afterward cursing themselves for their own
stupidity.

Some people have a passion for observing the
origin and development of certain peculiarities of
character. If any of the NEw YORK WEEKLY’S
readers want to study a confidence man from the
start, just let them observe a man who is ambitious
and smart, but determined not to work. He may
not be a confidence man yet, but he’ll get there all
the same.

en

A DIPLOMATIC STORY.

The story goes back tothe year 1880. The relations
between Russia and Germany were strained. The
German newspapers complained of the excessive
massing of Russian troops on the frontier. The Rus-
sian newspapers replied by attacks on the attitude
of the German press. General Von Schweinitz, in
spite of this tension, enjoyed the highest credit with
Alexander ITI., to whose private circle he alone of all
the ambassadors was admitted. He belonged to the
small number of persons who played at the card
parties which the emperor was in the habit of join-
ing every evening. One evening the emperor, seeing
the German ambassador enter the room, went up to
him hurriedly, and in almost violent language com-
plained of the attitude of the German press, of the
perfidy of Prince Bismarck, and of the indifference
of the Emperor William, who tolerated this violence
of the press and this underhand policy of the chan-
ecellor. General Von Schweinitz was quite taken
aback. However, his habitual self-possession soon
came to his relief. He said nothing. He had suffi-
cient self-command to take his place at the emper-
or’s table, and to remain there the whole evening.
On his return home he prepared a report, which gave
a faithful account of what had occurred, with the ex-
act words used by the emperor. When, at about
3 o’clock in the morning, he read over his report, he
became alarmed at the consequences to which the
faithful reproduction of the words of the emperor
might lead—words of which the immediate result

 

would be his own recall. He took the report, threw

it on the fire, and went to bed, intending to sleep
at and to write his report in a calmer frame of
mind.

He awoke very uneasy, and was about to breakfast
when an aide-de-camp summoned him to the emper-
or. Alexander the II., who was very emotional,
threw himself into his arms, explained how nervous
he had been overnight, begged him to forget what he
had then said, and talked in the friendliest way of
Germany, the emperor, and the chancellor. Two
months afterward all was arranged, and General Von
Schweinitz, being on’ leave of absence and on a visit
to Prince Bismarck, told him what had passed be-
tween him and the Czar.

“My dear ambassador,” said Prince Bismarck, tap-

ping him on the shoulder, ‘“‘remember that I have
rendered greater service by what I have not8aid than
by what I have said.”

Humor and Philosophy,
BY GEORGE RUSSELL JACKSON.

Perfidious Man.
*T was not from a sordid love of pelf
That he sought the hand of the maiden fair;
Oh, no! ’twas love for her own sweet self,
For her charming grace and her modest air.

This oft he told her, as hand in hand
They strolled at eve by the silv’ry sea,

While the laughing wavelets kissed the strand,
And the winking stars looked down in glee.

With a blush and a sigh she gave consent;
But after the honey-moon was 0o’er,

As fast as his cash supply was spent,
Like Oliver Twist, he asked for more.

Then tears of sorrow the young wife shed
As she spoke of the nights by the summer sea,
“You told me ’twas not for my wealth,” she said,
“But my own sweet self that you courted me.”

“My darling, it was for your own sweet self,”
The spendthrift husband made reply :

“T told you I had no love for pelf,
And that’s the reason I’m making it fly.”

He Did Think.

“My friend,” said a solemn-looking man in clerical
attire to a short, puffy, bald-headed, red-faced man
in a railroad car, “I need not speak to a man of your
respectable and intelligent appearance of the uncer-
tainties of life, but do you ever think——”

“Think !” broke in the little man; “think! Good-
ness gracious, do I ever think? You bet, I think.
Why, man, I’ve got nine grown-up daughters, not
one of ’em married yet, and I’m forever thinking,
thinking how to feed and clothe ’em—especially
clothe ’em; thinking how to keep away undesirable
suitors from ’em without discouraging desirable
ones; how the bills are to be met for hats, feathers,
gloves, dresses, shoes. Have you got a family ?”’

“No, but——”

“Ha! Ithought so. Let me tell you, my friend,
that when you get a family as large as mine, you’ll
do some tall thinking, too. See that bald head of
mine?’

“Yes; but, my dear sir, I——”

“Well, that comes from thinking. When you have
a family as numerous asSmine your head will be
as bald as an ostrich’s egg, and don’t you for——”

But the clerical-looking man, with an expression
of disgust on his face, had arisen and was rapidly
making his way to the other end of the car.

Chestnuts Beneath the Chestnuts.
When fades the crimson glory from the west,
And Cytherea has withdrawn her beam ;
When Night in starry robes the sky has dressed,
And Dian’s face is mirrored in the stream ;
When softly sighs the scented evening breeze—
In rural lanes, to youthful lovers dear,
Beneath the shadow of the chestnut trees,
The same old chestunts gentle maidens hear.

Why Not Drown Them at Birth ?

“T understand you have a fine tenor voice,” said the
new minister to the real estate dealer, who was a
member of the congregation.

“Well, ’ve been told so,’ replied the man of “For
Sale’s” and ‘‘To Let’s,” with a gratified smile.

“Then I wish you would help us in a little anthem
we are going to sing at the children’s festival. Here
itis, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’ I have
arranged it myself, and 3

“T am sorry, sir,’ said the man of houses and tene-
ments, ‘“‘very sorry, but I cannot have anything to do
with children. No, sir; no, sir. I cannot have any-
thing to do with them. Children, sir, are—well, sir,
they are children, and that is enough, sir.”

“But weren’t you a child yourself at one——”

“Sir, I do not wish to argue the question. The very
mention of children is disagreeable to me.”

Then the minister went away with a very heavy
heart.

Not Ready for Sea.

Mr. CARTON—‘‘Ah, me boy, I was down at the docks
to-day looking at your yacht.”

Mr. BARTON—‘‘Yes? Beauty, ain’t she?’

Mr. C.—‘‘Beauty! [never saw anything prettier in
naval architecture. She’s a daisy.”

Mr. B. (delightedly)—‘Well, you know, I rather
flatter myself she is.”

Mr. C.—“‘I notice, too, that she’s all ready for sea.
Everything ship-shape. Nothing to do but go on
board, cast off, and away.”

Mr. B.—‘‘Ready for sea!
about ?”’

Mr. C.—‘‘*Why, ain’t she ?”’

Mr. B.—‘‘Certainly not. There isn’t a bottle of
liquor nor a cigar on board of her yet.”

The Blessing of Toil.
He rarely has dyspep-si-a,
His appetite doth seldom fail
Who eats his dinner each weekday
From a plebeian dinner-pail.

What are you talking

An Outrage.

JONES: “Hullo, Brown, where are you going ?”

Brown: “Going up to the temperance lecture.”

J.: “Dye just been up there, and I find they charge
ten cents for admission.”

B.: “Ten cents! Why, that’s a perfect outrage!”

J.: “Just what [said. I’m not going to pay ten
cents.”

B.: “NorI. Ten cents! Whew!
got a dollar in my pocket.
drink.”

J.: “All right.”

‘Quite a Different Pair of Shoes.”
“T see you call for lower fares,”
Said Jimson to the editor;
“Tm glad there is one man who dares
Do that. You should have called before.”
Exclaimed the sage: ‘“‘S-s-st! Close the door—
There sounds a footstep on the stair,
I traveled on a pass before,
But now I have to pay my fare.”

Never mind; I’ve
Let’s go in and have a

A Classical Musician.

“I’m a poor, broken-down musician, ma’am,” said
the tramp, as he halted at the cottage door, “and I
would take it as a great kindness if you would let me
have a little dinner.”

“A musician, are you? Do you know any of the
popular airs ?”

‘Every one of ’em.
know it or not.”

“See-saw,” she replied, pointing toa pile of wood
and a newly sharpened bucksaw in the back-yard.

‘‘Madam,” he said, proudly, as he turned away,
“T wish you to understand that I'am a classical
musician.”

Name one, and see whether I

The Value of Maxims.
“A little learning is a dangerous thing.”
So Pope once wrote. The maxim isn’t true.
A little earning doth much comfort bring
To men who long have had no work to do.

Happy Thought.

RAILROAD SUPERINTENDENT (biting his lips with
vexation)—‘‘Here’s a friend of mine sent his nephew
down from the country and wants me to find a place
for him onthe road. The young fellow is raw and
gawky, and knows no more about railroading than I
do about preaching. What shall I do with him ?’

CHIEF CLERK (biting the holder of his pen)—‘T
dunno. Ah! J have it.”

. 8.—“ Yes?”

Cc. C.—*Yes. Give him a job as brakeman on a
freight train. He will be killed in two weeks, and
then you will be rid of him,”

R. 8.—‘Happy thought.”

The Schoolmaster’s Courtship.
“Two negatives make an affirmative,”
The teacher said to the maid he wooed.
“ Now what would you say were you asked to give
This hand to me?’ “No, no,’ she cooed,
This Boy Never Was Born..
MOoOTHER—‘‘How comes it that your hair is wet and
your shirt on inside out, Johnny ?”’
JOHNNY—‘‘Mother, I cannot tell a lie.
swimming.”

I’ve been in

The Good Man.
He is the man who liveth best
Who looks on all mankind as brothers,
Who lives not that he may be blest,
But for the joy of blessing others.

Speaking of misfits, there is nothing worse in that
line than misfit husbands and misfit wives.

Friend (to base-ball umpire who has a black eye)—
“Ha! Been ona bat?’

‘ Base-ball Umpire—‘‘Naw. Was struck by one.”

Whate’er his faults, his heart must still be good
Who feels the sentiment of gratitude.

In some things, the lower forms of creation have
an advantage over us. The jelly-fish, for instance,
never dies hard.

The closet in which the family skeleton is kept has
shelves for the family jars.

Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

te Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

W. E. S., New Plymouth, Ohio.—ist. To dye straw hats
black in large numbers, the following process is recom.
mended: A bath for dyeing—say twelve dozen hats—con.
sists of 144 pounds of logwood, twelve pounds of green
sulphate of iron or copperas, and seven and a half pounds
of verdigris. The copper is made of a semi-cylindrical
shape, and should be surrounded with an iron jacket, or
case, into which steam may be admitted, so as to raise
the temperature of the interior bath to 190 degrees, Fah.,
but no higher; otherwise the heat is apt to effect the stif-
fening varnish, called the gum, with which the body of
the hat has been imbued. The logwood having been in-
troduced and digested for some time, the copperas and
verdigris are added in successive quantities, and in the
above proportions, along with every successive two or
three dozen of hats suspended upon the dipping machine.
Each set of hats, after being exposed to the bath, with
occasional airings, during forty minutes, is taken off the
pegs, and laid out upon the ground. In three or four
hours the dyeing is completed, and the hats are then well
washed in running water. Another plan is this, the
quantities of material being intended for twenty-five hats
or bonnets. They are kept for two hours in a boiling de-
coction of four pounds of logwood, one pound of sumach,
and five ounces of fustic. They are afterward dipped
into a solution of nitrate of iron, then well rinsed with
water, and when dry, are painted over with a solution of
lac or dextrine. 2d. To bleach straw bonnets, get a deep
box, air-tight, if possible; place at the bottom a stone, on
the stone a flat piece of iron red hot, or a pan of charcoal,
on which scatter powdered brimstone; close the lid, and
let the bonnets remain one night. There should be hooks
in the box, on which to hang the bonnets.

M. M., Newark, N. J.—ist. John Paul Jones, the cele-
brated American naval officer, after his return to the Uni-
ted States in 1781, was employed to superintend the con-
struction of a line-of-battle ship, the America, at Ports-
mouth, N. H., which he was to have commanded; but the
ship was presented by Congress to France. He then went
to Paris as an agent for prize money, and while there was
invited into the Russian service, with the rank of rear
admiral, but was disappointed at not receiving command
of the fleet in the Black Sea. He quarreled with the
admiral, the Prince of Nassau, and owing, it is said, to
the intrigues of enemies, fell into disfavor at court, and
was finally permitted by the Empress Catharine to retire
from the service, with a pension which was never paid.
He took up his residenc in Paris. where he died in pov-
erty. 2d. Lunar caustic will remove warts. 3d. No
record of the circumstances.

Richard C., Galveston, Texas.—ist. A teetotaler is one
pledged to entire abstinence from all intoxicating drinks.
The word is said to have been first used in 1831 by an
artisan named Richard Turner, of Preston, Lancashire,
England, who, in addressing a temperance meeting, ac-
knowledged that he had been a hard drinker, and being
an illiterate man, andin want ofa phrase to express how
much he then abstained from drinks of every kind, ex-
claimed, “I am now a Teetotaler.’”’ 2d. In England various
enactments have been passed by Parliament with the
view of diminishing the evils of intemperance, the object
being the restriction of the liquor traftic rather than
its prohibition. 3d. Texas was annexed to the United
States in 1845. In 1850 Texas sold to the latter for $10,000.-
000 her claims to lands outside her present limits. 4th. The
public lands of Texas belong to the State and not to the
general government.

Richardson,Des Moines, Iowa.—ist. Perth Amboy at
the head of Raritan Bay, and at the mouth of Raritan
River, was at one period the capital of East Jersey. Wil-
liam Franklin, the last loyal Governor of New Jersey,
was seized there by the Patriots in 1776. It received a
city charter in 1718, and for a time was the commercial
rival of New York. Its harbor is good, and easily acces-
sible to large vessels. 2d. The point on which Perth Am-
boy stands was called by the Indians Ambo. It was set-
tled about 1680 by a colony from Scotland, who named it
Perth, in honor of the Earl of Perth, one of the proprie-
tors; but the Indian name was so much used, that finally
the place took both names.

Americus, Nashville, Tenn.—ist. The White Sea is a
branch of the Arctic Ocean, which penetrates far into
North-west Russia. It is nearly semi-circular. The sea
has bold and rocky shores, and deep waters, except in the
Gulf of Archangel. Many streams flow into the White
Sea. Navigation is open for five or six months of the
year. The white whale, or whitefish of the whalemen,
seal, salmon, cod, herring, &c., are caught in large num-
bers. 2d. The White Sea first became known to English
navigators through Richard Chancellor, commanding a
ship in the unfortunate squadron of Sir Hugh Willoughby
in 1553, who landed on the shores of the Gulf of Arch-
angel.

M. C. C., Schuyler, Neb.—ist. Vulcanizing rubber is
done by mixing it with sulphur and then heating the mix-
ture very hot, when the two unite into one substance
which is unlike common rubber in many things, for it
cannot be dissolved by the articles which will dissolve
pure rubber, and it keeps its elasticity both in very cold
and very hot weather. ‘Cubes, fire hose, gas pipes, élastic
rings or bands, door and window springs, mats, machinery
belts, besides boots and shoes, are made of this kind of
vulcanized rubber. 2d. No knowledge of the article. 3d.
Yes; if convenient to do so.

A. A. K., Cedar Fall, Iowa.—ist. The Mississippi, in
connection with its largest tributary, the Missouri, is the
longest river in the world. Length, 4,300 miles. The Nile
is 4,100 miles long; the Amazon, 3,944; the Niger, 2,500;
the Lena, 2,500. 2d. Mexico has no emperor. In 1863 a
French army invaded the country and occupied the capi-
tal. Under the patronage of Napoleon III., Maximilian,
of Austria, was Emperor of Mexico from 1864 until 1867,
when he was shot, and the Republic was again pro-
claimed. Gen. Diaz acceded to the Presidency on Dec. 1,

884,

Harry K., Flushing, L, I.—ist. Pomerania is a province
of Prussia, mostly north of latitude 53 north, and stretch-
ing along the Baltic from longitude 12 to 18 east. 2d. The
population is chiefly Protestant. 3d. The principal crops
are wheat, barley, rye, oats, potatoes, flax, hemp, and to-
bacco. The chief industries, besides agriculture, are the
rearing of cattle and poultry, ship building, manufactures
of linen and woolen stuffs, iron and glass wares, etc.
Smoked geese are important articles of trade.

C. T., Albany N. Y.—The British House of Commons
elected at the end of 1885 had but a shortexistence. It
met for the first time on Jan. 12, was prorogued on June
25, and immediately afterward dissolved. A new parlia-
ment was elected in July, and meton Aug. 5, Mr.. Glad-
stone having, in the meantime, resigned, and the Marquis
of Salisbury appointed Prime Minister The present
House consists of 670 members; 465 for England, 30 for
Wales, 72 for Scotland, and 103 for Ireland.

Madeline, Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—To make floating
island, take one quart of milk, sweetened, the whites of
six eggs, wine to the taste, halfa pound cf pulverized
sugar (for the island), and a little oe eaticns Beat the
eggs, and add the half pound of sugar by degrees, and as
much currant jelly as will make it a fine pink. Pour the
milk into a glass bowl, and with a tablespoon place the
island on it in heaps, tastefully arranged.

Star, Albany.—lst. The trailing arbutus 1s so called
from its trailing lowly habit. It is also called Mayflower
from the season of its blossoming. It is found throughout
New England, especially near the coast, on the edges of
pine forests, and it also grows in_ great perfection in the

valley of the Connecticut. Another name forit is ground
laurel. 2d. Only anexperienced lawyer can advise you
upon the subject.

A. G. D., Milkaukee, Wis.—lst. Meze isa seaport town
of France, 19 miles south-west of Montpelier. Population
at the last census 6,501. It harbor accommodates vessels
under 60 tons burden. It has an important trade in wine,
and also salt works and distilleries. 2d. A ‘Pocket Map
of France,” 14 by 21 inches, with plan of Paris, and index
to cities, towns, etc., will cost $1.

Broadway.—We have not the space to spare fora full
| description of the process, but if the object be to get at
| the mode of blending and compounding the article, a
work on the subject will enlighten you. We can send
you one for $2.

Mary J., Hackensack, N. J.—1st. Historical works
would be the best for you to take up. 2d. ‘The Society
Letter Writer’ can be furnsshed for $1.25. If you desire
it, write direct tothe NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency.

M, L. B., Brooklyn, N. Y.—To brighten Britannia ware,

first clean it with a woolen cloth and sweet oil, then in
water and suds, and rub with soft leather and whiting.

John Gregory, Salisbury, Conn.—The papers contain-
ing the stories named will cost $1.38 and $1.26 each. They
are not in book-form.

E. 8. T., Schoharie, N. Y.—1st. Steel rails were first
rolled in England in 1857. 2d. No.

M. K., Newburgh.—Unable to say, so much depends
upon the texture of the article.

John H. H., Triplett, Mo.—It is not our practice to give
such an address as you request.

LI. M., Savannah, Ga.—Consult a physician who can give
you his personal attention.

An Old Reader, Marietta, Ga.—ist and 2d. Unable to
oblige you.
dha pdibendsai os eres |

FIRMNESS and gentleness work together far more
efficiently than either could alone. The strength that
is allied to sweetness has a far deeper and wider in
fluence than would be possible were it accompanied
by bitter criticism.

TEARS shed upon a coffin will not blot out the
stains that may have been cast in life upon the stilled
heart within it.

HE is young enough who has health, and he is rich
enough who has no debts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 32.

 

 

ecco THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

 

 

DECORATION DAY.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Bring flowers, sweet flowers, and let them be spread
O’er the graves of the war-slaughtered, heroic dead!
Let the unconscious relics on this day repose

’Neath the odor and bloom of the violet and rose !—
Let them all be remembered—do not neglect one,
Whether sleeping ’neath Northern or Southern sun.
The quarre!] is over, and ended the fight,

And each lost his life in a cause he deemed right.

“Oh, bury all feelings of hatred to-day—
Let your sweet flowers fall o’er the blue and the gray ;
And while your heart swells as you bless your own brave,
Remember that all are alike in the grave.
They fought, and were conquered, and let us forget
How fiercely and bravely in battle we met;
Let us say in their praise, that, though fated to yield,
A braver host never appeared on the field.

In the land of the South. where the magnolia grows,
In our Northern forests, where blooms the wild rose,
Wherever a soldier lies under the sod,
Pray for his repose toa merciful God.
Let us bury the past; let our actions avow
That though enemies once, we are brethren now ;
Let no envy have power, no predjudice sway,
But scatter your gifts o’er the blue and the gray.

—_—— oe

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

ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “A Fair Mystery,” ‘‘For Another’s Sin,”
“A Heart’s Bitterness,” etc., etc.

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

CHAPTER XXXII.
“WHAT DID YOU GIVE FOR YOUR FORTUNE LADY?”

O the surprise of Beryl the

Marquis was not alone. Le-

lia was there. She stood

with her hand on the arm

of his chair, as in confiden-

tial intercourse, and the

marquis had laid one of his

' hands over hers. To Beryl,

already half hesitant over

her errand, this presence of

of: a third person seemed to

offer good excuse for flight, and with a hasty “Oh,

pardon, I thought you were alone,” she turned to
escape. But Lelia cried:

“Lady Beryl! I implore you! I am going. Oh,
stay! My errand is done,” and flying past her ran up
the long stair.

“Come in, Beryl,” said the marquis. ‘‘Whatis it?’

Beryl came slowly forward. She had nerved her- |
self toagreat effort. She wished to banish, if shecould,
thisreserve and coldness which withered her, as frosts
a hot-house rose. Day after day she had questioned
what she could doto regain that good opinion and
confidential relation which the marquis seemed to
have toward her in the first months after marriage.
She remembered, at last, that there had been a ques- |
tion between them of those little mementoes of
Jerome, and he had bade her bring them to him, and
she had never done so. Several times she had said,

o

=

 

shrinking before his grave face and reticent manner,
“Are you displeased with me, Perey?” And his an-
swer was ever the quiet, ‘““No, Beryl.” |

Thinking it all over,she had concluded that her |
husband resented her cleaving to these mementoes |
of Jerome Sothron. Poor Jerome was dead, and it |
could not harm him; if she sacrificed these relics it |
might placate the living. So here she was at the
library door, with this casket of treasures in her hand,
as one carries a little urn of burial ashes.

“Perey,” she said, “you told me once that I was to
bring you these, and I have never done so; you may |
thing me very obstinate and disobedient, but, indeed, |
I am not. I had mostly forgotten. Here they are, |
Percy.”

The marquis took shame to himself that he had
ever been led so far astray by jealousy as to demand
this pitiful little offering. He waved his hand.

“Never mind, child. Ido not want them. I had
forgotten all about them.” }

“But, I think, perhaps, it is better for me not to keep |
them, Percy; and I thought, if I should die, some one |
would come upon them. It is better to be done with
it all. Will you take them, Percy ?’

“No!” cried the marquis. Not for worlds would he
touch these relics of his wife’s early love and loss—a
love which he clearly felt had been the one profound,
changeless passion of her life. ‘No, keep them if
they are any comfort to you, poor child.”

“They are no comfort,” said Beryl, still standing,
with her box inher hand, like a forlorn Pandora,
bearing her casket of all mortal woes. The singular
look on her husband’s face convinced her that these
treasures were a cause of trouble between them. “If
you will not take them, I will destroy them, Percy ;
they are no longer mine.”

There was a fire always burning on the library
hearth; the marquis liked it so, even when the
weather was so warm that the windows were open to
the floor, and the draperies swayed in and out on the
night breeze.

 

Beryl knelt down before the fire, and laid the san-
dal-wood box upon coal and flame. Then, with
clasped hands, and white face intent, she watched it
burn. All the past rose up before her. She seemed
to hear Jerome’s dear voice borne on the night wind; |
to see his handsome, joyous face here in the gleam-
ing fire pictures. She remembered adoring looks and |
passionate protestations, and her bosom heaved in |
its tumultuous pain, and two great tears welled over
from the grieving violet eyes, and rolled down her
fair cheeks.

The marquis saw them. The memory of that man
was paramount yet!

Well, some men are born to be dowered with wo-
man’s deathless love! ‘

It was not his happiness; he must submit. He!
turned quickly to his desk, and seemed busily
writing.

Beryl rose from her knees. The last charred em-
blem of her offering had fallen away to ashes. She
went toward the table and laid her hand on her hus-
band’s shoulder.

“You will not be angry with me, any longer,
Percy ?” ‘

“Tam not angry with you, Beryl. Why should I
be? Good-night, my dear.”

She went gliding from the room like a shadow.

“Poor child!” sighed the marquis. ‘‘If he had lived,
she would have gone on wretchedly loving him. I
suppose it is her fate. I cannot quarrel with her lov-
ing of the dead.”

For Beryl, she felt as one who has stood by a new-
made grave. The gay laughter and the summer joys
of her guests, the archery, the riding, the discussion
of a Phantom Ball to be given in the park, wearied
her, and when she could, next day, she stole off alone
for a ramble in the plantations, for the face of nature
always comforted her, like the caresses of a mother.

Wandering thus alone, she was startled by seeing
some one seated under a tree, but at once perceived
that it was a respectably dressed woman, bent over a
pillow on which she was making very delicate lace.

ut as a twig broke under Beryl’s tread, the woman
ae a face of terror, and started, as if to rise and

y.
“Do not run away,” said Beryl. ““No one wishes to
disturb you. What elegant work you are doing!’

“Making my living,” said the woman; ‘and since
I must work like a slave from morning to night, it is
better to get a breath of fresh air and sun while I am
working. The marquis said I might be here.”

That her husband knew the woman and had given
her liberty of the place, afforded Beryl a sense of
security. ¢

A fallen tree-trunk had been roughly hewn into a
seat, and placing herself upon it, she said, kindly:

“The marquis always likes our neighbors to have
the benefit of our grounds, and I am glad it is a help
to you to come here. You have certainly a very beau-
tiful way of earning your support.”

“If IT hadn’t been used shameful, I’d not need to
earn a farthing!” cried the woman. “I had money,

lenty of money, and it was taken away from me.

yhat would you think, my lady, if you had schemed,
and lied, and promised, and vowed, just to make you
oe fortune, and then cheated you out of the whole
of it |

“T should think I had been very hardly used. But
could you earn a fortune at lace-making ?’

“Of course not!’ said the woman, with contempt.
“But—the fortune was left by—well, by an uncle.”

“And stolen from you? What a pity!”

“Tl tell you!” cried the woman, eagerly. “I feel
as if—ifIdid not speak out, I’d die—my heart will
burst! These things gnaw, and gnaw, and eat me
by inches. I’ve told these trees and grasses often,
fined for the sake of speaking. There was a man I

new; he said if I could get this money, him and
me, we’d be married, and go to America and open a

ublic-house, and get rich as kings in no time. Well,

e put it all out plain to me, and kept at me for the
tmaoney, and promising we’d be married.”

|
|

 

“But if he made money his chief condition, you
might have guessed he really did not love you.”

“But I loved him !” cried the woman, madly; ‘“‘and
I wanted to be married. It's a fine, respectable thing
to be Mrs. Well, I got the money—a whole thousand
pounds—and he arranged all for our passage. and we
were to be married in the morning and go aboard a
sailing ship. .Well, the night betore, what does he
do, but go off with the thousand pounds in a steamer,
and leave me!”

“What—robbed you! Poor soul! Why did you not
telegraph and have him arrested, and get at least
your money back ?”’

“Tcouldiwt ; heknew I couldn’t when he planned it.”

“And you were left destitute?”

#All but. I had a few pounds, and some other
things, and I came away here. But I’ve been break-
ing ever since. I go over, and over, and over it in
my mind all the while. I don’t sleep nights. All my
food tastes like ashes. I see visions—oh, hideous
visions! I’ve got old, too. Look at me. I was quite
a handsome young woman two years ago.”

“T’m so sorry for you! But do not break your heart
over a thousand pounds. A thousand pounds is not
worth that, is it ?”’

“Tt is tome. Money is worth what you give for it;
it is worth what it costs you. And I gave—oh, I can-
not tell you what I gave for that money! You can’t

judge of me; such as you don’t know my trials. What

did you give for your money, my lady?’

The woman spoke as one sure that only sweet
smiles and sweet words had been Beryl’s price for
fortune.

Poor Beryl! it came over her as a sickening reve-
lation that she had given love, hope, happiness,
Jerome’s good name, career, bright young life, for
this luxury and wealth that she claimed.

“T should be glad to help you,” she said. “Shall I
buy that lace ?”

“No, my lady; itis all engaged,” said the woman.

Beryl went slowly back to the castle.

CHAPTER XXXII.
“I WOULD GO IF MY LIFE WERE THE PRICE.”

It had never occurred to Beryl to wonder how and
why Lelia had been talking with the marquis in his
study that night. Loving and trusting Lelia, and
trusting her husband, no sting of mean suspicion en-
tered her soul.

The marquis saw that, and felt shame that he never

had returned such noble trust. From the tirst day of | =
their marriage he had been full of doubt, and always | ;

testing Beryl.

One evening, in the drawing-room, the conversation
happened to turn on jealousy.

; “Jealousy,” said Lady Maria,‘ ‘is the wrong side of
ove.”

“T do not think that,” said Lord Ravlin, who some-
times had serious, solid ideas. ‘Absolute love casts
out all jealousy, as it does fear.”

“Then love, reallove, has no fear,” said Beryl,
meditatively. ‘Yes, that is trne, I know that.”

The marquis felt astabof pain. He knew Beryl
feared him ; but she had known a love without fear.

“Absolute indifference also has no jealousy,” said
Lelia, who but seldom spoke in a gathering of sev-
eral persons. She seemed startled at the sound of
ei ee voice, and returned to her netting, with a
blush.

“We gather then,” said Lawrence, “that true, high
love has no jealousy—neither has indifference—but a
lower type of love has jealousy.”

The marquis looked at an engraving, but he mused.
Beryl! was so indifferent to him, so unjealous—he was
jealous of her, as his love for her had: not the noble
type of heart unison and tender oneness.

The next dav Lelia, who frequently acted as scribe
for the marquis, was in thelibrary helping him, when
the marquis said to her of some paper:

“Look in the drawer of the side table and see if it
is not there.”

A moment after, he heard a faint scream, and saw
Lelia standing, ashen pale, and holding over_her
shaking hand, the thin gold chain from which

dangled the blue inlaid medallion.
“Oh, is that yours, Lelia?’ he said.

|

“T found it in

TEP DT LE

g

!
e !

°

=
—

NOT FOR WORLDS WOULD HE TOUCH THESE RELICS
OF HIS WIFE’S EARLY LOVE,

the plantations before youcame here. Take it,if itis
yours. I thought it belonged to another person.”

“T do not want it—it is not mine,” said Lelia, fling-
ing itfrom her in disgust and horror. ‘But what
was the woman like that you thought lostit? Was
she young, pretty, pleasing, as—as a

“No; she was a death’s head, and old—that is, not
young. And, besides, she did not drop it, after all.”

Lelia sat down, laid her face on the table, and be-
gan to cry.

“Oh, my poor girl!—oh, my poor sister !”

‘“Whatis the matter, Lelia? Have you lost any
one? Shall I help you find the owner of that trinket ?
I can speak to the steward—but it is now some
months.”

“No, my lord. I beg your pardon. How wrong of
me to be troubling you with this bewailing. No, if
any one is to be found, Doctor Marvel is the only one
that can help me. [I think this is the paper.”

She swept the trinket into the drawer with a look
of dislike, and returned vigorously to her work.

“How strange it is,’ mused the marquis, “that
these fair, innocent young creaturés, who seem
searcely to have begun their lives, should have such
burdens and sorrows on their hearts.” ;

He thought of Beryl, and sighed. i

Beryl came to the window, calling for Lelia, who
was in general demand for her sweet helpfulness.

Lelia joined her.

“T promised,” said the countess, ‘‘that I would ask
you to go with Lawrence fishing. Three or four
more are going up the glen.”

“I would rather not go,” said Lelia, hurriedly.

“Lelia,” said Beryl, sitting down in an arbor, “I
think you avoid Lawrence.”

“Yes, I do,” said Lelia, honestly.

“Is that kind?” asked Beryl.

“It is right,” said Lelia.

“He is one of the best fellows in the world,” said
Beryl.

“Yes,” said Lelia.

“And with his prospects and abilities, you could
hardly hope for a better match, dear Lelia. |
think——”

“Please don’t say what you think,” cried Lelia.
am not thinking of any match.
held by a promise; I am bound.”

“But you told me you had never had a lover.”

“T never had. Love was left out of my life, but
marriage was not. Dear Lady Beryl, you will think
& ere been very deceitful to you, but—I am mar-
ried.

“Lelia! And does Dr. Marvel know ?’

“Yes; and the marquis knows. I told him that
night you found me inthe library. I thought his
secretary paid me attention, and I felt my position
was wrong, and I went and asked the marquis to let
me go away. -I told him I was married, and my hus-
band had left me. I did not tell my married name;
he said I need not, Only Dr. Marvel and his wife
know it. The marquis would notletme go away;
he said that Lawrence was not likely to trouble me.
But I think of him, and—I must go away, unless you
you will let him know how I am set apart from
others, and cannot care for other people—in that
way.

“Lelia, do you love your husband ?”’

“No. I thought I did, perhaps, once; and when, as
he will, he finally comes for me, I shall go to him.
But when a man has only given one neglect and
scorn, few can love on, and on, after that.”

“You must be very unhappy, dear Lelia.”

“No; I try to live for other people, and to improve
myself.”

Beryl] turned and kissed her.

“JT will go with Lawrence to-day.”

So Beryl went. And, alone by that trout stream,
she told Lawrence that the Lelia he loved belonged
to another, neglectful of that treasure which Law-
rence coveted.

“T will go on loving her,” said Lawrence, with con-
viction; “if I may not asa lover, then I will as a
brother; but I will love no one else—never, no,
never!”

*

oy
I never can; I am

* * * * * *

It was in October that the marquis called Beryl
aside one morning after breakfast, and said:

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.

 

 

“The doctor requests that you will not go to his
house until you hear from him. Mrs. Marvel is ill,
and he fears a contagious fever.”

At this instant Lelia, who had been for bread for
the gold-fish and pheasants, came back, and Beryl,
pale with dismay, told the news.

: aoe you will allow me to go at once to her,” said
elia.

“The doctor did not send for you,” said the mar-
quis.

“You may take the fever,” cried Beryl.

“That makes no difference; I would go and nurse
her if my life were the price. “She is my best friend.
But for her I should not now be living. All I am, all
IT may ever be, I owe to Anne Marvel. My life is hers
if she needs it.”

“You are right,” said the marquis.
friend.”

“Yes,” said Beryl, ‘‘go, Lelia. No one else can
ae her as well as you. You may save her precious
ife.

“The carriage shall be ready for you in half an
hour,” said the marquis. “Send to usfor anything
and everything that can do-the least good. A groom
shall go over for news every day.”

“Go to your

THE WOMAN TURNED A FACE OF TERROR, AND
STARTED, AS IF TO RISE AND FLEE.

The next day, and the next, Fanny, while dressing
her lady, spoke of little else but the fever that had
broken out in the village and farms. This one was
taken, this one was dead, another dying, another had
fled away for fear; there a whole family was down.

The marquis gave the housekeeper orders to have
broth, bread, jellies, clothing ready for all demands;
and wrote Dr. Marvel to draw freely on the resources
of the castle for his patients.

This hovering shadow of death woke new thoughts
in Beryl. She felt herself so lonely and useless in the
world; she longed to do some good, to be really help-
ful and necessary to some one. She envied Lelia, so
skillfully nursing her friend.

Beryl was morbid about her past. She exagger-
ated all that she had done wrong. She felt that she
was useless. She longed by some sacrifice to atone
for all the evilshe had wrought. She thought of
many good women who had devoted their cares to
the sick and poor, and she resolved, in this crisis, to
follow their example. She knew her husband would
forbid it. She knew that Fanny, if she found it out,
would appeal to the marquis; but Beryl had not yet
learned the dangers of self-will. She was carried
away by her impulses. She went to the housekeeper,
asking what articles were to be distributed among
the sick.

Mrs. Dalton showed her a large supply, saying that
the marquis had ordered her to give liberally to all
in need.

Beryl requested the key of the store-room.

“T may want to help myself here, Mrs. Dalton.”

Mrs. Dalton gave her the key, but said, anxiously:

“My lady, you'll) never think of going among the
sick folk yourself? It’s the older, experienced, and
stronger must do that.”

“Why, Mrs. Dalton,” said Beryl, .evasively, ‘‘you
do not think an idle butterfly, such’ ‘as I am, wi run
in any danger?”

But daily, while Fanny thomght her with her
guests, and the marquis believed her to be in her
boudoir, the little countess was going about arhong
| the sick cottagers.

“What, is your Aunt Nora ill?” she said one day to
a cottager, whose family had thus far escaped.

‘Yes, my lady. She got home at dawn, just crawl-
ing, from Kate Jay, a lone creature in a thatched
cottage at the end of thelane. Kate Jay is all alone,
and terribly ill.”

“T will try and find a nurse for her,” said Beryl,
and at once set off to see this Kate Jay.

She found, tossing and delirious from fever, the un-
happy lace-maker whose pitiful story she had heard
in the wood.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“I DID IT—MINE WAS THE HAND!”

Kate Jay was not only very ill, but she was the
most forlorn of all Beryl’s invalids, because she was
absolutely without family or friends, and when she
was taken ill she had refused to have the doctor sum-
moned, saying she had a specific of her own bet-
ter than all his medicine. It was only when she be-
came delirious from fever that a neighbor had been
able to stay and nurse her; that neighbor was now
ill, and Beryl’s utmost efforts could only secure a
totally deaf old dame, so few nurses were lcft in the
district. Berylhad no idea that a doctor was not in
attendance. The old dame was a good nurse in her
way, and Beryl wrote on a slate certain directions
she had gathered from a book of Miss Nightingale’s.
She reproached herself for having neglected this
unhappy Kate, and determined to see her every day.

Her ministrations to the sick she had concealed
from Fanny, who would have hindered them by ap-
peal to the marquis.

But Beryl had never had better health than since
she began to interest herself actively in other people.
These poor folks loved her, watched for her, wel-
comed her. This wasa balm to her wounded spirit.

She went to Kate Jay’s again in a day or two; and,
as she entered, the old woman, in her harsh, hurried
voice, explained that she must run home for another
cap, gown, and apron. She would go while madam
was there, and be back in ten minutes.

Beryl was left alone in the little cottage with the
emaciatedsick woman, her hair straying wildly from

THE MARQUIS HEARD A SCREAM, AND SAW LELIA
HOLDING THE GOLD CHAIN AND MEDALLION,

her cap, her hands tossing aimlessly about the dis-
turbed bed-covers. Windows and doors were open,
and the pipe of quail, and plover, and lark came in
on the mellow, fruity autumn air.

Beryl stood, her hands clasped before her, like a
half-frightened child. What should she do if her pa-
tient became very frenzied? Asif responsive to her
fears, the poor creature sat up in bed, flung out her
arms, and shrieked :

“Robbed! What, all gone—and I sold my soul to
get it ?’’ she sobbed for a few minutes, and then cried
out:
“You would not doit! You were afraid! You left
it allto me! It was for you, for you; and now you
have robbed me! You mademe your tool! Oh,a
curse be on you! Where are the jewels? Oh, yes,
there are a good many jewels. Poor fool! she loved
them, she was not used to fine things. They are not
family jewels; they are not marked. It will be safe
enough to take them.”

“Oh, horrible! horrible!” said the trembling Beryl.
“Is this dreadful creature a thief? Has she robbed

 

 

 

 

 

oe 2 |
as well as been robbed? Is that why she has hidden

away so?’

Terrified, not at the fever, but at the crime, she
turned to run out into the blessed sunshine; but her
motion caught the eye of the maniac.

“Come back! Is that you! What do you run for?
Give me your hand, that I may feel you living. Ha,
ha! I thought you dead!’ I saw your ghost! Wretch!
how dare you hauntme? You are nota ghost; you
are alive; you are red, not white; and you wear
clothes, not a wilding-sheet.”

“Hush, hush!’ implored Beryl], standing quivering
with fear on the threshold. ‘Don’t go on so, poor
woman. No one is dead. Iam alive; so is every-
— Do be quiet. Lie down, please. No one 18

ead.”’

“No one is dead!” cried the woman, in ecstasy.
No one! Why,I thought you were! Oh, horrors!
I thought—I—but there—you are alive. Ill go to
sleep.”

She fell back on her pillow and almost instantly
fell asleep.

Taking herself to task for her fears, Beryl ventured
to wet a handkerchief in cologne and lay it on the
patient’s head. Then she moistened the burning lips
im wine and water.

The old nurse came back.

“Ah, she sleeps! You are like an angel, my lady,
bringing calm. This will do her worlds of good.”

But for two days Beryl could not get over the ter-
rible impression of that frenzy. She could not bring
herself to return to the cottage. Then, blaming her-
self for weakness, and for selfishness to one so pitia-
ble, she returned.

The muttering of the sick woman met her ear as
she neared the door. She entered.

The old nurse, overcome with weariness, lay ina
corner, a pillow under her head, in a sleep that
seemed profound as death.

Kate Jay was sitting up in bed, her glittering eyes
searching the low walls and ceiling, her hands reach-
ing forth in fruitless clutching.

“Ah, there you are! I see you glittering!
shine out through the chinks, behind the tiles!
here!”

“What do you want, Kate?” demanded Beryl des-
perately, as she stood in the door-way.

“Why, I wantsome things I hid. I shall die unless

You
Come

|ITeount them all, to see no one has found them.
| Pull out that blue tile and give me what’s behind.”

To satisfy the patient, Lady Medford pulled the
tile out, and there was a watch and chain.
Mechanically she handed it to Kate.

“Lift up the corner hearth brick, quick! Give me

| the things—quick, now !”

Again Beryl did as she was bid, and as many as a
dozen rings lay exposed, and were given to Kate.

“Get upon the chair,” cried Kate, all afire; ‘‘run
your hand in the thatch and bring them out.”

Two necklaces and some ear-rings responded toher
search this time.

Still Kate’s burning, bony hands pointed here and
there, and her imperative voice directed the search;
and the deaf nurse slept on. ;

Beryl, as if bound by a spell, in terror, did the poor
creature’s bidding, until, piled on the counterpane
under the clutching hands, lay a glittering heap of
jewelry, none of it very rich, but yet pretty and
tasteful. A set of Geneva filigree, a set of amethysts
inlaid with silver, cameos, coral, amber sets; curious
enough to see in that humble cabin, on that dis-
ordered sick-hed.

Kate, with the strength of fever, turned about and
crowded the treasure under the mattress on which
she lay. Then, exhausted by her effort, she fell back;
and Beryl, taking from her basket the lemons and
grapes she had brought, was about to escape, when
the closed, burning eyes flew open, and the shrill
voice cried:

“Who says I’m Sara Hunter? Who does?” :

That name Sara Hunter seemed to strike through
Beryl’s soul. She could not remember where she had
heard or seen it; butit was connected in her mind
with some awful horror.

“Sara Hunter!’ she said, trembling.

“Don’t say it,” gasped the woman, trying to lift
herself, but too weak to do so; her fitful power ex-
hausted. “If you say Sara Hunter they may hang
me. But no, they can’t, as you’re not dead. Dll give
you back your jewels if you want them. The money

‘“WRETCH! HOW DARE YOU HAUNT ME!”

—the note for a thousand pounds—was stolen from
me. Ha! I took it out of your dead hand; there was
a drop, one drop, of blood on it; but he won’t care for
that, nor forme. Oh, how you fell, all in one terrible
heap! And the blood—how red your blood was, you
country girl! it ran all in a pool—only I did not stop
long to see. And oh, the fools! They said he did it,
your husband, Jerome Sothern; and they never
thought of me!”

Beryl flung her arms over her head, with a wild
ery. She dashed ina frenzy out.of the door, and by
the mercy of Heaven rushed straight into the arms of
the faithful Fanny !

Fanny had heard tales lately of her lady’s benevo-
lence, that had served to set herin pursuit. She had
followed her up, and reached her at this very ter-
rible and critical moment.

Beryl, her agony of horror passed, felt that some
other should hear that awful confession. wrenched
by remorse from those fevered lips. She clung to the
remonstrating Fanny.

“Hush, Fanny! don’t think of me. This woman,
ealled Kate Jay, is really Sara Hunter, who was poor
Mrs. Jerome Sothron’s maid, and murdered her. She
has just confessed it! And poor Jerome lies under
that awful shame! Come, come, Fanny—come, hear
for yourself. You, too, must be able to testify that
Sir Jerome died an innocent and a shamefully
maligned man !””

She dragged Fanny into the cottage. Sherushed to
the bed.

“Speak! are you Sarah Hunter?’

“Hush! Hush! Never tellit! Oh, Iam! Tam!”

“And you, you, YOU killed Mrs. Sothern!”

“With the little dagger! Yes! I came out of the
bedroom door, with the little dagger she got at his
chambers in the Albany one day. I went up behind
her as she stood on the hearth-rug, and I drove that
dagger in, just where one day I heard the doctor de-
scribe caused instant death. I drove itin; and they
said he did it—Sir Jerome! Oh, the fools, the fools!”

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]

Words of Wisdom.

THE road to home happiness lies over small step-
ping-stones. Some men are at home everywhere;
others are at home nowhere. He is happiest who
finds peace in his home. The first indication of do-
mestic happiness is the iove of one’s home. Some
persons can be everywhere at home; others can sit
musingly at home and be everywhere.

THE silent pressure of the hand is often of more
vital good than a whole volume of good counsel; and
one tear, one kiss, one bright, encouraging smile, can
help the broken heart, the sinking spirit, where
words of advice would fall unheeded, or be an aggra-
vation to present pain.

FORBIDDEN pleasures do not yield a moiety of the
gratification that comes from those that are lawful
and permissible.

THE spirit of conciliation puts peace, love, and
harmony far above trifles; it buries petty selfishness,
it inflicts no unnecessary wounds, it lends a courtesy
and grace to actions, a charm to presence, a dignity
to character, and a never-failing spring of happiness
to life,

THE wise and active conquer difficulties, by daring
te attempt them; sloth and folly shiver and shrink
at sight of toil and hazard, and make the impossi-
bility they fear.

A GooD man is the best friend, and therefore is
first to be chosen, longest to be retained, and, indeed,
never to be parted with, unless he ceases to he that
for which he was chosen.

PLEASURE is the flower that fades; remembrance
is the lasting perfume.

Goop brains are often kept in a poor-looking
vessel.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

MY SOLDIER’S GRAVE.
BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

You decorate with sweetest flowers
The graves of all your dead ;

You water with the tenderest tears
Each hero’s lowly bed.

So I, too, search both far and near
For blossoms bright and fair,

With which to deck my soldier’s grave,
The object of my care.

You strew your gifts on grassy mounds,
On green and sunny slopes ;

I scatter balmy flowers above
The grave of all his hopes !

For though he breathes the breath of life,
With soul subdued and calm,

He bartered health and strength, and lost
In war his strong right arm.

When he returned, alas! he found
His friends (?) had passed away—

All but one true and faithful heart,
And that is his to-day.

Daily I strew the flowers of love,
And faith, and hope, and cheer,
About my soldier’s living grave,
Bedewed by many a tear.
or
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM ]

A Wall Street Haul.

By the Author of ‘‘The Old Detective's Pupil.”

(“A WALL STREET HAUL” was commenced in No. 19.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XLIII.—(CONTINUED.)}

The concierge greeted him with a suppressed smile
that enlightened Nick at once.

‘He thinks I was brought home drunk. Good! We
will letit go at that. Concierge,” he said, aloud,
“did you see me come home ?”’

‘““Yes, monsieur.”

Nick slipped a five-frane piece in his hand, and
said, in a knowing way:

“Tf an old gentleman, looking something like me,
should come around asking questions about me, what
will you say ?”’

The concierge grinned.

“JT shall say that monsieur comes in always at
eight o’clock and reads until ten, when he retires.”

“Good! You are a discreet concierge. Now tell
me when I did come home, for, bless me, if I know.”

The concierge laughed outright.

“Monsieur was brought in.”

“By whom ?’

“By a gentleman—a foreigner, I guess.”

“At what time ?’

“About midnight.”

“Was I very—ah, very ‘how come you so” ”

“Parbleu!” laughed the concierge. ‘I never saw
@ worse case.”

“What kind of looking man brought me ?”’

The concierge described as well as he could, and
Nick knew at once that Hossick had been his com-
panion. :

“Well,” thought Nick, as he walked away, ‘‘they
have given me the worst set back ever I had, but if I
find Ethel all right I will forgive thein.”

He stopped at a drug storeand tooka dose of ¢a-
feine, and then ate some breakfast.

His movements now were very rapid, and made
without care as to whether any body was watching
him or not.

He did not believe anybody was.

The most probable thing was that he had been
drugged so that he would not recover consciousness
until they had made good their escape.

However, he went directly to Grace’s hotel.

Mademoiselle Eldredge, he was intormed, had re-
ceived bad news from America, and had returned
there by the Havre steamer of yesterday.

He went to Wilshaw’s. That gentleman had given
up his lodgings, and gone it was not known whither.

His next inquiry was at Baron d’Orment’s.”

Yes, the baron was at home, but he was at break-
fast, and he could not be disturbed.

“Send for Monsieur Bailie then.”

Monsieur Bailie presented himself.

“T wish to see monsieur the baron.”

“Impossible now. Two hours hence it may be.”

“Tell him a messenger from Mademoiselle Eldredge
wishes to see him.”

Ah rr

For some reason the good Bailie smiled and looked
hopeful.

The baron has made the deal, and he does not know
Grace is gone,” thought Nick.

Monsieur Bailie went away, and came back more
smiling than ever.

“Will monsieur be good enough to excuse monsieur
the baron’s neglige, and come with me.”

Nick bowed and followed.

The baron was in a beautiful little breakfast-room,
lounging, half-dressed, over his meal.

A smile of expectation was on his face, but when
- saw Raoul d’Entraigues a scowl] quickly took its
place.

“You said,” he began, with a howl at the poor Mon-
sieur Bailie.

But Nick cut him short by unceremoniously wheel-
ing the major domo around, and thrusting him out
at the door.

“What I have to say to you must be private,” he
said to the baron. :

For a moment a scowl, half-fierce, half-fearful, dis-
torted the baron’s face, but the next instant an inso-
lent smile of triumph curled his lips.

“Am I right in supposing that Mademoiselle El-
dredge has promised to be your wife ?”’ asked Nick,

“Aha! You know it then.”

The baron was malignant in his glee; but Nick
Fem sorry for him, though he would still have to use

im.

“Yes, I know it; but did you know that she had
gone to America ?’

a is a lie!” yelled the baron, springing up in his
chair.

“It is not, and what is more, you half believe me.
But convince yourself. Send to her hotel.”

“JT will not,” said the baron, hoarsely. ‘You area
disappointed rival.”

Yes, I am.”

“Ah! I knew it.”

“But itis not you who have disappointed me.
have both been played with.
of Wilshaw.”

“What ?’

The wild howl emitted by the baron proved that
the story already told him by his valet made the story
now so gloomily told by Nick seem credible.

“Do not take my word; send your major-domo to
the hotel.”

Without waiting for the speechless baron’s permis-
sion, Nick opened the door and called:

“Bailie! Come quickly !”’

The major-domo, in great consternation, came and
stared from one to the other.

‘Go to Mademoiselle Eldredge’s hotel and inquire
about her. Go as if you had wings!”

Bailie looked at his master.

“Go!” said the baron, hoarsely.

For a while nothing was said, Nick pacing the room
with a dark, stern frown on his face, and the baron
with white face watching him.

Suddenly Nick stopped in his walk, and clenching
both fists, shook them, and cried:

“Duped! betrayed! robbed!”

He stopped, choked, and again paced rapidly up
and down.

The baron gazed at him in alarm, and cowered with
apprehension as Nick, with blazing eyes, turned sud-
denly on him, and hissed :

“Did you hear? Robbed! They stole your money,
but they carry my honor away—the honor of a D’En-
traigues! And shall they laugh together over it?
Shall they ?—say ?”

The baron stared in stupefied silence.

The anger of a man he had seen so quietly and
quickly conquer two men thirsting for his blood,
frightened him.

“Do you know how they have played with you?”
went on Nick, as if carried away by his passion.
“Do you know that your very valet was a creature of
theirs ?’

“Philippe ?””

“Philippe! The Philippe who was in the Duke of
Roqueambot’s service left him not for you, but to go
to Marseilles. Send to Marseilles, and see if he was
not there night before last, and since.”

The baron began to feel the sting of having been a
dupe.

“Let them beware!” he howled.

“Beware? Andof what? Whatcan youdo? They
have your fifteen million francs, and they can laugh.”

“But I have their securities.”

“And have you mademoiselle? Did you not love
her, perchance ?”’

“T worshiped her!”

“And you can be satisfied to have him laugh at you
because you have the equivalent of your money ?”’

“Let him beware !”

We
She is already the wife

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

“Beware! Bah! Whatcanyoudo? Child! Fool!”

“What can you do, then?”

**T can drink his blood!”

The baron shuddered.

“And why,” went on Nick, “do you suppose I come
to you? For sympathy?
you would have enjoyed mine?

help me and share with me revenge.”

“What can we do?”

The baron was eager.

“This. Those securities you hold are stolen, and
ean never be used by you. They knew this, but they
knew you would never dare to accuse them.”

The baron started.

“Do not fear me,” said Nick, vehemently, ‘‘I harm
only those who wrong me. I do not propose any-
thing yet. You must first learn that I speak the
truth. Then we can together do this. You shall
keep quiet, while I discover from whom the bonds
were stolen. Then I will entrap Wilshaw so that the
law can take him and imprison him.

T hate her now.
men.

divorced from his wife, I shall go to his cell and tell
him how I have paid him.
tifteen millions, but they are lostanyhow.”

*T do not care for the millions.
they are gone. Will you swear not to seek her after
she is free, if [join you?”

“A gentleman does not swear, he gives his word.
T pledge you mine, that if she begged me on her
knees, I would not marry her. Hereis Bailie. Well,
what news?”

“Mademoiselle has gone to America.
from home made her go suddenly.”

“Are you yet satisfied, monsieur the baron?” de-
manded Nick, ‘‘or must more be done ?”’

*T am satisfied. I will join you.”

“Good! Waitforme then. Imust go at once to

Bad news

London, but I will return ina day, and then we can |

”

plan.” *

CHAPTER XLIV.
DECOYED AWAY.

Nick had no hesitation in leaving the baron, for he |

knew that any inquiries he might make would only
confirm his belief in Grace’s treachery.

But under any circumstances he must set his mind
at rest in regard to Ethel.

Until now he had resolutely put thoughts of her
out of his mind, for he could not have taken an ear-
lier train.

But now that he took the matter under considera-

tion, he was oppressed. by the dreadful conclusions
he was forced into.

Wilshaw must feel secure or he would never have
dared, even for Grace’s sake, to spare his life and re-
turn to New York.

How could he feel secure ?

Only by knowing that those three women in Lon-
don could not be brought to witness against him.

A cold-blooded attempt had once been made to kill
them; why not again ?

And with Nick not near to save them, why should
not the attempt be successful?

Then another thought came to Nick, and the more
he dwelt on it the more likely it seemed.

These men were familiar with London, and could
there take human life with comparative safety; while
in Paris, where the police system was so therough,
they, being strangers, would: have more difficulty in
escaping.

Grace might, indeed, have stipulated for his life,
for Nick did not believe she would be guilty of mur-
der; butif the men had dared, they would have de-
ceived her and killed him.

The poisoning of three unknown women, strangers,
was one thing; but to poison a man known as the
savior of Grace’s life, and seen in her company, was
a much more risky matter.

Might it not be that they counted on his going to
London, and that Hossick, who certainly had not

taken the steamer for America, would be in readiness |

in London to decoy him to his destruction ?
Well, they would see if it could be done as easily as
planned.

Full of such thoughts, Nick traveled to London, and |

reached there that night.

With a heart full of foreboding, he hurried to the
house to which he had sent Ethel, and tremblingly
asked for her.

She and the two other ladies had gone out together
in the morning, and, to the landlady’s uneasiness,
had not returned yet.

Didn’t she know anything about why they had
gone out?

No.

os had heard any intimation as to where ?

AO.
know which—had said to the others, ““We ought to be
exactly on time.”

Nothing else ?

No.

“Hossick has come to London and has used my
name as a decoy,” said Nick, as he slowly went into
the stxeet.

He was going to seek the
started, he was conscious of being followed.

He must shadow this shadow. It might lead to
results.

He started on briskly, and at the first opportunity
dodged into shelter and waited.

The man soon darted past, and Nick could tell, even
in the darkness, that his shadow was the very man
he sought—Captain Randone.

He sped after him and luid his hand on his shoulder,
saying:

“Captain, you need go no farther.”

“Ah! You have come at last, then?’’ eried the
captain, with such emotion that Nick’s heart sank
with fear.

“Whatis wrong? Where is my wife?”

“First let me look well at you,” answered the cap-
tain, mournfully, as he drew Nick under a lamp.”

“There is no mistake, captain. It is I, Nick Carter.
Tell me, I beg of you, what has happened ?”

“Alas! IT know too little for one who should have
been a safe guardian for them, but I hope it may be
enough to answer your purpose. Did you send a
telegram yesterday ?”’

“NO”

“T suspected as much whenit was too late. One
came from Paris to your wife. It was regular, as if
from yon, and said: ‘Work successfully done here.
Will be in London to-morrow. Meet Geo. Ward—your
character when you came aboard my steamer you
know—at St. Paul’s gate at exactly 10 A.M. to-mor-
row. Follow him at short distance. Will explain
when we are in the right place.” :

“I comprehend,” said Nick, and you all went?”

“Every one of us, without a suspicion. Geo. Ward,
just as you looked it, stood waiting as we came up,
and, on seeing us, made a signal of greeting and led
the way.”

“You did not speak to him ?”

“No; but after we had gone ashort distance he
beckoned to me. I hurried up, and he whispered
that a man was following; for me to shadow him.”

Nick groaned.

“IT know LI was a fool. Well, I left the party. The
man seemed to see me, and soon ceased to follow. I
kept him in sight for a while, and then it seemed to
me that he was trying to get rid of me. All at onceit
struck me that I had been led away from the ladies,
and then it came over me that the man personating
you did not seem quite familiar. Somehow I knew
then that I had been duped.”

The captain was so utterly wretched that Nick en-
deayored to encourage him by saying:

“All may not be lost yet. You did the best you
eould, anyhow.”

“It was a poor best. Well, then, when I came to
that conclusion I tried to do what I could to recover
lost ground, and pretended to lose my man. I kept
him in sight, however; and when he thought he had
meee me he started off at around pace that told
me he was bound for a certain destination.”

Nick understood that what the captain considered
his shrewdness was only a further falling into a well-
laid trap. He said nothing, however, and the cap-
tain went on:

“Twas right foronce. The man hurried on, and
leading me into the worst neighborhood I ever saw,
entered a grog shop, and I saw no more of him.” —

“And then?”

“Then f did not know what to do. I watched the
place for an hour or more, and bethought me of tele-
graphing to you. Idid so; but I suppose you were

“on your way here by that time.”

ae Von.??

“Then I made inquiries about the house, and found
if was the resort of London’s worst ruffians. I
watched all the afternoon, and this evening, hoping
you might have received my telegramin time, I went
back to the house where I saw you, but was not sure
of you until you spoke. Can you save them?”

*“T[ hope so. At any rate I shall try.”

“When ?”

“Now.”’

“Come, then, I will guide you, and, if need, will die
for those I so poorly guarded.” :

“TI believe you, captain,” said Nick, taking his
hand. “And do not reproach yourself too much.
You have had to deal with scoundrels who, I believe,
have not their equals for cunning. But let us be
going.” . :

Nick was as familiar with London as he was with
all the great cities of Europe, and he knew at once
when the captain drew near his destination, just
what sort of neighborhood it was.

London had no worse.

CHAPTER XLV
“THE TRAP.

Nick made a quick but careful survey of the house,
and then leading the captain away a short distance,
said to him: his

“My friend, I feel very sure that my wife
house. . At any rate, I am going to see,”*

“You will let me go with you?” |

“No; you must stay outside. Give me two hours;
df I do not come out then, inform the police that la-
dies have been decoyed there. Do not tell of my

is in that

To enjoy your chagrin as |
Tcome to ask you, |
when you are satified that you have been tricked, to |

 

 

part, unless you find afterward that Iam dead. In
that case, do what you think best.”

“But if there is danger of death, why not ask aid of
the police ?”’

“You do not understand theae things. I must work
alone. I know this—I am expected there to-night, and

victorious here, I shall have won my case. The men
interested know it as wellas I. On the issue of to-
night depends my success or theirs. Good-by. Thank
you for what you have done. Two hours.”

*T shall never see him again alive!” muttered the
saptain, huskily.

Nick did not go to the house.

He strode rapidly off into another part of the city.

He was certain that he had been shadowed, though
he had not been able to discover the man—a proof
that the shadow was an expert.

“Well,” thought Nick, ‘he will need to be a good

 

After that you |
may make what terms you will with the Americaine. |
But I do not war on women, I fight |
And when I see Wilshaw thrust in jail, and by |
that act, according to the law of the United States, |

It will have cost you |

I shall never know |

| My eye, but ye’r handy with yer fins.
| as a stiff.”

one to keep on me when I want to shake him.”

And, in fact, he was following his shadow ere very
long. He only followed him long enough to discover
that Hossick was the man.

it will be a wonder if I come out safe; but if Iam}

 

“They are in dead earnest,” thought Nick, ‘‘when |

Hossick does the shadowing. I am certain that it is
fixed that all obstacles shall to-night be swept from
their path. Well, you hold my wife, and have a big
advantage, but I shall fight hard.”

Having thrown Hossick off the scent, Nick hastened
to a second-hand clothing store, and bought a suit,
in which he rigged himself at once.

A frieze cap, a gaudy handkerchief tie, and a short
pipe, together with a few touches to his face, made
him a fine type of a London rough.

He now turned his steps toward the house the cap-
tain had pointed out, and was not far from it when
an incident occurred which, with his quick wit, he
took advantage of.

Three men were engaged in a furious struggle, evi-
dently two against one.

As Nick drew near he caught the flash of steel:

by the other.

sent headlong into the middle of the street.

Then a quick blow felled his comrade, and the man
who had been so near to death was free.

“You wuz jest in time, old man,”’ he said to Nick.
“T thought it wuz all hup with me.”

“Right you are, cully,” answered Nick. ‘So let’s
have a drop o’ summat to the same luck always.”

“Tm with yer; but hol’ on till I skin the bloke.
He’s straight

Nick waited coolly enough while the man searched
the other.

“Hope I may die if he’s wuth a bob!” was the dis-
appointed comment, as the ruffian joined Nick.

“What was the row?”

“Oh, nothin’. I wuz a comin’ along, I wuz, an’ his
nibs gives me the helbow gentle. I gives him the
knocker on the shin, an’ he ups an’ let me ’ave it, he
duz. I wuz a-givin’ of it to ’im back, an’ his pal outs
with his sticker. Then you comes along an’ nea ‘em
up brown, an’ I’m yer sarvent, Iam. Wot’s yer lay ?”

‘Second stories.”

“No! Are ye, though?’ in a tone of great re-
spect.

“Yes, what’s your lay?”

“Oh, most hanythink,” said the fellow, diffidently ;
“put I’ave helped in a bank job.”

‘You'll come along some day,” said Nick, eneourag-
ingly. ’Ere we are.” ’

It was the grog-shop pointed out by the captain.

“Oh! Jake’s,” said the man.

“Jake,” thought Nick, immediately.
the name of the bartender in New York.”

The place was larger than seemed possible from the
outside, and was full of as rough characters as could
well be brought together.”

The room was thick with rank smoke and fetid with
heated filth.

The tables were arranged along each side of the
room and down the middle.

They wént tothe bar—Jake was there, the same
Jake, and Nick was reassured—and ordering their
liquor looked for a table.

By design Nick selected one near a side door.

As they went through the room Nick was pleased
to notice that many ofthe ruffians there knew his
companion.

Hossick he did not see, though he looked for him
to be there in some disguise.

Though seemingly careless, he was cognizant of
the important fact that several men were furtively
making inquiries about him.

If he could judge by their manner they were satis-
fied when told, as they apparently were, that his
companion’s standing in that sort of society was
good enough or bad enough to pass him.

“That was

 

All she knew was that one of them—she didn’t | _
ae aes ee cue OF abe eet | with a glance at each other watched the deor.
|

captain now, but as he |

After inquiring they relapsed into silence, and

Presently a tattered, blowsy looking ruftian en-
tered the door. ;

The several men exchanged glances and half
smiles.

Nick recognized Hossick.

What plan the latter might have in view Nick did
not wait to discover, for an opportunity came up a
ee later to enable him to carry out his own
plan.

The two men with whom his companion had had
his encounter came in and sat down not far from the
bar.

The fellow’s back was teward the door, and con-
sequently he could not see who had come in.

Nick had spilled all his liquor on the floor. He said
to his companion :

“Come, old man, don’t be dainty ; no heel-taps, you
know. Down with it, and go getsome more. Whisky
straight for me.”

“Here's toward ye,’ said the fellow, swallowing
his liquor, and with a smiling face starting for more.

As foreseen by Nick, he had hardly reached the
bar when his two assailants recognized him.

In an instant they were up and at him, and like a
flash the whole room was in an uproar.

With a quick glance around Nick slipped to the
door, and quickly opening it, was out without being
observed.

“Now,” he thought, ‘“‘to explore the whole house.”

He started up the rickety stairs, dimly visible by
means of an oil lamp sputtering in the hall.

At the head of the stairs he could see nothing,
and, much against his will, was obliged to use his
dark lantern.

He did it cautiously, and saw that there were two
front rooms, one inside room, and two back ones.

He tried the front rooms first, then the inside one,
and last the back rooms.

They all opened readily, but disclosed nothing to
Nick’s anxious search, excepting a large closet in
one of the back rooms which was locked.

“Itseems a waste of time,” he thought, “but Tl’
open it.”

He drew out his picklock and began work on it.

As he did so he was certain he heard mufiied sounds
from within.

Quietly, but with dispatch, he shot back the’bolt,
and, opening the door, threw the light of his lantern
inside.

“Great heavens !”

He sprang inside and lifted a woman’s form off the
floor. He saw she was bound hand and foot, and
gagged. He looked at the face.

“Mattie Hooper!”

Another form.

“Belle Hossic !’”’

And there—there was Ethel!

“My darling! You live!’

With a trembling hand he eut her bonds and those
of the other women, and then, taking her in his arms,
pressed her to him, saying:

“Speak to me, Ethel.”

“Oh, Nick!” she whispered, faintly.

“S-sh !”

Click!

The warning and the sudden shutting of the door
came together, and a low laugh told Nick that he had
deliberately walked into the trap. 5

He was prepared for that, however, and with
another warning hush listened.

For a few minutes nothing could be heard; then,
with a sharp ery from the three women, and an ‘‘ah!”
of apprehension trom Nick, they feit the floor sink-
ing under them.

It went with unsteady jerks, but kept going down
and down what seemed an interminable distance.

Suddenly it stopped, and they could feel a rush of
cold, damp air upon them.

Nick was about to feelin front.of him to discover.
where they were, when a sudden flash of light par-
tially idumined the place, and he could see a large
cellar with a number of masked men grouped in the
center in front of them. ‘

‘Death to fly cops, spies, and traitors!” cried a
ringing voice, and, as if at a signal, a score of re-
volvers were leveled at the little group, and Nick,
seeing the end not far off, pressed Ethel to his heart.

“Fire!” rang out the stern command.

“T know——”

CHAPTER XLVI.
“YOU'VE LAID ME OUT.”

“Hold on, boys !”

A man with upraised hand sprang from the group
only just in time to stop the fingers trembling on the
triggers.

Even at that terrible moment Nick recognized the
voice as that of the man he had shortly before res-
cued in the street.

A thrill of hope animated him. ‘

“Fire, I say!” came the counter command, angrily.

“That’s Hossick,” whispered Nick tg Belle.

“Hossick !””

Anger at the man gave the previously
woman a sort of tigress-like courage.

“Fire, an’’ ave the cops down on us!”
man. ;

“Ay!” eried Belle, fiercely springing forward.
“And what else does Dan Hossick want? What else
does Coppy Griggs, of Scotland Yard, want? There
heis! There y

A flash, @ puff, a crack.

The woman’s hand flew to her breast, a gush of
‘crimson blood stained ber mouth.

She wavered, gasped, sank to the ground.

cowering

eried the

 

 

It was allso quickly done nobody could interfere or
seem to know what to do.

She made a last hideous effort to speak, and, in |

half-strangled words, exclaimed ;
“He hung Conkey Mike.”
She was dead.
A grim, ominous silence, an indecisive wavering in

| the crowd.

They had forgotten the little group at the end of
the room.

Hossick had worked his
crowd.

“Dan Hossick’s getting away,” cried Nick.

vay to the edge of the

A yell broke from out of the mass of men, and a |}

moment later Hossick was confronted by a burly

| figure brandishing a gleaming knife.

“The gal’s right,” he yelled. “Blood for blood, Dan
Hossick.”’

The men closed, and for a while there was a con-
fused mass of men struggling to see the two men
striving to murder each other.

“Ethel, Mattie, come!’? whispered Nick.

He could see no means of exit, but knew there must
be one, and surmised it was toward the other end of
the cellar.

Hugging the wall, he moved rapidly that
lowed by the terror-stricken women.

“Right hand end. Follow the halley an’ hup the
stairs.”

The grateful ruffian had been watching him, and
whispered the direction to him as he passed.

Hurrying rapidly, Nick found the alley and the
stairs, and, without further trouble, reached a door
which led to the hall-way above.

To get out into the open air was then but a mo-
ment’s work.

Aman from
them.

Take the ladies, captain, and go home with them.

yay, fol-

across the street hastened toward

| Pll join you later.”

In asecond he was on the spot,and caught the |
wrist of the man holding the knife just as he was |
about to bury it in the body of the man firnily held |

In another moment the man was whirled about and |

“Oh, Nick !”

“T must, Ethel. There’s almost no danger.
them, captain. Go, darling, [I beg of you.”

She let herself be led away, while Nick, without
the loss of a moment, returned to the house and down
into the cellar.

He had seen Hossick twice involuntarily feel of his

Take

|} breast, and he felt certain that something of impor-

 

tance was concealed there.

To get that, he proposed to brave the consequences
of a return to that den of wild beasts.

It was not as rash an act as it seemed, however.

The brute natures of such men as were there were
easily aroused by such a fight as was going on, and
they would be heedless of everything else while it
lasted.

It was still going on when he returned, only, as he
peered into the cellar he could make out that two
men were making a desperate fight against the
crowd.

There was no chance for the two, and they knew it,
but they fought as at such times even cowards will
fight, with reckless courage.

Yells of pain, howls of rage, oaths and imprecations
mingled together in a hideous din.

Now the two men were separated, now they came
together.

Hoosick and Jake,

They were beaten to the floor—they rose again.
Down and up.

They fought like fiends.

They broke and ran, or, rather, staggered blindly
for the door. They could not see for the streaming
blood that blinded them.

“T can’t stand this,’ muttered Nick. “Ifthey reach
the door, I’ll save them.” .

But they never did.

Jake fell before he could reach it.

A knife pierced Hossick’s back. He fell headlong
on his face.

“Cops !” yeHed Nick, in a tone of warning.

In an instant the light was out, there was a scurry-
ing of feet, but a murmur of curses, and silence.

There was another exit which the men had taken.

Nick, without a moment's delay, sprang in, and felt
around for Hossick.

His body was still warm ; he was breathing.

Nick turned him on his back and quickly felt over
his breast. A bulky package lay there.

As Nick unbuttoned his coat and drew out the
package, Hossick whispered, feebly :

“Who is 1t?’

“Tlarvey Jones.”

“You're fly. You've laid one out; but the game
isn’t yours While Wilshaw lives. Does he live?’

“Yes”?

“T’d like to live to see the fun, but I’ve played my
last card.”
aca you want to tell me anything before you
die ?”’

“A dying confession,” he tried te-laugh, jeeringly.
“No, sir; Dan Hossickis game. I'd like to live to
see——”

A gurgling noise, sounding hideously like a laugh,
was éhe end. ;

Nick shudderingly emptied the man’s pockets, and
wentcautiously aes by the way he had come in.

He was fortunate enough to meet no one, and so
safely made his way into the street.

Knowing the anxiety Ethel would be in, he hur-
ried to her rooms as quickly as possible.

The captain sat with the two ladies in their little:

parlor, and on Nick’s appearance, was as much over-
come as they.

Hasty explanations were made, without any re-
serve before Mattie, she and Ethel having become
fast friends and confidantes.

Then Nick drew out the contents of Hossick’s pock-
ets, and examined them.

Everything was pushed aside, excepting ascrap of
paper and the package.

Nick examined the scrap, and found there enig-
matical words written on it.

‘‘Four of a kind beats a full hand.”

“That is poker,” cried the captain.

“Yes,” said Nick, slowly, ‘and I suppose
queens and two kings would be a full hand.”

“Of course,’ wonderingly.

“Three women and two men, perhaps.”

“T do not comprehend.”

“My wife, Mattie and Belle—three queens.
and I—two kings.”

“Saprista !”’

The captain was recovering his spirits, since he
could say saprista.

“What four of a kind means I don’t know and don’t
care—nothing, I guess. The main thing is, what
does the whole thing mean?”

“Ah, parbleu! What then ?”

“T think I see. This is a telegram to Wilshaw. At
least, I will risk it, and send it off this very night—
or morning it is now, I suppose.”

“But if it should be a mistake.”

“Well, then they will be on their guard over there.
I don’t think I am mistaken, however. By the way,
the first thing in the morning, captain, I wish you
would telegraph to Havre; they will know you?”

“At the steamer office? Yes.”

“And see if Wilshaw and Grace left by last steamer.
I will give you descriptions. Now for the package.”

The parcel was neatly and strongly done up, and
when unwrapped disclosed a good-sized morocco
case.

The lock was forced and the lid flew open.

“Oh-h-h !”

“Ah-h-h!”

** Sapristi-i-i !”’

Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires were
crowned together in a glittering, sparkling mass.

“Genuine, too,’ exclaimed Ethel, taking up a huge
diamond with an air of the respect all women feel
for precious stones.

“Yes, genuine,” said Nick. “And I have a notion
that they represent at least a million dollars in
value.”

“But how did he get them ?—steal them ?”’

“T have a suspicion as [look at them that the baron
paid for the stolen securities in jewels. I shall know
that to-morrow. Now I will send the telegram to
Wilshaw.”

“But you yet that he left for
America.”

“Tf he has not, no harm will be done. If it should
be all right I wantitto go as Hossick in his elation
would have sent it—at once. Then, when Wilshaw
reaches America, it will be handed to him ?’

“Let us make final arrangements now. Do you
want to take any further part in this, captain ?”’

‘Parbleu! I should think so.”

“Then do you take the first steamer for Canada
with these ladies, and go to Boston and stay at your
cousin’s, Ethel, until I send for you to come to New
York.”

“Tn disguise ?”’

“No. As yourown selves. Only do not have your
right names in the passenger list, lest Wilshaw should
chance to see it. I go to Paris by the first train, and
by the first steamer from Havre for New York.”

three

You

do not know

CHAPTER XLVII.
THE BARON WANTS REVENGE,

The next morning, after receiving an ahswer from
Havre that the couple described, together with an
elderly lady, had taken the steamer, Nick took the
cars for Dover, once more bound for Paris.

With Hossick dead, he had now only to capture and
convict Wilshaw, and secure the bonds in the baron’s
possession.

The jewels which he had would be a sort of guar-
antee, if any were needed, to induce the baron to
yield up the securities. Yield them up he must.

As for the minor partners in the crime—Bob, Jake,
Belle, and Hooper—Nick gave himself no concern ;
two of them being dead—one, the janitor, dying, and
Bob being of no consequence anyhow.

But Grace ?

How would she act when her husband, so dearly
loved, was torn from her, who had so sinned for him,
and imprisoned, perhaps even hung; for Belle had
told Ethel that Wilshaw had finally killed Hugh Car-
bett, whose body was buried under one of the horse-
stalls in the stable of the Flatbush house.

* Nick had made up his mind that he would do noth-
ing to expose Grace’s part in the burglary; for be-
sides what he knew and suspected, he had learned
from Ethel that Belle had said that she knew noth-
ing of any of the attempts at murder made by the
others, and that it was only pure wildness of spirit,

VOL, 42—No, 82,

acting with her passionate love for Wilshaw, that | as soon as she gave him an opportunity he confided

| led her to take any part in the crime.

curiosity to see how she would act when, in the guise

of Raoul d@’Entraigues, he should appear before her |

and Wilshaw, and, announcing his possession of the
| bonds, lead Wilshaw to prison.
| On arriving in Paris he made himself up as D’En-
| traigues, and went at once to see the baron.
| There was no delay in yielding him an interview.
| Indeed, the baron had hardly eaten or slept since he
| had last seen him.

“Well!” exclaimed he, ‘‘what now ?”’

| Nick opened the case of jewels and displayed them
| to the baron.

He pushed them aside with a sort of contempt, and
asked :

‘“*How did you get them?”

“From the tool of the two who duped and robbed
us.”

“He who pretended to be Philippe ?”’

“Whatever he pretended,” said Nick, gloomily, “he
will pretend no more. He is dead.”

The death of the man seemed to affect the baron
less than Nick’s air of being both willing and capable
of killing any and everybody, for he cried out:

“You will not harm her.”

“Poor fool! No, I will not. Itis the man I seek.
Take these jewels. I will return you the restif I can;
but give me the bonds that I may ruin the life of the
man who duped me and lives. Aha! to see him be-
hind the bars. To have him know that his beautiful
wife has deserted him in his trial and wedded you.
Ah! that will be revenge, sweeter than to see his
blood fiow !”

‘Will she marry me then, do you think ?”’

“Will she?) How do I know? She will not come to
you and say, ‘Here Tam, monsieur the baron. My
husband, with whom I tricked you and made a fool
of you,is nowin jailandIam free! Please marry
me!’ She will not do that, will she? Bah! Would
you have me, perchance, ask her to be your wife?
Give me the securities.”

thinking, and, like a child obeying an order, he went
to a cabinet, and, unlocking a drawer, took from it a
good-sized bundle, carefully sealed and bound.

Nick’s heart leaped for joy. To have convicted
every one of the robbers, and not to have recovered
the bonds, would have been failure in his eyes.

Whereas the rest might now go by default since he
had the precious securities; though he would not
consider himself through with his task until that
arch villain Wilshaw had his deserts.

He snatched the lucky package from the baron,
and broke the seals, and tore off the wrappers in a
twinkling.

Were they all there? :

He unfolded the top document, glanced hastily at
it, took up the next and did the same. Then the next,
then one from the middle.

Then he sat for a moment with leaden face and
great drops of perspiration rolling off his forehead.

Only for a moment, however; for before the baron
could detect his dismay, he dashed the whole mass of
papers to the floor, and shaking his fist half-furiously,
half-taunting at the baron, cried out:

“There! there! Look! Did you have but a shadow
of doubt of the complicity of your fair Ameri-
caine? Seethen! Look! There they lie. Examine
them. Ha, ha! How much are they worth? Oh,
cunning man of riches! Oh, ass! fool! idiot! what
you will. See! see! They are all blank sheets of pa-
per. Ha! ha! Head of Solomon! He did not even
look at his securities !”

Anger and stupefaction struggled for the mastery
in the poor fellow’s face as he comprehended this
new trick so impudently played upon him.

Nick’s taunts and jeers did not affect him; the loss
of fifteen million francs did not cause him a pang;
but as it was thus finally forced upon his sluggish
senses that the woman he loved so madly treated
him as if he had neither heart nor brain, he awoke
to a sense of the whole shameful transaction.

“T, too,” he howled, ‘‘will have my revenge j”

“What can you do?”

The baron rolled his great eyes wildly for a mo-
ment, and then turned to Nick:

“Tecan do nothing, but you can.
like a lackey if you will promise me my revenge.”

“Will you go to America if I say so?”

“What for ?”’

“To bear witness to the fraud practiced on you by
Wilshaw, if need be.”

“T do not dare.”

You do.
I have discovered what will hang them. I will
threaten to tell it if they offer to speak of you.”

“You are a terrible man. I will go.”

“Good! Get ready. We take the steamer from
Havre to-morrow.”

“So soon?” :

“Would you have me wait till my hairs are gray
before I satisfy my revenge. Bah! My heart will
burn itself up!”

“T will be ready.”

“Give orders now.

“So long ?”’

*Tete de mars!
Do lackeys obey so?
they did.”

He glowered at the baron, and that singularly sub-
jugated individual shrunk together as if_ quite ex-
pecting the kick.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

You will be gone a month.”

Will you always make objections?
Bah! I would kick them if

> oa
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

RUBY'S REWARD.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

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

Author

(“RUBY’s REWARD” was commenced in No. 20, Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WALTER’S REVELATION.

The next morning, however, Ruby received a reply
to her note, telling her that her lover had been sent
out of town by Mr. Conant to superintend a contract
which the latter could not attend to himself just
then; that he should be away for a month, but would
come to her immediately after his return ; meantime,
he would write to her frequently, and urged her to
do the same.

This was something of a disappointment to Ruby,
but she resolved to bear the long separation cheer-
fully, and enjoy herself as much as she could amid
her beautiful surroundings.

She found the change greatly beneficial to her
health, and began to improve in flesh and strength
almost immediately.

The month soon slipped by, school closed, and
Ruby’s work was finished for the year. A day or
two after the examinations were over, Walter re-
turned to the city, and that same evening, just at
dusk, presented himself at the door of his old home,
dan inquired for his betrothed.

He had been greatly astonished and somewhat
troubled upon learning that Ruby was gone to spend
the summer in Edmund Carpenter’s house.

It was evident from her letters that she did not
know to whom the place belonged, and he had not
enlightened her, thinking it best to say nothing until
he could have a private talk with her.

The servant could not find Ruby, consequently
took the young man’s card to Mrs. Gordon, who went
down immediately to him, with the determination to
prevent a meeting between the two if possible.

She greeted him with cold formality, and told him
that Ruby was out.

“TI presume she will soon return, will she not?”
Walter asked, flushing beneath the woman’s haughty
look and manner.

“Tam sure I eannot tell you,” Mrs. Gordon an-
swered, indifferently, though she knew that Ruby
was at that very moment lying asleep in the ham-
mock on the north porch.

Her last week of school had been very wearisome,
and she had just given herself up to rest since its
close.

Mrs. Gordon devoutly hoped that nothing would
disturb her until Walter should become wearied, with
waiting, and take his departure.

Her patience was severely tried, however, for the
young man was very loth to leave without seeing
his betrothed, and remained for more than an hour.

3ut nine o’clock came, and still no Ruby.

Mrs. Gordon betrayed both annoyance and nervous-
ness, until at last the young man felt that common
civility demanded him to relieve her of his presence.

He, however, resolved to make one more effort to
accomplish his purpose and inquired for Mrs, Coxon,

Ruby, and thus arrange for another call. — :
“Mrs. Coxon is very busily engaged this evening,”

excuse me if I do not disturb her.”

leave without further ado, while Mrs. Gordon was
very much elated at having so easily driven him
from the field.

But the young man was not so readily disposed of
as she imagined.

Instead of leaving the place he quietly slipped
around to the servants’ door, rang the bell, and in-
quired for Mrs. Coxon.

She came to him at once, ¢
him.

She drew him into her own little sitting-room, made
him sit down, and immediately began to ply him with
numerous questions regarding himself and _ his
progress in his business. ;

He answered her as patiently as he could, but just

ind was delighted to see

 

And yet, with his pity for her, there was a certain |

Nick’s well-simulated yehemence and fierce desire |
for vengeance carried the baron beyond the power of |

| to her his object in coming there that evening.

“Mrs. Coxon,” he said, in conclusion. “Iam sure
| that you are my friend, and that I can trust you
fully.”

“Indeed you may trust me, Mr. Walter,’ the good
woman said, heartily; but she had been surprised to
learn that he had come there to see Miss Gordon and
failed in his object,

“Well, then, to come to the point at once, I believe
there is something wrong in these ladies being here
this summer.” %

“Something wrong! How so?’ she cried.

“T am satistied that Miss Gordon would never have
come here if she had not been deceived or trapped
into doing so.”

“Deceived ?”’

“Yes. How does it happen that Edmund is taking
boarders this summer ?”’

“T do not know,” Mrs. Coxon replied, looking
grave, for the story that she had been lonely and
wanted to take boarders for company was all a hoax
of Mrs. Gordon’s, and she had not liked the secrecy
which he had enjoined upon her, particularly after
she found that he was to be a constant visitor there ;
“T only know that he said he wasn’t going to live
here himself but wanted to have the house kept
open and made to pay him something.”

“That was a queer idea for a man with all his
money,” said Walter, with a curling lip.

“T thought so; but not so queer as that he did not
want the ladies to know that he was the owner. He
gave the matter into the hands of an agent to adver-
tise, and though he comes here a great deal, he has
forbidden me to recognize him as the master.”

“There is a plot at the bottom of it.”

“What plot? [ supposed it was only pride on Mr.
Edmund’s part. Idon’t see how there can be any
plot,” returned Mrs. Coxon.

“T will tell you, my good friend,” Walter said, econ-
fidentially; ‘‘Edmund has been very fond of Miss
Ruby Gordon for a long time; twice he has proposed
to her and been rejected. Mrs. Gordon favors his
suit because he is rich, and she wants her sister to
marry well; but now for my little secret, Mrs. Coxon
—Ruby and I have been engaged ever since her
brother’s death.”

“You engaged to that lovely girl, Mr. Walter?’
eried Mrs. Coxon, with a glowing face.

“Yes; but Miss Gordon did not wish it announced
so soon after her bereavement; therefore we have
told no one of the fact. I imagine that Edmund has
feared something of the kind, for he has threatened
me, upon one or two occasions, if I interfered be-
tween him and his plans regarding Miss Gordon. I
came here, as I told you, to see her to-night; but
Mrs. Gordon told me that she was out, and seemed
determined that I should not meet her. I then in-
quired for you, but was told that you were engaged
and could not see me rs

“Indeed, Mr. Walter, I should never be so busy that
I couldn’t stop for a few words with you,” the house-
keeper interrupted, indignantly.

“Of course, I know that was only an excuse to get
me out of the way and to prevent my seeing Ruby.”

Mrs. Coxon here arose with a determined air.

“Remain here for afew minutes, Mr. Walter; I'll
find Miss Gordon, and you shall see her. My! just to
think of your being engaged to that sweet little
body! She’s just like a bit of sunshine in the house,
though I can see that she’s often sad after her
brother, and I know that she doesn’t like Mr. Ea-
mund very well, for she always runs away when he
comes if she can.”

“Do you suppose you can find her, Mrs. Coxon?”
Walter asked, his face lighting; “if I could see her
just for a few minutes, it would be a great favor.”

“Tf she’s in the house, ’ll have ber here in less
than tive minutes,” returned the energetic house-
keeper; and she left the room immediately, deter-
mined that her favorite should be gratified, and
highly indignant at the treatment that he had re-
ceived from Mrs. Gordon, to say nothing of the de-
ception that had been practiced upon her.

She went directly to Ruby’s room, and found her
there, looking flushed and sleepy, and preparing to
retire.

Mrs. Gordon had waited until she thought Walter
was well out of the way; then she went to the north

 

I will obey you |

veranda, awakened her sister, and, in a haif-scold-
ing, half-laughing way, made her getup and go di-

rectly to her room.

I will make them keep silence as to you. |

« “You naughty midget!” she said, kissing her softly,
“don’t you know that you are liable to get a shock-

| ing cold going to sleep out here while the dew is fall-

ing? Come, I shall have a doctor’s bill to settle if
you don’t go in immediately ;” and Ruby, all unsus-
picious of any double dealing, and feeling very
sleepy, ran up stairs, intent only upon getting to bed
as soon as possible.

She looked around surprised and a trifle startled,
however, as Mrs. Coxon softly opened her door with-
out knocking.

“Miss Gordon,’ she whispered, fearing that Mrs.
Gordon might hear her, ‘could you Gome down to
my sitting-room for just a little while? T havea
very particular reason for asking, or I wouldn’t have
disturbed you.”

Ruby looked still more surprised at this strange
request and the mystery attending it, but she saw
that the woman was very much in earnest, and she
replied, with cheerful readiness :

“Certainly, Mrs. Coxon; if there is anything that I
can do for you of course I will come. Just waita
moment until I knot my hair up; I was getting it
ready for the night.”

She coiled it into a loose, graceful knot, pinned it
with a silver arrow, and was ready to accompany
the housekeeper below.

Mrs. Coxon held the door open for her to pass out,
then closed it again without making the slightest
noise, and led the way down a flight of back stairs in
silence, Ruby thinking her action very strange and
perplexing.

But when the woman opened the door to her own
little room at the foot of the stairs, and she saw who
was within, she sprang forward with a glad cry that
made the housekeeper smile with an air of triumph
as she went back to the kitchen to give orders for
breakfast; and then she left the lovers alone.

“Walter, how came you here ?”? Ruby exclaimed, as
she laid both her hands in his and looked up at him,
a glad welcome in her blue eyes.

“T came to see you, dear,” he answered, smiling
as he led her to a seat and drew another beside her.

“But—but—” Ruby began, flushing and looking
slightly disturbed.

“But you cannot understand why you are called to
the housekeeper’s room to receive me instead of the
drawing-room, which would be the more proper
place?’ he concluded for her.

“Yes, that was my thought,” she adinitted.

“Well. then, to be perfectly frank, it is because I
was not allowed to see youin the drawing-room,”
Walter explained, flushing a vivid crimson.

“What can you mean, Walter?”

He then told her all that had transpired, greatly to
her amazement and indignation. He thought it
best that her eyes should be opened at once to the
fact that her sister was a secret enemy to them both.

“T cannot understand it,’ she said, when he con-
eluded. ‘I have been very weary since school closed,
and have lain in the hammock most of the time. Es-
telle knew I was there. I went there directly after
tea, and everything was so quiet I fell asleep. Itis
not fifteen minutes since she aroused me and sent
me up stairs to bed.”

“T surmised that you were not far off, and I was
determined that I would not be thwarted in any
such way,’ Walter answered; then added, gravely:
“Ruby, it is evident that Mrs. Goedon does not in-
tend that you and I shall meet very often if she can
help it.”

“She cannot help it, Walter; she shall not help it.
Thave been upon the point two or three times, of
late, of telling her how—how matters stand. I think
it will be better for her to know,’ Ruby said,
blushing. ‘

“She will be very much opposed, my darling.’

“T shall be sorry if she is; but that cannot change
anything, Walter,” was the decided reply.

Walter gave the hand he was holding a tender
pressure at this assurance; then remarked :

“Tfit had not been for my old friend, Mrs. Coxon,
Ishould have been obliged to go away without see-
ing you to-night.”

“It was shameful, and I shall settle the matter
with Estelle the first thing to-morrow morning. But
is Mrs. Coxon an old friend, Walter? Ah! yes’—
with a start and a puzzled expression—‘‘I do remem-
ber now your saying something about her a long
time ago.”

“T have known her ever since I was ten years old.
Ruby, darling, I do not wish to distress you, but Iam*
very much afraid that there has been a plot laid to
part us, and—to compromise you.”

“Why, Walter, what can possibly have put such an
idea into your head?” Ruby exclaimed.

“Will you tell me just how you happened to come
out to this place to spend the summer ?” he asked.

She told him, relating how her sister had seen the
advertisement, and what we already know of her ac-
count of the circumstances.

“Has it not appeared rather strange that you could
secure such a residence all to yourselves, the attend-
ance of servants, and the use of horses and carriage,
upon such exceedingly favorable terms ?” Walter

 

thinking that he could leave a note with her for |

Mrs. Gordon stated, ‘‘and I shall have to ask you to |

Walter bowed a silent acquiescence, and took his |

questioned.

“Yes, I did think we were remarkably fortunate ;
but I know that some people prefer to have their
houses kept open. Estelle said the arrangement
was made chiefly to keep Mrs. Coxon from being
lonely, and make her content to remain here while
the family was absent. She said also that the owner
preferred to have us use his horses, as they needed the
| exercise.”’

“Have you any idea who the owner of this prop-
erty is?’ Walter questioned, wondering to see how
completely she had been hoonwinked.

“Yes. Estelle said his name was—Edmunds, I be-
lieve,’ Ruby replied, thinking all this cross-question-
ing a little strange.

“Ruby, his name is—Edmund Carpenter !’”’

CHAPTER XXIX.
RUBY’S DECISION.
“Walter!” exclaimed the young girl, starting to
her feet, a look of consternation upon her lovely face.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No, 32,

co THE NEW YORK, WEEKLY.

 

 

 

“Tt is true, my darling. Edmund Carpenter is the
owner of this be: wutiful place, which was also my
home for many years, and now you can understand
how Mrs. Coxon happens to be an old friend. She
was always very kind to me, and TI have been in the
habit of visiting her occasionally since Edmund in-
formed me that{I had been a dependent long enough.”

“And have you known that rE was here ever since
T first wrote you of our change?” Ruby asked.

“Yes, I knew by your dese ription of the place, and
bits I found that you were eer ten ious ag
eally believed the owner’s name was Edmunds, I
felt sure that you were being deceived for a pur-

pose.”

; “How blind I have been,” Ruby murmured, reflec-
tively, as a number of things which might have
warned her, now flashed upon her mind. ‘‘Why didn’t
you write me immediately ?”

“T hoped to be able to come to you every week, and
I did not like to put my suspicions upon paper. This
was why [ was so determined to see you to- night.”

“f will not remain here another day,” Ruby cried,
with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, as she real-
ized more fully the treachery of w hich she had been
avictim. “I will not remain under obligation to that
man one single hour longer than I am obliged to. It
is shameful, and if Estelle will not go away with me
somewhere else, I will go to Redville and spend my
vacation with Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles.”

“T wish you would go to them, Ruby,” Walter re-
turned, thoughtfully, “I should feel much safer
about you to know you are there.”

“Safer ?’ she repeated, questioningly.

“IT told you I believed there was a plot afoot. I
am confident that Edmund Carpenter is determined
to make you marry himif he can accomplish it by
any means fair or foul; and I am afraid that your
brother’s Ww ‘ife is trying to help him entangle you in
some way.’

“They could never accomplish such a purpose,”
Ruby said, scornfully. “It does look very much as
if Estelle was mixed up in it, and I know she wants

me to marry him; but [I would never have believed
that she could stoop so low, and I shall find it hard to
forgive her for this. I shall go away immediately,
and yet

Ruby stopped, faltered, and looked wistfully up
into her lover’s face.

“Well, dear? Surely you may open all your heart
to me!” he said, tenderly.

“Tt will be so far from you, and I feel so alone,”
Ruby coneluded sorrowfully.

Walter smiled sadly.

“That is true. But I could notsee you very often
even if you remain in the city,” he said. “TI shall be
obliged ‘to be away a great deal this summer. Mr.
Conant is still so driven that he says I must take
charge of the contract at Chester, with a little over-
sight from him now and then; so it will not be pos-
sible for me to be in the city only as I am forced to
go back and forth on business.”

“Oh, if Robert could only have lived!” Ruby mur-
mured, with quivering lips, and feeling very desolate
and troubled. It was wretched to be so without pro-
tection.

Walter bent and touched her forehead softly.

“Oh, if I could only take you now, and shield you
from all these things! It is dreadful to bé so poor!”
he said, in a tone of passionate regret.

Ruby looked up quickly, as if startled by a new
thought.

‘You ought not to be poor,” she said. “You ought
to have had some of Mr. Ralph Carpenter’s property,
and the more I think of it, the more sure I feel, as [
‘once hec rd Mr. Ruggles intimate, that a great wrong
has beer: done you.”

“T have long felt so myself,” Walter replied, with
a clouded brow, for the feeling had been
upon him for the last year; “for, as I have already
told you, Uncle Ralph said that he had made ample
provision for me.”

“Do you suppose Edmund Carpenter would dare
destroy his father’s will?” Ruby asked, in a low,
awed tone.

“T hope he would not be guilty of such a crime;
but we shall probably never know anything more
about it, for the only man, who knew about it—Mr.
Simons—is dead, and if there has been any wrong
done, it cannot be righted now,” Walter said, with a
sigh.

He felt more disturbed than he had ever been over
his misfortune in this respect, since Ruby appeared
to be in danger and to need his protection, which, in
his present condition, he was powerless to give her.

“T did not know that Mr. Simons was dez ud,” the
young girl said, growing pale. “I have been hoping
that he w ould do something for you when he re-
turned.”

“He died three months ago in Venice, and my last
hope died also when I learned the fact. He had been
illfor a long time, and wished to return, but his
physician would not permit him to attempt the voy-
age. However,” Walter added, striving to shake off
his momentary gloom, “it is useless to mourn over
the matter. I must make the most of my opportuni-
ties, and do the best I ean for myself, and thus short-
en our waiting.”

“When shall you be obliged to go back to Chester ?”
Ruby asked, after a thoughtful pause.

“By the first of next week. I have a good many
orders to give for our building, and there are some
alterations to be madein the plans that will takea
day or two.’

“Then I shall remain here until after you go, and
you will see me often until then, w ili you not?’
Ruby pleaded, clinging to him as if she felt a new
dependence upon him.

“Certainly, if I may,” he answered, eagerly.

“Of course you may. I shall tell Estelle immedi-
ately of the relations existing between us, and give
her to understand that I resent any thing like what
has occurred to-night, or any further plotting or in-
terference regarding my future,” Ruby said, with an
air of decision.

“You have a strong, re¢ solute will,
you are slight and frail in body.’

“Tam old enough to choose for myself in matters
relating to my vital interests.”

ee ell, dear, it is growing late, and I will not keep
you longer,” the young lover returned. ‘I will run
out again to-morrow evening, with your permission,
and Ruby, since you deem it best to tell your sister
of our engagement, may I bring you a visible seal

_te our compact?”

“Tf you wish,” Ruby replied, blushing,
that she should be glad to have it.

And then the young man bade her a fond good-
night, and went away with a light heart, in spite of

his repugnance to her remaining an inmate of Ed-
mund Carpenter's home, and a recipient of his
bounty, for it amounted to that.

Ruby went thoughtfully up stairs, after his depart-
ure, but just as she reac hed her own door, Mrs. aw
don put her head out of hers, and asked :

“Ts that you, Ruby?’

“Yes, Estelle. Are you still up?”

“Yes, it has been so warm that I have not felt like
going to bed. But where haye you been? I thought
you retired long ago.

“May I come in, Estelle, if you are not ready to go

to bed just yet?” Ruby asked, unheeding her ques-
tion, and resolving to settle matters then and there.

Something in the grave decision of the young voice
arrested Mrs. Gordon’s attention, even startling her,

and opening her door wider, she said:

“Yes, come in if you like, But you did not tell me
where you have been.

“JT have been down in Mr. Coxon’s sitting-room,”
Ruby stated, as she entered the room and seated her-

self in a rocker, where she could look her sister full
in the face.

“Pray, what hay e you been doing there ?”
> “J had a caller.”

“A caller! And in Mrs. Coxon’s room at this time
of night! Who?’ Mrs. Gordon questioned, growing

a trifle pale, as she began to suspect the truth.

“Walter. re

‘Walter!’ echoed the woman, her ire rising as she
realized that she had been outwitted, and was about
to be called to account for her deception. “Walter
who, pray ?”’ ;

“Estelle, you know; Walter Richardson.”
“Mdeed! But I did not know that you were upon

such familiar terms with him that you addressed
him by his Christain name.”

“Why did you treat him so, Estelle?’ demanded
Ruby, ignoring her sister’s sneering remark. “You
knew where [ was, and you should have called me.”

“T do not approv e of his visiting here.”

“Any why ?

“Because he is no fit associate for you.”

“Why?” Ruby repeated,

“He is as poor as poverty—a nobody—and I do not
wish your name to be coupled with his.”

“But it will be, Estelle, henceforth as long as I live,
for—I have promised to marry him!’

“Good heavens! Ruby Gordon, are you crazy ?”
“Not at ail. L have been engagedto him nearly ever

since—Robert died.”

The sweet voice faltered a trifle here.

“Ah! he took advantage of your weakness, did he,
and Ww rung a promise from you at such a time as
that?

one had gained my respect and admiration—yes,
and love—long before that,” Ruby said, calmly.

“You are a little fool, Ruby, and do Kot know what
youare talking about,” retorted her sister, angrily.
“Tsn’t it enough that you are almost a beggar your-
self, without lowering yourself by marrying an-
other?”

“Don't you think you are using rather strong
wage to me, Estelle?” Ruby asked,
ler eyes glittered with a dangerous light.

is a beggar who is able to take care of one’s self.
mund Carpenter tried to make Walter one by turning |

my darling, if

yet feeling |

lan-

“No one |

him out of the home that h: vd been his for years, and |

which he believed he still had a right to share, even
after the death of Mr. Ralph Carpenter; but by his |
own efforts he has risen to an honorable position, |
and one which promises m La vy him well in the fu- |
ture. I do not consider that the obnoxious term
which you have used applies to me either, since I
have shown that Lam able to provide for my own
wants for nearly a year, consequently can do so in
the future.”

“You have earned your own clothing and pin-
money, I know; but if you had been obliged to
pay for your ponrd andlodging besides, | imagine you
would not ee quite so independently. You know

that Robert provided for you as long as he lived, and
since his death you have been my special care, and
I shall consider you very ungrateful ifj you thwart

all my plans for you,” Mrs. Gordon returned, with an
injured air.

“What plans, Estelle ?”’

“Why, you must know that I desire to see you nice-
ly settled in life—to have you occupy a position be-
coming your birth and education.’’

“In other words, your heart is still set upon my
marrying Mr. Carpenter ?”’

“He is very rich; he would make you an excellent
husband. You would never want for anything.”

“T should not want for anything but happiness,

prospective mother-in-law, as she passed the window
a few moments later, mounted on a superb black
horse, which she sat w itheaseand grace, and managed
with somuch skill. Mrs. Courtney looked after her
with pride and affection in her eyes.

“There never was a fairer bride came to Courtney
House than she will be; and we have had some beau-
tiful and accomplished women in our family. Reade
is a very fortunate young man.”

Theresa’s horse was full of spirit, and until they
were clear of the crowded city streets, she found ail
she could do to control him, and keep him down to a
reasonable degree of speed.

Many an admiring gaze followed the daring young

 

which I should never have. Estelle, you and I had
better understand each other, once for all. J shall |
never marry Edmund Carpenter. . have told you so |
once before; but if I knew I should have to live
single all my life otherwise, and work for every mor-
sel I ate, I would never be his wife. And now I want |
to tell you that I know you have not been dealing
fairly with me—that you have lent yourself to an
ignoble scheme to entrap me in some way, SO as to
bring this about.”

‘What do you mean?” interrupted Mrs
with an angry flush.

“You need not feign ignorance, Estelle, and I in-
tend to tell you all that I know, for I have made up
my mind to settle this matter to-night, and for all
time,”’replied Ruby, with a resolution that astonished |
her sister. “I know that you have deceived me
about coming here to spend the summer; itis alla
plot between you and Mr. Carpenter to compromise
me. I do not know just how, nor how far you would
have carried your schemes, but even the matter of
obligation that Ihave unconsciously incurred is more
than I can tamely submit to. I know Mr. Edmund
Carpenter owns this place, and what we pay is nota
tithe in return for what we are receiving; that the
horses and carriages which we have been using so |
freely, instead of belonging to a ‘gentleman Ww ho is |
anxious to have them properly exercised,” have
been placed at our disposal by him to help on an un-
worthy cause. I have thought from the first that it
was rather strange you were able to secure all these
luxuries upon such easy terms, but [ never suspected
the truth until to-night.”

“Pray, who enlightened you to such a wonderful
extent?” demanded Mrs . Gordon, with angry sar-
casm.

“My own common sense, as soonas I knew that
we were livingin Mr. Carpenter’s house. Now, Es- |
telle, I utterly refuse to remain here; I will not be
under such obligations to a man whom I despise

“f do not know what right you have to despise
him,” interrupted Mrs. Gordon, ‘spiritedly.

“What I have learned to-night w ould be sufficient
of itself to make me do that,’’ Ruby returned, com-
posedly ; ‘“‘but there are other things. I believe he is
a thoroughly unprincipled man; if he had not been,
he never would have threatened a young girl, ae]
because she did not choose to marry him; or a young
man because he saw fit to bestow certain attentions |
upon me. More than all this, Estelle, if the truth |
were known, I believe he has been w ithholding prop-
erty which rightly belongs to another.

“You might find it rather difficult to prove that
statement,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“T suppose it cannot be proved,’ Ruby returned,

. Gordon,

 

 

 

| these comforts and go back to the hot city %” cried
| her sister, angrily.

| you,
growing |

with a sigh. “But thatis neither here nor there;
you have heard what I said, and I want you to under-
stand that I shall live up to it.’

“Do you mean to tell me that you will give up all

“T mean that I shall not stay here; I will go with
Estelle, anywhere else that ie may Choose,
but if you persist in remaining here, I shall leave you
by yourself.” 8

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

eile a din
<><

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM. }

The Belle of the Palace

By LENA T. WEAVER.

(“THE BELLE OF THE PALACE ACE”’
1l. Back numbers can be obtained of all News

was commenced in No,
s Agents.]}

CHAPTER XLIX.—(CONTINUED.)

But asthe girl gave no signs off returning con-
sciousness, Reade Courtney—for it was our old friend
who had arrived so opportunely—decided that he
would call acoach and have the girl taken to the
hospital.

Fortunately
around the corner.»
driver, and they lifted the
riage.

“Where shall I drive to?” asked the cabman.

Courtney hesitated. The dress of the girl would in-
dicate that she was from the country, but her hands

were soft and white, and she wore a hoop of dia-
monds on her finger. What was she? Who was she?
Why was she guarded and fondled by the dog of Mr. |
Ashleigh? And why was she here ?

Courtney did not quite like the idea of sending her
to the hospital, where her case would be written up
for the morning papers, and probably his own name
‘be br ought in.

a belated cab was just rumbling
Courtney hailed the sleepy
fainting girl into the car-

 

 

 

'

}
|
|
1
}

|
:

 

| very pleasant, the tirst fine day after

“She is a stranger to me,” he said; ‘but somehow
it seems impressed upon ne that she is of good fam-
ily. Lam nota resident of the city, and know com-
paratively few people here. I suppose she will have
to go to the hospital; but I wish—I wish there were
some private house I could take her to until some-.
| thing could be learned about her.”

The cabman scratched his head thoughtfully.

“T have alittle home of my own, sir, out toward the
| Reform School, but it’s rather a poor place to take a
lady to, if she be a lady; but it’s clean, sir, and Mag-
gie—that’s my wife—w ould do all she could for her;
and I’m sure you’re welcome to take her there. I’ve
known what it was myself to. sbe out of a home, but
it’s a deal harder for a woman.

Courtney thanked the hackman cordially and ac-
cepted his offer without hesitation. He got into the
earriage and sat beside the young girl, and aston- |
ished himself by the strange and absorbing interest |
he felt for her.

He was quite well aware that his lady mother
would have opened her well-bred eyes very wide if |
she had known that her son was riding by the side of |
astrange young woman atthe canny hour of mid-
night, and he had some misgivings as to what Miss |
Otis would say to such a proceeding; but it was
hardly necessary that either of them should know it.

The carriage paused at last before the door ofa
small house, and the faint light in the window showed

 

| Tim Drake, the hackinan, that his faithful Maggie |

was waiting for him.

Reade Courtney alighted, and Ivan, the dog,
leaped up toward the carriage door with an anxious
whine.

The girl, still unconscious, was taken out,and Mag-
gie Drake, holding a lamp in her hand, came wonder-
ingly to the door. Inafew words her husband ex-
plained matters, and the kind-hearted little woman.
had the girllaid on her own bed, and went to work
at once to restore her.

Courtney stood by while the
and shaw were removed, and the sweet, pale face,
with the clustering rings of golden hair, was re- |
vealed.

He gazed at her amoment silently, wonderingly,
and then a great light broke slowly over his face.

“Good Heaven!” he said, under his breath, “it can-
not be! And yet none other could be so like her.
And the dog, wiser and more faithful than any other,
has acknowledged her; for I do believe that, notwith-
standing the fact that a Lucia Ashleigh reigns at
Ashleigh House, that the real and only Lucia Ash-
leigh lies here before me.”

disfiguring bonnet |

CHAPTER L.
HOW THEY MET.

Theresa Otis had vastly enjoyed her sojourn at St.
Paul. The great contrast presented between that
beautiful city and her own native Boston, with its
culture, and refinement, and east winds, had been a
novelty to the girl, who naturally had a passionate
love of whatever was wild and aventurous, and who
often shocked her ees by saying that she wished
she had been born in the far West, where the Indians
roamed the uncivilized wilds, and the stately buffa-
loes tramped unmolested over the wide prairies.

The young girl had indulged in horseback riding,
of which she was extravagantly fond, almost every |
day when the weather would permit, and Courtney
was always by her side.

But one day he went out into the country on a fish-
ing trip, with some young men who were stopping at |
the Hotel Ryan, and Theresa would not give up her |
ride. Mrs. Courtney expostilated, but the day was |
almosta week’s |

 

| cloudy and rainy weather, and the girl was in high

quietly, though |

Ed- }

| consolable.

spirits, and the horse she used was suffering for ex-
ercise.

“It is hardly the thing for a young girl to go with-
out an escort,” said Mrs. Courtney, who was a great |
stickler for the proprieties of life. at

“James is going with me,” said Theresa, referring |
to one of the grooms, a quiet, middle-aged man, who
often attended the lady guests on their rides and
drives.
| So Mrs. Courtney said no more.

Theresa came in, half an hour later,in her dark
green habit, with the white feather in her stylish

hat, and the warm color of youth and exciteme nt on |

her cheek, to kiss her good-by.
“Be careful, my dear,” said Mrs. Courtney. “Tf
anything should happen to you Reade would be in-
And my own heart would be broken.
Theresa kissed the tips of her fingers gayly at her |

| Theresa,

| road-side, and broke into a gallop.

|} means of doing the society in which you move

| shuddered.

i; should meet with such a fate!

| new,

equestrienne as the horse pranced and curveted
along, and tossed his fine head, impatient under the
pressure of the curb.

“When we get into the open country, James,” said
“T will give him all he likes. He is just as

fresh as the morning. You will have hard work to

| keep me in sight on that hack.”

“Please be careful, ma’am,”
James. “This road is a bad one,
and the river by the side ofit. And the bank is
rather high.” r

Miss Otis tossed her head alittle scornfully. She

was an expert horsewoman, and she knew it, and she
did not think it necessary for James to feel called
upon to warn her.

For a couple of miles the road, beautifully pictur-
esque, wound along past thrifty homesteads, and
gardens just thrilling to the magic touch of spring,
and then the houses grew more scattering, and the
way grew wilder. The road was more rugged and
uneven, and the bluffs of the river banks grew higher,
and the road wound along nearer the edge of the
precipitous descent. ;

Miss Otis’ horse shied at something white by the
The girl drew him
in sharply, and for a few moments it seemed that she
had him well in hand, but the sudden report of some
hunter’s gun in the bushes by the road-side set him
off again, and James saw that, with all her skill, it
was doubtful if she would be able to keep him under.
He spurred his old hack to his utmost speed, but his
horse had got to that age in the history of the equine
when ambition is lost, and the animal, after making
a slight spurt, fell into a walk with so much sudden-

ness that James was nearly thrown over his head.

In a cloud of dust, Theresa was disappearing
around a curve in the road, and, do all that he could,
James could not manage to get in sight of her again.

Miss Otis was more angry than frightened. She
had been accustomed to riding ever since she was a
child, and she had never yet found a horse that she
had failed to control. And she never doubted but
that she could manage this one.

She sat firmly in her saddle, and her small hands
held an iron grip on the bridle, which was beginning
to tell on the mouth of the horse. If the road did not
turn abruptly, or merge into a declivity, she felt cer-

tain that she should master him. She brac ed herself

for one supreme effort, and the horse sw cept round a
corner in the highway, and she saw her fate before
her.

Straight and narrow the road stretched out, turn-
ing slightly to the left half way down the steep hill
over which it descended, and at the curve al lack
of foresight on the part of the road builders !—there
was no guarding wall to protect the traveler from
the dread possibility of going over the precipice,
fully a hundred feet high, and the river rolling swift-
ly along at its base.

Theresa saw her peril, and drew in her breath. She
looked at the blue sky overhead; she felt the fresh
spring wind in her face; she saw the beautiful gold-
en sunshine flooding the world with its glory, and
realized that in one little moment she would be shut
out from all this light and beauty, and lying a mass
of crushed deformity at the foot of that te: rible prec-
ipice, to be seized upon by the yellow waters of the
great river, and swept hither and thither, only God
knew where!

She thought of Reade Courtney, but more of his
mother. Mrs. Courtney would be heart-broken;
Reade would regret her in a well-bred, gentlemanly
way; but, even in this supreme moment,
knew,
be utterly disconsolate over her sad end. She thought
of it with a new light breaking over her, and she
knew that though they were pledged to each other
by the holiest vows which can bind man and woman
together, she did not love Reade Courtney with her
whole soul, and he did not love her with the dee p and
alltabsorbing affection which a lover should feel.

She held her grasp on the bridle still, but she felt
that her strength was nothing against the wild pow-
er of the beast she rode. With distended nostrils and
fiery eye, the horse plunged on, his steel-shod hoofs
striking fire from the flinty road, and scattering the
small stones behind him. Haif w ay down the hill,
something snapped. It was the bridle-rein, broken
off at the bit. And then Theresa knew that all was
lost!

. Twenty yards away lay the precipice, beckoning
her on to death!

said the practical
narrow and crooked,

as it swept up to her on the sott wind.

Would the horse turn aside and keep the road?
Was there by any chance a possibility that the won-
derful instinct of which we hear so much in the ani-
mal creation, would show him his danger, and stay
his mad course ?

The girl clung to his neck and was borne on.

Nearer and nearer the dizzy verge;
nearer the terrible death. <A roar
in her ears
head; she felt choked and suffocating ; one wild leap,

like thunder was

the road-way, and struck the soft soil on the brink of
the bluff.

Theresa looked upward; her next breath, she felt,
would be drawn in the world to come.

And then there rang out on the startled air the
swift, sharp report of a rifle; the whizzing bullet cut
whistling through space close to the girl’s head, and
she felt the horse reel and stagger beneath her.

It seemed an age to her, but it was in reality only a
few seconds, before the beast sank down helpless,

just as the horse, with a
groan of mortal agony, stretched his limbs convul-
sively and toppled over the precipice.

Theres
man who had saved her.

Tall, stalwart, and blonde, a young
loomed up before her. The sunlight fell on his fair
hair, and deepened the shadows in his blue eyes.

There was something about his face strangely famil-
iar, and yet Theresa knew that he was not an ac-
quaintane e.

“You do not recognize me? Indeed, why should
you?” said her preserver, resuming his hat; ‘‘one is
not expected to know every person with whom he
sits at a fable d’hote, but I could not forget your face
having once seen it. And T have seen you at Ryan’s
a good many times, Miss Otis.”

Theresa held out her hand, and the young man took
it in both of his, while his fine blue eyes beamed with
admiration.

“You are Mr. St. Clair,” she said; ‘I remember
now. The Englishman who lives in Texas, and owns
a whole oes and more cattle than he can num-
ber. I have. heard Reade—that is, Mr. Courtney—
speak of you.’

“Tam gre a thy obliged to Mr. Courtney for doing me
so much service,” said John St. Clair, bowing.

“You have saved me from aterrible death,” said
Theresa, her voice quivering with emotion, ‘‘and I
know not how to thank you. I——” She hesitated,
and tears swam in her beautiful e yes.

St. Clair bent over her, and pressed the little trem-
bling hand he had taken to his heart.

“Do not try. I want no thanks.. ButI shall ever
be grateful to God that He allowed me tobe the
-80
great a service!”

Theresa looked over the brink of the precipice and
It was too bad he
He has taken me
many a pleasant mile, and we have enjoyed rare
times together!”

“Tam glad he is dead,” said St. Clair, decidedly ; “‘T
have seen you ride him before now, and w anted to
warn you against him. He had a treacherous eye.
Miss Otis, Iam pleased to know that he will never
put you in peril again. And now you must be want-
ing rest and refreshment after such an exciting ex-
perience. We are some little distance from any
house. Can you walk ?”’

“Of course [ can walk,”
nantly.

“T beg your pardon for doubting it,” said St. Clair.
“But you know that American women, as a rule, are
not walkers.

“But I am an exception to the rule, if you please,
Mr. St. Clair, and I can tramp with the best of your
English women.

“Tam glad of that. It simplifies matters.

He gave her his arm, and together the two 5 babies

“The poor horse! Poor Hero!

said Theresa, a little indig-

| the hill down which only a little while ago Theresa

had been dashed, as she then thought and believed,
to certain death.

She remembered the darkness and oppression which

| had held her in thrall—she remembered how she had

taken, as she had then thought, her last look at the
radiant sunlight and the sky—and now how changed
was everything. The sun had never shown so bright-
ly, the sky had never gleamed from beneath the
white fleece of clouds so blue and fair, the world had
never looked so beautiful.

And why? The girlasked herself the question, and
she looked up into the rapt face of the man _ beside
her, and dared not accept the answer that his eyes
gave to her question.

And she thought of Reade Courtney, and of the
sweet, glorious sense of happiness thrilling her
heart, and she felt like a criminal.

She dropped St. Clair’s arm suddenly, and walked

| on by herself.

She had seen her own heart, andit had frightened

} her.

The appearance of James, very much alarmed, his
horse reeking with sweat, was a relief to Miss Otis.

St. Clair had the man dismount at once, and The-
| resa took his place, and very slowly, for the hack

| had been pushed to his utmost capacity, the three

took their way back to St. Paul.

| dear ?”

Theresa |
and accepted the fact that her lover would not |

 

| her fair hair floated unconfined over her beautiful
| shoulders, and her round white

| Paul, noted for its large nuinber of fine women.

She heard the roar bf the river in |
her ears, and felt the chill, misty bre ath of the waters |

nearer and

| something like the fierceness which
; the sky seemed to grow black above her |

| to enjoy his triumph before his jaws close on his
and the horse had cleared the low-growing bushes of |

| in her dark eyes.

| lines about his mouth grew rigid as steel, when Ed-

C J | would have atoned for what she thought was her
| and she felt herself drawn backward, snatched from |
| the saddle and flung back,

a rose slowly to her feet, and confronted the |

treveiian | never flushed or paled.

i toh

 

St. Clair had been one of a gunning party, and had
strayed away from the others, and lingering along
the river bank admiring the wild beauty of the |
scenery, he had been opportunely at hand when Miss
Otis had been at her greatest danger.

And thatis how John St. Clair and Theresa Otis
met.

CHAPTER LI,
BROUGHT TO BAY. .

Fanshane House had been for a long time without
atenant. It is strange that good sensible people will
be so foolish, but the onlyreason this beautiful house
had been left to spiders and dust, lay in the fact that
five years ago the master of the house had embezzled |
the funds of the trust ¢ ompany of which he was the
president, and when the expose came, instead of flee- |
ing into Canada for rest and recreation, he had | V
hanged himself in the attic of the fine house, and |
saved the commonwealth the expense of tracking
him out of the country. ss

And people did not like to go into Fanshane House
to live. Credulous folks believed that the unquiet
spirit of the former master had been seen prowling
about the silent rooms during the small hours, and
the story grew, and the agent who had the letting of
the house found it very hard to rent it to any respon-
sible party. Consequently it had stood empty until
Theodore Chester had taken it. Chester had no fear
of ghosts or goblins, and Rosine, never having heard |
anything about the previous history of the house,
was delighted as a child with the wide and lofty
rooms, the costly and massive furniture, and the
well-stocked library

Two weeks after his arriv al at the house, Chester |
gave a house-warming, and all the elite of the city
had invitations.

Rumor had magnified the wealth of the lumber
king, until it was currently reputed that the old man
was worth his millions, and the suspicion which per-

vaded the community that there was amystery in his
past life, which no one knew the nature of, made old |
Chester a very interesting person.

And the wonderful beauty and grace of his young
daughter, made the Chesters’ house-warming a great
event in the town.

Among others the Ashleigh family received cards.

Lucia tossed them over carelessly, and remarked :

“Who are these Chesters? Some parvenues, [ sup-
pose.”

“No, my dear,” said Edward: “they are people of
some consequence and large wealth, I hear. Chester
is an Englishman; was a soldier of noteatone time in
her majesty’s service, and his daughter, Rosine, is a
rae autiful girl. You saw them both at the car-
nival.

“Oh, yes, I remember. The girl resembled my old
friend. The man was a rough-looking old heathen.
I do not think I care to help them get into society.”

“Why, Lucia! They will getinto society, any way.
Money is the passport to fame in this country. And
they are such near neighbors. I hope you will re-
conside r, and conclude to go to the house-warming.”

“Oh,” said Lucia, indifferently, ‘of course, if you |
wish me to go, [ will do so. LI would do anything to |
please you, Edward.”

“T believe you, dear
world.”

He put his arm around her waist and kissed her
fondly.

And Lucia, blushing, extricated herself from his
embrace, and changed her seat to achair near the
window. Edward looked at her in surprise.

“Lucia, one would fancy that you were a young
girl, and Iwas your lover. Why do you avoid me,

 

You are the best sister in the

“T do not,” said Lucia, a little pettishly. ‘‘Why,do
you think so? One does not want one’s laces mussed
so early in the afternoon,”

“Oh-h!? said the young man, slowly, and look-
ing as it he was strongly tempted to whistle, ‘‘I did
not think of that. And beg your pardon.”

The night of Mr. Chester’s house-warming, he could
certainly have no fault to find with the crowds of
St. Paul’s noblest and fairest which flocked to enjoy
his hospitality.

The spacious rooms were a blaze of light, the per-
fume ot flowers loaded the air, and the bright blos-
soms gave the place the appearance of a floral tower.

At the head of the long parlors Rosine stood by her
father’s side, a flush on her round cheek, a sparkle in
her eye, the admired of all the guests. She wore a
dress of pale-blue silk, looped up with pink roses;

* * *

arms were bare al-
most to the corsage. A more beautiful young girl it
would have been hard to find, even in a city like St

It was rather late when the Ashleighs arrived.
Lucia had a habit of being late everywhere, partly,
perhaps, because she was so constantly engaged in
fashionable gayeties that the thing partook of sa-
tiety, and partly becanse she could not help knowing
that her magnificent beauty attracted more attention
when she arrived late.

Mr. Ashleigh, senior,
sent his regrets. Lucia
brother.

The faces of Theodore Chester and Lucia Ashleigh,
when they met, would have been a study for a
painter.

Chester’s, dark,

was not feeling well, and
-ame in on the arm of her

gloomy, full of strong hatred, and
i gleams in the
eye of a blood-hound when he pauses for a moment

prey; and Lucia’s, calm, cold, and impassive, with a
defiance which etnias could intimidate smoldering

Mr. Chester received Edward with polite cordiality,
but the smile died out of his fine old face, and the

ward presented his sister.

“Your sister?” he repeated, in a hard voice—
sister, I think you said ?”’

But he did not offer her his hand, and when Rosine

“vour

 

father’s rudeness, Mr. Chester quietly pushed back
her extended hand, and stood with folded arms and |
gloomy brow, sternly regarding the young heiress. |

Lucia gave him back look for look. Her proud, cold |
eyes never changed or faltered, her beautiful face |
And her voice, when she |
spoke to Rosine, was sweet and clear. j

“T am glad to know you, Miss Chester, and pleased |
2ar that we are such near neighbors. And last
winter your face gave me sucha shock! You are
very like a friend of mine who is dead.”

A scornful smile curled Theodore Chester’s lip as
Lucia spoke, but he made no comment.

The gay party went on. Mirth and song prevailed,
and music from a gifted orchestra made the air res-
onant. The young people danced; the older ones | —————
gathered about Mr. Chester, and questioned him |
about his life in the woods, and put skillful inquiries
regarding what he intended to do in the future. One’s
neighbors, you know, are always anxious to know !
what your future movements are likely to be.

Toward the close of the evening,
grand success for the young hostess, Lucia Ashleigh |
stepped for a moment into the conservatory to get a |
breath of fresh air. She had been the gayest of the |
gay, and had danced nearly every set. Her chee
were flushed and her eyes were feverish with exvite- |
ment. |

She stood behind an orange tree, and looked out at |
the dancers with brooding eyes.

Rosine, radiant in youth, and beauty, and happi-
ness, passed down the spacious room on the arm of |
Edward Ashleigh.

Her sweet young face was upturned to his, and |
there was a smile on his face which had so seldom
worn a smile since the death of poor Florence.

A fierce pang smote Lucia’s heart. This girl—this
stranger, this nameless daughter of a nameless lum-
berman—could make him smile by only the guileless
look of her eyes; while ske, Lucia Ashleigh, the
beauty and beile of the city, had not power by all her |
blandishments to chase the ‘gloom from his brow.

“Let her beware!” said Lucia, under her breath.
“No woman shall take the place in his heart which I
covet, and live!”

Her face changed and grew distorted with passion.
In the dim light of the silver lamp she looked old,
and gray, and haggard.

Her arm was touched from behind.

{TO BE CONTINUED. |

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«aes THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL, 42—No. 32,

 

OUR NATION’S FLORAL DAY.
BY FANNY CROSBY.

Bring the cypress and the myrtle,
Let their dewy branches wave
O’er our country’s noble heroes,
O’er a nation’s honored brave.
They are sleeping, gently sleeping,
*’Neath the sunlight’s golden ray,
Shining like their deeds that sparkle
On our banner’s crest to-day.

How we watched them when they left us,
~ Marching forth with peerless tread ;
How we mourned them gone forever,
Cold and silent, pale and dead.
Wild the struggle, fierce the combat,
But the storm has rolled away ;
North and South, again united,
Hail our starry flag to-day.

Bring the lilies, tender lilies,
In their purest, fairest bloom ;
Seatter roses, blushing roses,
O’er each fallen warrior’s tomb;
Father, brother, friend, and lover,
Here so gently laid away,
Well deserve the tears that mingle
With the flowers we bring to-day.

i i.
a

CRAGPORT LIGHT.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

The little cottage of the Widow Peterson stood
perched very high up on the bold cliff which over-
hung the sea at Cragport.

A narrow path, hiding sometimes in the dense
shadow of the stunted larches and cypress trees, led
down to the shining, shingly beach below.

Here, in pleasant weather, the fishermen mended
their nets, and sang their quaint sea songs, and told
the yarns which had been recited over and over
again, and which never seemed to grow old or un-
welcome. ;

The beach was a smooth stretch of sand and
shingle for more than a mile. It was hemmed in on
the landward side by rough and precipitous cliffs, and
when the sun shone, and the blue sky leaned over it,
and the summer winds idled past, no lovelier spot
than Cragport beach could be found; but in stormy

weather, when the ‘“‘north-easters’”’ were on, and the
flying seud obscured the sky, and the sea-gulls
screamed and hugged the shore, and the spray
dashed over the highest cliffs and beat against the
windows of the Widow Peterson’s cottage, Cragport
beach was a place to be avoided—a place where, in

the darkness of the night, many a good ship had.

drifted on to her fate, and many a gallant heart had
stopped beneath the hand of death.

A light-house half a mile outside, built upon a ledge
of rock which at low tide formed an island of con-
siderable size, guarded the vessels outside from the
dangerous rocks of Cragport.

Cragport Light was familiar to every pilot who
sailed his vessel through these waters. It was the
most impertant beacon on the coast for more than
fifty miles, and when its red eye loomed through the
fog on the lookout at his post, it was the signal for
the man at the helm to steer due east and give the
shore a wide berth.

The Widow Peterson had been a sSailor’s wife.
Years ago, her husband had met the fate that a
fisherman “to the Banks’ may reasonably expect to
meet. His vessel had been lost off the coast of New-
foundland in a heavy storm, and he and all his crew
had gone down with it. There was no one left to tell
the tale. A few broken timbers of the ill-starred
Henrietta—the vessel he named for his wife when
she and the craft both were young—were found
washed on shore. Not much by way of evidence, but
still sufficient.

By and by, when the fishing fleet came home, the
Henrietta was not among them, and the sad news of
her loss was known all over Cragport. Mrs. Peter-
son had always been expecting it. A sailor’s wife
learns to look for death and danger as a natural con-
sequenee, and she only grew a little paler, and went
about the town with a sadder face.

She put some rusty black crape on her bonnet—the
erape had done duty, years ago, on the bonnet of her
mother, on a similar occasion—and she tied a black
ribbon around the waist of little Kate, her daughter,
and Tom Peterson was mourned as sincerely as any
husband and father could be, though the insignia of
woe were not very elaborate or very costly.

Kate Peterson developed into a beautiful girl, the
pride of Cragport, and the admiration of the fashion-
able young men who came from the neighboring
city for the fine fishing the vicinity of Cragport
afforded.

When she was sixteen, she was tall, and graceful
as a young antelope. Her bright brown hair had
never known the confinement of comb or pins, and
floated in masses of curls and ripples down her back;
her eyes were frank and fearless; her cheeks had
blossomed like the sweet wild-roses beneath the cool
touch of the salt sea air. She could catch a fish, or
row a boat, or swim in the breakers with the best of
them; and she had a will like her father before her,
the old fishermen said, and a courage which no
danger could daunt. a

There was never a life-boat went out on the raging
waters to the aid of some distressed ship in the offing,
that Kate Peterson would not have gone in it if the
men had permitted her; never a storm raged so
fiercely that she did not dare to fight her way to
Lookout Hill and kindle a beacon light, which,
streaming far out over the angry waters, might warn
some gallant vessel from destruction. | :

Old Joe Harris kept the Cragport Light. In his
early days he had been a fisherman, like the rest of
them, but when the light-house was built, old Joe,
being known as a sober, careful man, was offered the
position of keeper of the Light, and he was very glad
of the snug harbor for his old age.

True, the light-house was alittle shaky when the
north-east winds tore around it; and the prospect
from its high, narrow. windows when the surf beat
up its weather-stained sides, was none of the most
cheerful, but there was always a good fire on the
wide, open hearth, and plenty of oil for light; and
old Joe was a great reader in his way, and his friends
on shore kept him well supplied with the literature
he liked.

Then he had his big gray cat, Muffet, and, as he was
wont to tell his visitors, ‘Muffet was better company
than most of folks. She was always cheerful under
all circumstances, and never seemed to look on the
dark side; and when the wind blew hardest Muffet
purred loudest, and so kept things kinder evenly bal-
anced.” : :

Old Joe had no living relatives. His wife, the
choice of his youth, had shipped anchor early, and
gone away to the peaceful waters of the golden
shore, and Joe had been true to her memory, and
given no heed to the charms and smiles of the sail-
ors’ widows among whom he had lived all his life.
He had married Nelly, he said, and she was just as
much his wife to-day as she ever was. And when he
had been called into port Nelly would be there, and
he didn’t feel as if he wanted to see any other woman
standing alongside of her to bid him welcome. Nelly’s
smile would be enough for him.

For twelve years now Joe had lighted the great
lamp in the light-house tower every night an hour
before sundowu, and all through the night, while
others slept, he had kept watchful vigil. The oil had
never run low, the flame had never been quenched,
but every night through those twelve years of sun-
shine and storm its steady eye had gleamed out
bright and hopeful over the waters.

One stormy night in October, as Widow Peterson
stood at her cottage window, in the act of lowering
the paper curtain, she cried out, in dismay :

“Why something must be wrong with Uncle Joe!
The lamp’s not lit, and it’s going on for seven.” _

“The lamp not lighted?’ cried Kate, springing
up from the hearth, where by the firelight she
had been reading from a last week’s newspaper.
Something must be wrong indeed! Are you sure,
mother? My eyes are so blinded by the fire, and the
tine print, that I cannot trust them yet!”

““Ay, I am sure. My eyes may be old, but they
don’t often deceive me when I can get a good look.
It’s strange! When was Uncle Joe here? Let's see,
this is Friday ; it was day before yesterday, Wednes-
day, and I gave him afresh pot of butter, anda dozen
eggs. It’s a lonesome time he has there on the rocks,
and——”

“Hark!” eried Kate, who was standing with her
arm on her mother’s shoulder, looking over her head
out into the stormy night. “What was that?’

“It’s the pounding of the surf on the rocks! I’ve
lain awake and listened to it many a night when
your father—rest his soul—was out tossing at the
wind’s mercy.

“Not like that!” cried Kate, bending forward, and
listening intently. ‘‘No, certainly not like that.
There, did you hear it? It jarred the window. Itis
a signal-gun, and there is a ship in distress off the
shore!

“And no lamp lit in the light-house! Heaven help
’em !” cried Widow Peterson, shrinking closer to her

young daughter.
f There it is again! Louder and nearer! And all
the men have gone over to Stonedge, to Sullivan’s
husking !”

“And if they had not, Kate, what could they do?
Hear the wind roar down the chimney! It is like
the bellow of a wild beast, and the rain beats before
itin sheets. No boat could live in such a sea as will
be running to-night.”

 

“Tt could try,’ responded Kate, bravely, reaching
up to take down her scarlet hood from the hook be-
hind the door. ‘Do you think, mother, thatif Harry
Fane was here instead of at the Banks, he would
stand idly by and see a shipload of human beings go
to destruction, and not lift a hand to save?”

“Harry Fane is a brave youth !’’ replied Mrs. Peter-
son; “but even he could not do amiracle. Put up
your hood and shawl, Kate; it will do you no good to
go out to-night. We can only pray for them.”

‘‘We can both pray and work,” said Kate, tying on
her hood. “I am going to the life-boat station.
Surely some of the men will be at their posts. Ina
storm like this there will be some who will not have
gone off to a merry-making.”

Widow Peterson knew by experience how useless
it was to try to move Kate when her mind was made
up; but as the girl unbarred the outer door, and a
fierce gust swept in, scattering the ashes on the
hearth, and making the flames leap wildly up the
chimney, the old woman put her hand on the daugh-
ter’s arm and tried to draw her back.

“Come in, dear; itis of no use. You are only run-
ning into danger for nothing.”

Again, deadened by the sound of the raging storm,
the hollow boom of the signal gun fell on the air.

“Can you hear that and be quiet? Mother, what if
that gun were sounding from Harry’s ship? Whatif
father were alive, and we knew that he was in sueh
deadly peril? Somebody’s father is there! Some-
body loves the crew of that hapless ship !”

She stopped quickly, and kissing her mother’s fore-
head, darted away into the storm.

The wind broke around the corner of the house,
bearing the rain in blinding Sheets before it, and the
Widow Peterson stepped back and closed the door.

“She is in God’s hands!’ she said, reverently ; “I
can only leave her there!”

Through the storm Kate Peterson took her way
across the cliffs to the place where the life-boat was
kept. At times she almost lost her footing, and she
had to stop and cling for support to the craggy rocks
until the fierceness of the gale went past.

She was blinded by the rain and mist, but ever and
anon the sound of that dismal gun urged heron. At
the life-boat station she found only two men. The
others had gone to Sullivan’s husking, as she had
feared. Since the building of the light-house, wrecks
had been very few and far between in the vicinity of
Cragport, and the men at the life-boat station were
not as vigilant as they would otherwise have been.

“What are you about that you do not launch the
boat?’ cried Kate, bursting In upon the two men, as
they sat sheltered from the storm in their little box
of a house, under the lee of a great rock. ‘‘Don’t you
hear the signal of distress from some vessel in the
offing ?”’

“Yes, we heard it,” said one of the men; ‘but there
is the light. Let them keep outside that, and they
are safe, as every pilot on this shore knows.

‘Yes, but the lightis out! The lamp has not been
lighted to-night!’

“Not been lighted !’’ cried the man, excitedly. ‘‘Are
you sure? Itis always lighted. Joe Harris never
fails to do his duty.”

“You must be mistaken, girl,” said the other man ;
“of course the lamp’s lit.”

Both men rushed to the door and looked around
the corner of the rock to the southward, from which
point Cragport Light was visible. They fell back
with dismay on their faces.

“The lass is right. The lamp’s not lit!
have happened ?”’

“Don’t stop to wonder,” cried Kate. “‘Out with the
life-boat! The lantern must be lighted!”

*“You’d not have us risk our lives——”

“T’d have you act likemen! Out with the boat!
It’s what you’re here for ve

“But there are our wives and children -

And they do not want to be the wives and children
of cowards!” said Kate, standing before the hesitat-
ing men, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks.
“Come on! launch the boat; and if you are afraid to
go with me, I will take the oars myself, and try to
reach the light-house !”

Her courage inspired them; they threw on their
sou’-westers and braved the storm.

The boat was launched, and through the swirl of
the breakers Kate Peterson stepped fearlessly in and
took the helm.

The signal-gun struck out on the air, clear and dis-
tinct. The fated vessel was drifting nearer every
moment.

“Pull with a will!” cried Kate, standing erect, with
her hand on the tiller. ‘The wind lulls at intervals ;
the storm will cease before morning. To the light-
house! Once the lantern is lighted, before the ship
drifts inside the rocks of Alden’s Woe, and they can
shape their course by its light to safety.”

The men were sturdy fellows, and they bent to their
work with a will of iron and nerves of steel. Many a
time the boat beat the waves back; more than once
it seemed as if the heavy breakers, striking the frail
thing broadside to, would shiver its timbers into
kindlings; but no! the boat made headway. Half
the distance was passed, and, darkly outlined against
the pale-gray sky, Kate could see the gaunt, grim
form of the light-house, standing silent and dark in a
mass of foaming waters.

“A little longer,’ she cried, bravely. “We are
almost there. Heaven grant that we be in time!”

As she spoke a breaker, rising high above all other
breakers, burst over them, and struck the oars from
the grasp of one of the boatmen. Kate was blinded,
and suffocated, and deafened, but she held fast to the
tiller. The boat fell back into the trough of the sea,
and for a momrnt drifted helplessly at the merey of
the waves.

“Don’t give up!” cried Kate, shouting to the man
whose oars had been left, and who sat still, gazing
with despairing face at the waves pouring over the
side. ‘Pull as if your life depended on it, as it does!
For if you give up for one single moment now, we
shall go to the bottom!”

The man bent to his oars, a great wave lifted them
on its foamy crest, and sent them close alongside the
wooden pier, which had been built out from the light-
house, and under the lee of which the landing of a
boat was a comparatively safe operation when the
sea was calm. Now, however, with the terrible tide
which was running all around them, it was a differ-
ent thing altogether.

For a length of time that seemed an age, Kate tried
to steer the boat so that it would run into the narrow
slip at the foot of the light-house, but every time the
power of the water was too much for her. The boat
was whirled about like a cockle-shell, and no hu-
man power could hold it to any given course.

A hawser swung from the post of the pier. It was
the place where old Joe had been wont to tie his
boat; but the boat had been torn from its moorings
by the force of the waves, and was gone. Kate stood
up in the boat, and as once more they were dashed
against the pier, she seized the hawser as it floated
down toward her, and in a moment the men, too,
had grasped it, and drew the boat into the slip.

Almost to her waist in water, stopping for nothing,
Kate Peterson dashed acrose the slippery rocks, and
pushed open the light-house door. With agile feet
she climbed the long, dizzy stretch of ladders which
led to the little room at the top, where the lantern
was, feeling her way through the dark, until at last
she saw the gray glimmer above her head, which
came in from the stormy night through the four great
windows. :

A moment more and her hand was on the lucifers.
She knew very well the place where old Joe kept
them; and in another second, broad, and red, and
bright, the great lantern of Cragport Light shed out
its saving beams far across the stormy sea.

Once more, and once only, the dismal signal-gun
boomed out; and listening intently for its repetition,
and hearing it not, Kate Peterson knew that the
lookout on the distressed ship had seen and recog-
nized the welcome light!

The men had lighted lanterns, and were shouting
to her up the ladders, and she went down, dreading
what she expected to see.

It was just as she had feared. Old Joe lay on his
little pallet, his quiet white face turned upward, as
if even when he passed away he was looking, as he
had looked for many years, wp at the light.

A little table stood by the bedside, and on it a
sheet of paper, on which, in his last moments of
feebleness, he had tried to write:

“It is growing dark. I am so tired and so cold
to-night. If I should die, who would keep the light?
But I must get out of this! I must shake it off! The
winds and the waves will be high to-night! My lamp
must be trimmed and burning——”

His heavy hand had fallen on the paper, and never
moved again.

The next day, beneath a cloudless sky, a good ship,
with the freight of two hundred souls, sailed safely
into harbor, and her erew told the thrilling story of
how half the terrible night they had hovered on the
verge of destruction, looking vainly for Cragport
Light, and how, just as they were giving up to fate,
the welcome light streamed out, and they were able
to put about and save themselves.

And the owners of the Virgin Queen presented
Kate Peterson with a gold medal as a reward for her
bravery, and Harry Fane often takes his little boy
on his knee, and pointing to the shining trinket
which hangs on the wall, tells him the story of how
his fair young mother kindled the lantern in Crag-
port Light-House, and saved the good ship Virgin
Queen from destruction.

ocean

What can

a
ne

FUN FOR THE YOUNGSTERS.

August Pirch, a farmer in Garvanzo, Cal., has hit
upon an ingenious plan for combining fun with
utility, and. making his children’s amusement con-

tribute to the benefit of his land.

He is the father of about a dozen boys and girls, all
fine, healthy children, These youngsters grow fast,
eat three or four hearty meals a day, and rapidly
wear out clothes. Mr. Pirch has been in hot water
with his little fishes for years, and was about to give
up in despair, when a bright idea struck him. He
had a tract of land that could not be used for the
want of water. But how to irrigate the land without
spending a large some of money was a mystery. A
ditch would cost thousands of dollars, but corner lots
have not been so plentiful in the Pirch family as the

 

happy father could have wished, and his bank book

simply showed a balance of a few hundreds instead
of thousands. He figured on the cost of a well and
found that he could stand a sixty foot well, a cheap
pump, and one of those great big family swings
which are noticed at pleasure gardens and German
picnic grounds. The well was bored, the pump was
set up, and the swing was put in working order.

“Here, you little rascals,” said the elder Pirch to
his little fishes, ‘‘come out here and get in this swing.
I’m going to give you something to play with.”

In five minutes the children were flying back and
forth through the air. The pump worked up and
down, making a merry tune, and a fourteen inch
stream of water flowed from the well. The children
don’t know that they are working, as the swing is
some distance from the well and is connected by an
iron rod which works the pump as the swing vibrates
back and forth. Mr. Pirch is positive that the
youngsters will pump enough water during the day
to irrigate a large tract of land.

Paragraphic Pleasantries.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.
A Risky Investment.

According to a newspaper story, a man in Mellville,
Ind., gave his last five-dollar bill to relieve a case of
suffering, and inside of half an hour had another five-
dollar bill returned to him by a gust of wind, which
brought the note to his feet. If the Ananias who in-
vented this story had made the wind return a ten-
dollar bill, a man would have had a stronger induce-
ment to invest five dollars in charity. To bestow a
sum of money to relieve suffering with the expecta-
tion that old Boreas will immediately return the
amount without interest, is not a paying business,
besides being rather risky. The wind can’t always
be depended upon to ‘‘come down with the dust,” as
in the case with the Millville man. The person who
contributes to charity will continue to do so with the
belief that it is a permanent investment.

Here and There.

‘‘We shall know each other there,” sang the richly
dressed woman in her luxurious church pew, and a
few minutes later, when the usher attempted to ad-
mit into her pew a plainly dressed woman wearing a
last season’s bonnet, the singer gave him such a
crushing, thundergustic look that he shriveled up
like the mummy of Rameses, and conducted the
stranger to a seat in the “‘“Amen corner.” We shall
probably know each other there, but many persons
will decline to know each other here until the arrival
of the millennium.

A Child’s Wisdom.

Five-year-old Lucy was much displeased when her
mother drowned a couple of kittens. A few days
subsequently she was taken into her mother’s cham-
ber to see a brand-new brother.

“Mamma,” said the little girl, with a look of dis-
gust at the noisy new-comer, ‘don’t you think it
would have been better to have saved one of the
kitties and drowned the baby? The kitty didn’t ery
all the time.”

Reply to an *‘ Anxious Inquirer.”

“Broughne” writes : “Suppose I invite a young lady
to accompany me to the circus, and upon arriving at
the ticket wagon find that I have left my pocket-
book at home inthe left-hand pocket of my linen
ulster and haven’t sufficient money with me to pur-
chase tickets? What would be the best course to
pursue under such circumstances?’ Well, it must be
admitted that Broughne would be placed in a very
embarrassing position, and would almost be justified

.in pursuing a bloated monopolist and relieving him

of his well-filled wallet. Buta more honorable plan
—and one that is frequently adopted under similar
circumstances—would be to take his young lady com-
panion to the rear of the tent, and, when a good op-
portunity offered, quietly hoist the canvas, and both
crawl under.

A Society Sham.

The father’s $10,000 check, ostensibly displayed
among the wedding-presents, looks very imposing,
and distingue, and recherche, and all that sort of
thing; but the bride values the friend’s $100 set of
china-ware much more highly. The china-ware is
not burned as soon as the guests depart.

Ignorance is Blister.

A woman whose husband left her because of her
ignorance of eulinary matters, is now engaged in
writing a‘*Family Cook Book.” It will, no doubt, be
a very valuable work, for her husband declares that
she cooked bat three kinds of food for dinner three
months in succession.

. x Fame.
+A man may 2 squire fame by writing an epic that
will last forev@r; but when he dies, his funeral will
not be half so large and imposing as that of the slug-
ger who knocks another ruffian out in three rounds
for the championship.

A Ridiculous Plea.

A man in Clinton had to pay $25 for kissing a
strange woman atarailway station. He plead in ex-
tenuation of his crime that he thought the woman
was his wife, but the judge was a married man him-
self, and said such an excuse was too diaphanous.
If the defendant had said that he thought the wo-
man was some other man’s wife, his honor would
have believed him, and let him off with a fine of fifty
cents, which would have satified outraged justice,
and the man would have got the worth of his money,
and more, too, especially if he threw his arms around
the neck of the strange woman when he imprinted
the kiss.

The Fine Arts.

It took $10,000 worth of Treasury notes, ground into
pulp, to make a miniature bust of a certain lady.
This is an awful extravagance. A man can get on a
life-size bust with a single five dollar Treasury note
—and he doesn’t grind itinto pulp either. But the man
on the ‘‘bust” nearly gets ground into pulp when he
reaches home, if he is married.

It Goes Right to the Spot.

There are nearly one hundred reliable ‘‘Hair Restor-
ers” advertised, and yet we are told that the number
of bald-headed men increases annually. So does the
number of bald-headed babies, for that matter. It is
inferred that the men begin to use the “‘restorers” as
soon as they find their hair growing thin on the
apex.

Birds of a Feather, etc.

A woman’s journal says that ‘‘some of the best men
in this country are journalists.” Andit might have
added that some of the best women in this country
are the wives of journalists. Good men and good
women come high, but we must have them.

It Looks that Way.

It is said that at the next session of Congress,
among the measures introduced will be a bill grant-
ing pensions to all army contractors who failed to
make a profit of more than $75,000 during the war;
and another refunding to drafted men the money
they paid for substitutes. A bill granting a pension
of $75 a month to those editors who, in their editorial
columns, instructed the Union generals how to put
down the rebellion, is bound to come, sooner or later.

It Ought to be Popular.

A new comic song is called ‘The Tomcat is a Funny
Old Bird.” It is sung to the accompaniment of a shot-
gun. It the gun misses the cat and kills the singer,
there is no complaint. Everybody is satisfied.

The Ladies’ Work-Box,.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

‘Miss Mamie H.,” Oxford, O.—Iist. Skirts plaited sur-
plice fashion will be fashionable this summer, and dresses
of light woolen material, such as vailing, barege, etamine,
and very fine French cashmere are made thus, the plaited
skirt falling over an under one of some light silk, taf-
fetas, or foulard. It is pretty to have a tight-fitting
jacket made of the silk, and opening with square facings
over a chemisette plaited like the overskirt, and of the
same material. Butif the bodice of the fancy woolen
fabric is preferred, it should be lined with silk, and made
entirely plain, with the exception of the front, which is
plaited in the shape of aplastron. 2d. For girls of four-
teen there are blue serge dresses, with cutaway jackets
and drop skirts, covered with round draperies. The lower
corners of the basque and the neck are turned back, and
covered with blue Hercules or lace braid facing on the
tiny revers thus formed; the collar and sleeves are
trimmed with a band of the braid, and, if the plastron is a
loose one, ties of the braid are sewed in the side seams
and knotted in front. 3d. We can furnish a book on
‘Kensington, Lustra, and Hand-Painting,” for twenty-
five cents.

“Elfie.’—1st. Wedding invitations should be engraved
or printed in script, on one sheet of paper, of fine tex-
ture and creamy tint, shaped so as to fold once, and read
as follows:

MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM BROWN
Request your presence
At the marriage of their daughter,
CAROLINE MATILDA,
to
MR. WALTER VAN EVEREN,
on
Wednesday, May twenty-fifth,
At ten o’clock, A. M.,
Grace Church, Broadway and Tenth Street.
The quality and tint of the invitations, envelopes, and
reception cards should be the same, and not each possess

adifferent hue. 2d. Generally, only half an hour inter-
venes between the ceremony and the reception.

 

 

“KE. C. L.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Dainty ribbons tied around

the neck are very fashionable for evening dress. The
ribbon is moderately wide, and, as a rule, is lined with
stiff net, to prevent its wrinkling; the bow at the back
is compact, with the ends but little longer than the short
loops, this bow being made up, and fastened with hooks
and eyes, not tied each time the ribbon is worn. Black
ribbon velvet, studded with a single diamond or Rhine
stone, is also popular, and serves to set off a good com-
plexion.

“Martha M.,”’ Hazlehurst, Miss.—Plaid surah is quite
stylish, the choice being between large block plaids,
broken plaids, hair-line checks, and such fancies. The
moire style of silk is also in demand, and it is sought in
different colors, among which isa new shade of copper,
while faille Francaise, China silks, satin merveilleux, and
India silks are also popular.

“Maudie W.’—Green is now the most conspicuous color
in millinery, all shades being used, while it is effectively
combined with all colors. Black is probably the next
favorite to green for combining with other shades, black
lace and black ribbon being used on the lightest and most
dressy hats and bonnets.

“Mrs. Youngwife.’—Cream-white pilot cloth is much
used for dressy afternoon gowns, the panels, yoke, or
vest, and other ornamental portions of the costume,
being embroidered in gold, silver, or cream-white silk
gimp, in appliqued effects, or trimmed with Bulgarian
embroideries.

“Florence May.’’—Long wraps to wear at summer fash-
ionable watering-places, are in the style of French pe-
lisses, of black lace, with richly beaded yokes, and jetted

bands extending down the back as far as the belt, which
are called “beaded suspenders.”

“Mary R. F.”—Birds’ wings as hat garnitures are very
popular, but are used only on certain shapes, such as
turbans and walking hats, which are worn for traveling,
at the sea-side, or with tailor-made suits.

“Lillie Dennison,” Boston, Mass.—The best way to pre_
serve the shape and desirable outlines of dresses or outer

arments, is to hang them upon dummy shapes, thatfeome
for this purpose.

‘Mrs. Dorothy.’—The fashionable edict at present
seems to be, the smaller the child the larger the hat, as
children of five years wear hats as big as those worn by
girls of fourteen.

“May Belle.’’—Russian blouses made of fine silk jersey
webbing, in tan, gray, and terra cotta, are worn witha
fancy leather or silver belt, with chatelaine attachment.

“Alpha,” Philadelphia, Pa.—It is quite the rage for
young ladies in schools and colleges to all wear the same
style of hat, a modified sailor being the favorite shape.

“Lizzie Q.”’—The Royal Society Drawing Book” Con-
tains full instructions in the art, and we will furnish it
on receipt of the price, fifty cents.

“Miss Emina B.”’—Braiding is the most popular decora-
tion for tailor-made suits and stylish walking jackets.

“Dollie,” Albany, N. Y.— We can furnish a book contain-
ing full instructions for candy making for fifty cents.

“Hattie,” Bridgeport, Conn.—We will mail you the
“Baker’s Manual” for fifty cents.

“Ten Years’ Reader.—Chemisettes are very popular
with walking-dresses.

“Mrs. Alice M.’’—Black lace bonnets will be very fash-
ionable.

THE LITTLE PEACEMAKER.

BY ANNA RA¥MOND.

The summer breeze, stealing through half-closed
blinds, toys with the silvery locks of an old man,
who, weakened by long illness, tosses restlessly upon
his bed, fretting and murmuring that he can no
longer walk about his pleasant grounds, or, borne
upon his fleet-footed horse, visit again the far-off
hills, his favorite resort, the dim ontline of which is
seen from his window. Strength and energy aregone,
but his spirit, ill at ease, is impatient; and, half im-
agining that he is young and athletic once more, he
makes an effort to rise, and sinks almost breathless
upon his pillow.

His eye wanders around the room until it rests upon
a portrait, the mild eyes of which, beaming with love,
seem to chide him for being fretful, and he gazes till

the evil spirit is charmed away.

Now his eye has a far-off look, and he remembers
how happy he ‘had been, and how pleasant she
made his home, and how sad and desolate was his
heart when death, laying its icy hand upon her heart,
hushed her voice and smile.

Now he dwelt alone. no one to love him, and none
to eare for him save hirelings. His son, the hope of
his old age, and the only child that ever gladdened
his home, had offended him. . There had been high
words; the authority of the father was met with open
defiance, until, in heart and life, they were alienated,
and the son went out from his early home firm in the
resolve never to return; while the father, in the
anger of the moment, wished never to see him
again. Years have passed, yet he hears nothing from
the wanderer; and now that his eyeis dim with the
shadows of age and his hand tremulous, his heart
yearns after the child left motherless so young, and
he sees that something of the tenderness of a moth-
er’s love should have been blended with the stern-
ness of an exacting father, and regretting the past,
the refrain of his heart is:

“Ernest, Ernest, my son, come back to me ere I*
die !”

There is the sound of quick, light footsteps upon
the portico; a little sunburned hand clasps the blind
that swings to its touch, and a childish face, with
eyes dark as midnight and shining with oriental
beauty, peers into the open window. And wonder-
ingly do the dark eyes of the little one rest upon the
pale, furrowed face and silvery hair, and, with a
half frightened look, she stands with one foot upon
the carpet, and the other on the window frame, as
though hesitating whether to return or advance.

“Come in, child; the old man won’t hurt you, and
he loves children.”

There is a world of tenderness in the old man’s
voice, and his thin, tremulous hand is stretched to-
ward the little one.

Timidly she advances; now stepping as though
fearing, then, bounding to the bedside, kisses the
pale, quivering lips of the old man, and, with his
hand among the dark, clustering curls, he asks the
name of her father. ‘

“T musn’t tell father’s name,” was the artless reply.

“Then tell me your name, and where you live?”

“My name is Irene, and we have been on the sea
many days.” .

“But how did you find your way here, and why
did you open the window—why not go to the door?”

The child hung her head; she could not tell him
there was a man crouched upon the portico, shel-
tered by the vines, and that she was following his
instructions, for he bade her not speak of him; and
little child though she is, she feels that to speak will
expose him to danger, so her only answer is a gush
of tears.

Soothingly he dries her tears, and in answer to his
questions she tells him her mother is dead, she is ten
years old, and with her father landed from a ship
only three days ago; and he, feeling strangely drawn
toward her, says she must live with him. And she,
no longer fearing, runs about the room till, her eye
catching a glimpse of a portrait, she in childish won-
der exclaims:

“It looks just like a picture my father has, and he
says it is my grandmother ;” and she glides to the
bed.

“Oh, if you were only Ernest’s child!” and he
draws the little girl to his heart; ‘‘but no, you don’t
look like him.”

Irene glides noiselessly through the window. We
will not repeat what he who was watching outside
said to her; but when she comes in again, and the
old man clasps her hand, she says:

“Tam Ernest’s child; my motheris dead and is
buried in Italy; and, grandpa, father is sorry for
what he did a great many years ago. Will you for-
give him?’

“What—what do you say? Ernest’s child! Oh,
Ernest, Ernest! come back to me!’ And with eyes
dim with tears he looks searchingly into the upturned
face of the child.

Irene, gliding to the window, whispers:

“Come, father, I know he’ll forgive you, for he is
erying ;’”’ and, taking his hand, she leads him through
the window to the bedside, where the old man, with
closed eyes and quivering lip, was repeating the
name of his son.

The heart of the long estranged son is melted to
woman’s tenderness as he looks upon the face on
which time has made such ravages, and, kneeling by
the bed, he exclaims:

“Forgive me, my father !”

“Ts it my son?’ And the dim eyes scan the
bronzed face. ‘Yes, it is Ernest; and I, too, need
forgiveness.”

From that day the old man convalesces ; and when
again he walks through the pleasant grounds, the
little Irene leads him—she whose voice and smile are
the brightness of his home, and whom, in the full-
ness of his heart, as he kisses her fair cheek, he calls
our “Little Peacemaker.”

coq —

FIREPROOF PAINT.

In the tests made in England, with asbestos paint,
as to its efficiency in resisting the destructive power
of fire, some important results were demonstrated.
A piece of light pine wood, about six inches long by
four inches square, painted with five coats, was
placed for upward of half an hourin an ordinary
grate fire, but, although the wood within was re-
duced to charcoal, there was no blaze whatever

 

emitted during the charring. Again, a small model
theater, built of wood, with set scenes and accesso-
ries, was sprinkled with turpentine and set on fire;
every portion ignited, and the whole was consumed.
A similar model, with the. set scenes and the -wood
framing all painted with asbestos, was drenched
with turpentine and set on fire, but the thin scenes
were only partially charred at the lower ends with
the turpentine flames, while the timber was not even
ignited.
tr

1T CHEERED HIM UP.

Side by side, in the waiting-room of the Third street
passenger station, yesterday, sat a nervous little
woman and a tall, melancholy man. The woman
had a boy about seven years of age, who seemed to
be possessed of an evil spirit. He wouldn’t sit nor
stand still. He didn’t want apples nor candy. He
couldn’t be coaxed nor bribed to behave himself, and
his kicking and whining seemed to wear the little
woman out. The melancholy man stood it for a
while, but finally felt called upon to observe:

“Madam, I know what that child is aching for.”

“Yes; so do I,’ she promptly answered; “but [ve
a boil on my right arm.”

“T’ll take the job off your hands, if you say so. It’s
something [I’ve been in the habit of doing almost
every day of my life, for I’ve had three wives and
three sets of children.”

The boy set up an extra howl, and began kicking
her shins just then, and she looked around in a help-
less way, and said:

“Well, you may try.
orous enough.”

He reached over and picked the child up, and laid
him across his knee, and the spanking machine start-
ed off at about forty revolutions a minute, and worked
to a charm.

“There! you set there!” said the old man, as he
straightened the boy up and sat him down. ‘‘That’s
better than all the candy and peanuts in the country,
and you'll behave yourself for the next three days.”

The boy blubbered softly, and sat still, and when
the mother bowed her gratitude, the old man replied:

“Oh, don’t mention it. It’s the best medicine in
the world. Besides, I was a bit lonesome to-day, and
it has sort 0’ cheered me up.”

Not too vigorous, but just vig-

0 or

A FOOT LAMP.

One of the most interesting things in the Holy
Land is the fact that one meets everywhere in daily
life the things that illustrate the words of the Lord.
The streets of Jerusalem are very narrow, and no
one is allowed to go out at night without a light.
Throw open your lattice in the evening and look out,
and you will see what seem to be little stars twink-
ling on the pavement. You will hear the clatter of
sandals, as the late traveler rattles along. As the
party approaches, you will see that he has a little
lamp to his foot to make his step a safe one. In an
instant the voice comes to your memory, written in
the same city three thousand years ago—“Thy word
is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path.”

ih en ga aa

MANAGEMENT OF INCOME,

The foresight which regulates expenditure to suit
the income, and apportions it carefully to the needs
of a family, forgetting none of the many claims, is a
valuable power, and one which every wife and
mother especially should cultivate. The very same
income, managed with intelligent method, or spent
with impulsive carelessness, may make all the differ-
ence between a happy home, where peace, comfort,
and prosperity reign, and a scene of contention,
self-reproach, misery, and ruin.

Oo

Items of Interest.

A Washington Benedict, while lazily strolling along
one day last week, was met by a friend who in bachelor
days had been a boon companion. ‘Hello, old fellow, glad
to see you. once more,” was the salutation; then,in the
same breath, accompanying a hearty handshake, came
the natural query: ‘‘How do you like married life?’
“Well, you know,” drawled the Benedict, with a limp
smile, “I never get very enthusiastic about anything.”

A young Bostonian, whose face had but just begun
its acquaintance witha razor, stepped into a barber-shop
the other day, and with all the familiarity of one long ac-
customed to tonsorial luxuries, took his place in the
chair. The barber, glancing but casually at the new cus-
tomer, said: “Shave up or down, sir?’ and then, touch-
ing gently the smooth cheek, answered his own query
with a good-natured chuckle, ‘‘Down, of course.”

A sentimental young married couple of Michigan
have just had a series of photographs taken representing
various scenes in their life—their first meeting, a memo-
rable picnic, their first waltz, popping the question, and
the marriage ceremony. When they come to adda view
of the divorce court proceedings, the collection will be
decidedly interesting.

A young clergyman in an Illinois town, after trying
for two years to support a wife and child, and maintain
the dignity of his profession, on a beggarly salary of 3600 a
year, has accepted a call from a Chicago base-ball club,
and next month turns to account the skill he acquired in
his college days as an excellent pitcher. The club is to
pay him $1,500 a year.

Two Boston laborers met upon a street corner, and
one of them, with kindly interest, asked: ‘‘How are you
doing, Pat?’ “Oh, finely, man; never did better in my
life.’ ‘What are you working at?’ ‘Oh, I’m a real es-
tate conveyancer.” ‘And what in honor’s name is that?’
“Why, I’m driving a dirt-cart, man.”

A short courtship and hasty marriage recently oc-
curred in Green River City. While in a restaurant at
supper, Frank Tracy was taunted by one of the wait-
resses at being a bachelor. He at once proposed, and
within thirty minutes Miss Hannah Wilson and Frank
Tracy were man and wife.

This has been found on the wall of a deserted
shanty in the heart of Dakota: ‘Fore miles frum a naber;
sixteen miles frum a postoffis; twenty-five miles frum a
raleroad; a hundred and atey frum timber; half a mile
frum water; God bless our home. We're gone East to git
a fresh start.”

An adventurous moth, three years ago, entered the
ear of J. G. Staib, of Wilmington, Del., and all attempts
to remove it were unavailing, until the other day, when
cloths steeped in milk and salt water coaxed it out. It
was as lively as ever.

A strange event happened after the lightning
struck a tree near Nevin, Ind. Close to the tree was a
big pond. Just after the thunderbolt struck the tree, the
pond began to lower, and in a few days all the water had
disappeared.

Loss of memory causes John Stadler, of Richville,
Mich., a great deal of trouble. Sometimes he forgets
where he lives, and has occasionally passed whole nights
within sight of his own house, utterly unable to recog-
nize it.

Work on the great Forth Bridge, in Scotland, is go-
ing on steadily. This bridge, when completed, will carry
trains 168 feet above high water over two clear spaces of
1,710 feet of sea, and two other spaces of 690 feet.

A resident of Kennebec, Me., bought some peanuts,
and was in the act of eating them, when, on cracking one,
a tiny full blown pink rose, which filled the interior of
the shell, appeared fresh and unfaded.

Dr. Brown-Sequard says that the best means of
resuscitating persons asphyxiated by smoke, coal gas, or
water, is to apply galvanism to the neck.

The champion pig-ringer is Michael Yerger, of
Montgomery County, Pa. During the past two years he
has put rings in the noses of 13,000 pigs.

A Frenchman in London claims to have discovered
a certain root which allays hunger and thirst. He prob-
ably refers to the root of all evil.

Professor Proctor predicts that America is in dan-
ger of a coal oil famine, and that this country will before
long be importing petroleum.

The boys around St. Paul, Minn., are having lots
of fun capturing gophers, for which they are allowed three
cents each by the county.

The tallest postmaster in the United States is seven
feet high, ane weighs 280 pounds. His office is at Scott
Bar, California.

There are very few brass bands in a military parade
that can play as many airs as the drum-major puts on.

A new mitrailleuse, which fires 1,000 bullets in 90
seconds, has been tried in the Austrian army.

There are thirty-seven oleomargarine factories in
this country. Eleven of them are in Chicago.